And now I’m stuck waiting in my trailer, waiting for the film crew to set up the final scene before I jump on a plane to New York for the commercial shoot.
Christopher still hasn’t responded to my text. I click over tothe message thread every few minutes, hoping to see the typing bubble, only to be crushed by the weight of disappointment each time.
I adjust the cushion under my head as I lay on the couch, getting a whiff of Rob’s subway sandwich that makes my stomach churn.
“Can you eat that outside?”
“I’m under strict instructions not to leave your side.” Rob throws the wrapper in the trash can beside my boots.
“I’m well aware.” Lifting myself up, I turn to face him.
Rob raises an eyebrow.
I’d be freer locked up in prison. He’d refused to leave the trailer last night when Johnny showed up to help distract my mind from Christopher. Now I’ve added the loss of my privacy to the long list of things I can’t do. I also can’t skateboard, because of insurance premiums and the fear I’ll do something to mess up next week’s VMA performance, surf, since there’s no ocean nearby, or eat out, because of supposed security issues.
Instead, I’m left here alone to pick at my cuticles, sucking the blood from my finger to prevent it from dripping on my white T-shirt.
Rob’s overprotectiveness does have one silver lining, however.
He’s stopped Laura from accessing the trailer.
Her incessant texts about Brian this weekend got so erratic I had to block her.
A beep sounds, and the trailer door unlocks. Screams pour in from the fans gathered outside. Lucy slams the door behind her. She removes her baseball cap, her red hair falling out, and places my fan mail on the counter.
“They’re ready to begin shooting.” She rests her hands on Rob’s shoulders. Her head is barely visible over him, even though he’s sitting down.
The ball of dread in the pit of my stomach, leftover fromshooting with Aiden, is replaced with a wave of nausea. I can’t avoid Laura any longer.
“Let’s get this over with.” I get up, grab a couple of signed pictures, and make my way to the trailer door.
The sooner this shoot’s over, the sooner I can get to New York.
And the sooner I get to see Christopher.
The late afternoon sun continues to bear down on me. Sweat forms across my beard. My sunglasses offer the only relief from the heavy biker jacket and black jeans they’ve got me in for this scene.
The crew moves the growing crowd chanting my name out of shot across the street while I stand at the entrance to the 1950s diner, opposite the Greyhound bus sitting directly outside.
Earlier, I was barely able to lift the duffel bag I’m carrying, but my muscles are no longer needed. The padded-out polystyrene gives the desired illusion with none of the weight. If only it were that easy to remove the emotional baggage I’m carrying.
Laura sits at the counter with another actress, swinging on her stool opposite the milkshake machine. A hamburger and fries sit in front of them both. Two separate families occupy booths by the windows.
“And action,” Alfonso shouts, hidden at the back of the diner.
“How can I help you?” the hostess asks. The red hair clipped under a striped paper hat matches her red-and-white poodle shirt dress.
“Table for one please,” I say, dropping the bag from my shoulder.
“A counter seat okay?”
“Sure.”
The waitress grabs a menu and leads me to the right towardthe counter. A map of America with Route 66 signs on it adorns the back wall.
My spine stiffens as we get closer to Laura, and I swallow the boulder growing in my throat.
“Make yourself comfortable,” the hostess says, gesturing to an empty stool to Laura’s left. “A waitress will take your order shortly.”
