It’s been three weeks. Three weeks since I’ve played zombies with Connor. Since Ollie tried to convince me the Hulk could beat anyone if he was angry enough. And three weeks since I read my sweet little Snooki the same bedtime story twice just so she could have some extra time with me.
It’s also been three weeks since Harrison Evans warned me not to say the word divorce to reporters.
Which was the last time I heard his voice.
The kids call all the time. Too much, maybe. Or not enough. It’s hard to tell when every call leaves me feeling both fuller and emptier at the same time.
And as much as I hated asking production for a break, if I don’t call them now, they’ll already be asleep.
The three-hour time difference is brutal. But it's all I have, so I take it.
I walk over to Jay. “Thanks for calling it short today. I owe you.”
“Anything for Princess Luna.” He wraps an arm around me as he walks me out. “How are you doing, kiddo?”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He hums, unconvinced. “Myra making you bat shit with all the appearances?”
“Ugh. She’s trying.” I roll my eyes. “She’s also pushing to get Pierce and me on set at the same time. I owe you for running interference on that.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be for much longer. The two of you will be on set,” he says, checking his iPad, “starting next week. Through April.”
My heart sinks. I was really hoping to get back to New York.
“Are we really filming for that long?”
“We have to.” He slides the iPad under his arm. “International translation will be waiting on us.”
He leans in and kisses my cheek. “Welcome to the big leagues, kid.”
I force a smile.
He’s about to head off when he turns back. “Are you going to see that family of yours from New York?” he asks. “Are they coming in for Christmas Eve?”
Sadness floods me.
Mark and Jess host an enormous Christmas get-together every year. Family. Friends. Fire pits and s’mores. A visit from Mr. and Mrs. Claus and reindeer. Actual freaking reindeer.
I can’t compete with that.
“No,” I say. “They can’t get away.”
He nods, already understanding more than he lets on. “Why don’t you come over? Elise is cooking up a storm.”
I’ve had so many offers this week.
People who want the Princess Luna actress.
People who want to keep an eye on me, like Myra.
People who would give their right arm for a girls’ sleepover full of man-hater movies and bad wine, like Kali.
I could do the Hollywood thing, going from party to party to party. Barely coming up for air.
But the truth is, I’m too hollowed out to do much of anything.
“I’ve got plans,” I reply.
