“That’s not true,” Lilah said, shaking her head emphatically. “They’re really lucky to have you.We’relucky, I mean.”
Natalie looked like she was about to protest, but she met Lilah’s eyes, and something in her whole countenance softened. Like she could tell Lilah was being sincere.
“Not today, you aren’t,” Natalie deadpanned, her eyes flicking back toward the set.
Lilah waved her hand dismissively. “We all have those days. You saw me fighting for my life last week.” Her phone alarm buzzed, notifying them their break was over. She silenced it with a swipe. “Should we get back to it?”
When they returned to set, they nailed the two-shot in one take.
10
Shane’s birthday fell in early August, which, for most of his childhood, had meant an opportunity to make new friends. It wasn’t that his birthday parties were anything special—if they even happened at all. But year after year, when he inevitably found himself yet again starting at a new school where he knew nobody, it helped to break the ice.
As an adult, he usually didn’t do much to celebrate. The big exception had been his thirtieth, when Serena had thrown an extravagant masquerade ball for him at her house. But as he’d floated through room after room filled with smoke and colored lights and more famous people than he’d ever seen in one place (except maybe at the Golden Globes), clutching an elaboratecocktail served to him by a dancer wearing nothing but body paint, he’d had a strange, queasy feeling, like the party wasn’t really about him at all.
He was turning thirty-five this year, though, so he felt compelled to dosomething. He’d rented out the generously sized back room and paid for an open bar at Gold Rush—the closest thing he had to a neighborhood haunt, considering how little he went out these days. It was cozy and unpretentious, while still a few steps above a dive.
Even though he’d been in L.A. for almost ten years at this point, most of his social life still revolved aroundIntangible,which was reflected in the guest list. He’d drifted apart from his party friends once he’d started dating Serena, who, like Lilah, had despised them—but unlike Lilah, she hadn’t even bothered trying to hide it, and since she was actually his girlfriend, her opinion held more weight.
He’d started to pull away from them even earlier than that, though—ever since his week of debauchery after he and Lilah had broken up. He hadn’t gone home with most of the women he’d taken out, but he’d still woken up each subsequent morning feeling grimier and grimier, more hungover, more strung out, more embarrassed, until he’d finally had enough. Anyway, it had been a distraction, not a cure. Lilah’s role in getting Devon fired from the show had only sped up the inevitable. Within a year, he wasn’t in touch with any of them anymore.
As he sipped his beer and glanced around the room, he was heartened by the turnout, cast and crew alike. At the same time, though, he couldn’t ignore the bittersweet pang at the thought that they’d all be going their separate ways after this year.
He’d invited Lilah, of course, but only because it would’ve been too much of a statement not to. They were supposed to begetting along now, after all. But it was the definition of an empty gesture. He knew she wouldn’t come.
Which was why, when he saw her stroll into the bar right as he was lining up a shot on the pool table, he was so startled that he sent the cue ball straight into the corner pocket. Shane glanced over at Dean on the other side of the table, who gave Shane an appraising look before retrieving the cue ball.
“What?” Shane asked.
Dean shook his head. “Surprised you invited her.”
“I invited everyone.”
“Guess things must be better, then. Since she came.”
“Or she’s here to start shit,” Shane grumbled. Even as he said it, though, he knew it wasn’t true. It wasn’t her style. She could be vicious, for sure, but she usually didn’t lash out unprovoked. The two of them had an uneasy truce. For now.
Shane caught Lilah’s eye. She raised her hand in a small wave but didn’t approach him.
In fact, she steered clear of him all night. Her motivations behind showing up became increasingly apparent, though, as he watched her work the room like a pro: gossiping in a corner with Margaux, refereeing an arm wrestling match between Brian and the key grip, conferring over the jukebox with Natalie before sending the Bee Gees blasting through the bar. As hard as he tried to push down his annoyance at the whole scene, it popped back up with equal force, like a beach ball held underwater.
Later in the evening, Shane handed the bartender a few hundred bucks in cash and told him to take a break before slipping behind the bar himself.
Even though he’d been working as a waiter when he’d been cast inIntangible,most of his service industry experience hadbeen as a bartender. It was still his favorite job he’d ever had. All the sitting around he did as an actor was luxurious, but it was also incredibly boring. And now, as he sank into the rhythm of it again, his muscle memory taking over, he felt useful in a way he hadn’t in years.
Not that he romanticized getting people drunk as some kind of humanitarian outreach or anything. And he didn’t take for granted the enjoyment and escape thatIntangiblebrought to the people who watched it. But there’d been a level of human connection with his customers that he could never replicate with some distant, faceless audience. And on slow nights, when he’d get drawn into a long conversation with a stranger or a regular, his relative anonymity allowing them to confide in him in a way they couldn’t with anyone else, he’d felt the most useful of all.
Tonight, though, tending bar provided the perfect setting for Shane to hold court, flitting from one conversation to another. As he chatted with several of the writers, popping the tops off their beers in a series of fluid, practiced motions, he felt more at ease than he had all night.
But there was something off about it, too. It had been ten years since he’d been behind a bar for real, and he likely never would be again—unless he was playing a bartender. A photocopy of a real person, who ceased to exist when no one was looking at him or telling him what to do.
Anxiety gripped him suddenly at the thought that maybe the others would see it as some kind of smug joke.Look how out of place I am back here, ha ha.How ridiculous for me to serve rather than be served.Like he was gloating about a life he’d never have to return to, instead of grasping desperately at one he missed.
As if he’d manifested it out of the depths of his subconscious, he heard the opening notes of “Common People” cut through the room. He jerked his head up to see Lilah by the jukeboxagain, eyebrows raised mockingly in his direction before she turned away.
Of course she could tell exactly how he was feeling. She’d always had a preternatural ability to hone in on his insecurities—almost before he could name them himself. She’d think it was funny, naturally, to let him know she knew, needling him with a song about rich people playacting at being poor.
She was one to talk, anyway. He knew she’d grown up in a wealthy suburb and attended a private arts high school before her stint at Juilliard.Herchildhood birthday parties probably had four-figure budgets.
