He chuckled. “Missed your potty mouth.”
I rolled my eyes. “Really?”
His laughter continued. “No, not really.” He paused for a couple of seconds. “But I sure missed you.”
“I missed you too, Superstar.”
“So what are you up to?”
I took a long breath. “Guess what? One of my short pieces of shit has just won an award.”
“First, don’t call your stories that. Second, get the fuck out of here! That’s awesome.”
“Thank you,” I muttered.
“Have you told your parents yet?”
“Nope. You’re the first one I told.” My voice cracked.
“Maggie, you all right?”
“Yeah,” I lied. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Why do you sound so upset? You gotta celebrate, not brood.”
“Sure. The award comes with a social media party and everything.”
“Not your kinda party, I know. But I’m sure you won’t have a problem stumbling on one that matches your taste.”
“You know me too well, Superstar. Any chance I’m gonna see you soon?” I squeezed my eyes shut, disappointed at myself. I shouldn’t have asked.
“Er… Yeah. I haven’t seen you in like what, eight months now? Let’s meet at your parents’ place. I have something very important to discuss with Andrea this week anyway.”
What the fuck?“Whatever.”
“Listen, I gotta run now. I’ll text you the day. Take care, Kiddo.”
“Fuck you.”
He cackled. “Love you.”
Scene 3
Mike
Mike slid behind the wheel of his silver Porsche, his sunglasses tilted enough to hide half of his face. Like it was going to work. Fans and paps had already gathered along the street. He nodded and smiled through the glass as he slowly moved forward among the waving hands, bouncing bodies, and popping flashes. His foot went gentle on the gas until he eased through the madness and made the turn.
It’d been fifteen years since he’d decided not to become a chef and made his first movie. He was used to the madness. The attention, the love, the lights, he appreciated. It meant he was still hot, desired, and successful; there was still time before the crowds didn’t remember his name.
“Good evening, Loretta.” He took his shades off when she greeted him at the door, giving her his perfected, fan-mode smile.
She didn’t smile back. She never did. The old woman hated him for a reason he never cared to know.
She escorted him to the living room and asked what he’d like to drink.
“I’m good.” He sank onto the couch and placed his sunglasses on the coffee table.
“Mrs. Dawson is expecting you. She’ll be down any minute.”
