People try to shove through the barricade of well-muscled security guys the security firm has waiting for just this moment. One woman manages to slip through, and she shoves a microphone so forcefully toward Blake’s face that she nearly hits him in the jaw. She’s yanked back by security, and we’re able to make it through and into the waiting car.
As soon as the doors shut, closing us away from the now-muffled chaos outside, I’m able to breathe again. Blake slumps into the leather seat.
“God, I haven’t seen them that riled up since . . .” He trails off, and I squeeze his hand.
“Since the day the news of our divorce broke,” I finish for him, and he nods.
“Well, if I’m going to risk getting clocked in the face by a reporter with bad depth perception, I definitely prefer these circumstances.” He smiles and the tension eases. I smile back at him.
“Me too.”
We make our calls and send our texts and emails. And we do manage to get a few minutes of making out before we arrive; I’m eternally grateful for tinted windows and discreet drivers who pretend not to know or care what’s going on in their backseat.
There’s a much smaller crowd of paparazzi waiting when we reach the set, but still sizable enough that it’s obvious someone—or probably several someones—let slip today’s filming location.There’s a security perimeter set up so we don’t have to get out of the car until we’re well past the screaming crowd, which is clamoring over every car in the hopes that Watterpless is within.
I’m not sure if it was Josh or Camilla or maybe even Sarah orTroy who had the foresight to bulk up security, both here and at the hotel, but I’m glad they did.
Things are better once we’re actually in the cordoned-off areas on set, though I notice how many eyes follow us, how many phones are pointed in our direction. Blake and I keep holding hands, and I’m glad all this renewed attention isn’t freaking him out. But the truth is, we’re Watterpless. We’ve had years and years to get used to this sort of thing, even if today is on the extreme side.
We’re Watterpless, I repeat to myself, that phrase sending a thrill through me.
We’re Watterpless again.
That thrill has me smiling, even as pictures are taken of Blake and me giving each other a kiss as we head off to our respective trailers. As I walk into my trailer and—
My smile drops. My trailer reeks of urine, and there, kneeling on the floor and trying to sop it up, is Aaron. And huddled into a quivering ball of boxer nerves over by the couch is Constanza.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” I say to both of them.
Costanza hears me and whimpers, and I rush over to kneel by his side. He trembles against me, frantically licking at my face and hair and anything in the remote vicinity of his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, though his voice is heavy with exhaustion. “I walked him before bringing him in, but he still pis—um, relieved himself.”
I cringe. “Let me guess. On your pants again?”
There’s a pause before Aaron replies. “Yep,” he says, with a bit more of an edge than usual.
I groan. Costanza hasn’t stopped peeing on Aaron’s leg since the first day, and I’ve heard from Sarah’s assistant, Gary, that he has to bring all his pants to set with him and get them laundered daily.
“How much damage did he do to your hotel room? I’ll obviously pay for it, I just—”
Aaron sits back on his heels, gripping the urine-soaked towel.There are dark circles under his eyes. “It’s fine. I mean, I can wash the clothes he peed on. Mainly he just howled all night. I tried petting him, taking him on walks in the middle of the night, everything.The only thing that worked to get him to stop was letting him crawl into bed with me.” He stops, but I can tell there’s more, and I raise an eyebrow. “I had to cuddle up against him to get any sleep,” he finally blurts out. “Like full-body contact. And he kept farting, and I couldn’t move away an inch or—” Aaron cuts off, his face getting red, and he presses his lips together tightly, breathing in through his nose. “I’m sorry, Ms. Watterson. I didn’t mean to complain, I shouldn’t—”
“God, no, Aaron, I’m sorry. You have every right to complain.”Though I’m valiantly trying to hold in a giggle at the image of Aaron spooning a huge, gassy, anxiety-ridden dog through the night. “This is totally my fault. You should never have had to take him overnight. But I’m so grateful you did. I owe you, big time.”
He makes a gesture like he’s trying to dismiss this, but we both know it’s true.
“No, really,” I say. “I’ll make sure you get all new pants when this shoot is done. And any introductions or connections I can help you with—or Blake, too, he’d be glad to help—really, feel free to ask.”
Aaron’s expression is still tense, but he gives a little smile. “Thanks, Ms. Watterson. I really appreciate that.” He stands up. “I got your call sheet and coffee ready.” He gestures to the vanity where he always has them set when I get here. “And I’m happy for you and Mr. Pless.”
I thank him again and he takes off.Then I sit and hold my trembling dog a little longer, until his nervous shaking turns into loud snores of sleep. “I owe you big time, too,” I whisper, kissing his sweet head. “Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll make sure of it. Me and Blake, the movie, the kids. You. Everything. I’m not going to mess up this time, I promise.”
I’m trying to assure myself most of all.
Thirteen
Blake
