“I just realized something. I think you should drop me.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, you’re right. I’m not willing to do whatever it takes for this. I’m not willing to bend over backwards or suck dicks to become famous. I just want one thing, and I think I can have it.”
He watches me for a second. “A girl?” he asks.
I grin. “The best one.”
“Fine,” he says. “Do what you have to do. But don’t blame me if it all goes to shit.”
“I won’t. But I need one more favor.”
He groans. “What?”
“Where’s Harold? I need to talk to him.”
“He’s on vacation last I heard,” Mickey says, grabbing his Blackberry. “I think he’s in fucking Mexico or some shit.”
“Find out where exactly and tell me,” I say, heading back for his door.
“What the fuck are you going to do?”
“Sell him on a script and get my girl,” I say, grinning at Mickey.
He sighs and shakes his head, but he doesn’t turn me down. I leave his house and head back out to my car, grinning my head off.
I know what I need to do now. It’s so obvious. There’s only one reason that I came to this town and got into this gig, and that’s for Tara. But now this acting shit is getting in our way, so it’s time to call it. I have plenty of fucking money now, so I won’t have any trouble finding ways to make more if I want. I don’t need to keep doing this.
It’s time to sacrifice. Mickey’s right, the things you love and want demand everything from you, and I’m willing to give it. I’m just not willing to give it to acting.
But for Tara, I’ll do anything. So I’ll sell this script, make Holly happy, and get the fuck out while I can. There’s no stopping me now.
28
Tara
Jackson doesn’t come to work for three days.
It’s like my worst nightmare. Production doesn’t stop, fortunately, since there are scenes that we can shoot without him, but everyone is pissed off. The studio is oddly silent about the whole thing, which makes me think they know what’s going on.
Lionel curses in German constantly, basically railing on Jackson and talking about how awful he is to work with. I can’t really blame him. Holly is oddly quiet, though she does commiserate with the crew. Mostly, people are confused, since it doesn’t seem like Jackson to just up and disappear.
I feel betrayed again. It’s like the old feelings are suddenly coming through again. I finally got rid of them, finally felt like I was moving on, but now it’s all creeping back. I’ve been staying up late with Laney watching bad TV and trying to ignore my problems, but I can’t ignore this.
He won’t answer his phone. It goes straight to voicemail every time I try to call. For two days, I call over and over, until I finally give up, feeling like such a fool. Jackson doesn’t want to be found, and if he did, he’d answer his damn phone.
I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I did this to myself. I should never have let him back into my life. I should have seen this coming. As soon as things get real, Jackson runs away. I’m starting to even question the story he told about his mother being sick and needing to pay for her medical bills. Maybe that’s partly true, but he probably did it to get away from me, too.
Work is dull and lifeless. I try to concentrate on what’s happening in front of me, but I can’t. Two days pass like that, but I don’t let myself cry. At least, I don’t let myself cry at work. At home, I’m a damn mess, and Laney almost doesn’t know what to do with me, poor girl. She’s not equipped to handle someone seriously depressed.
This is my worst nightmare come true. I knew things were bad for Jackson, that he felt like he was cornered and had no way out, but I had no clue he’d actually run away. We could have done something else, figured out another way. Or he could have just stayed in that fake relationship.
But that’s not Jackson. He doesn’t do fake, and he doesn’t compromise. He’s stubborn and hardheaded and when things get tough he runs away, leaving me heartbroken and alone.
I don’t know what to do. On day three of his disappearance, I go to work as always, and Lionel is just as salty as he has been since Jackson went away.
“Damn actors,” he says to me in his heavy accent. “Damn stinking actors. No good stinking damn shithead bastard actors. I hate them all, Tara, yes? You know this? I hate all the fuckers.” He slams his fist down on his desk.
“They’re the worst,” I say in response but my heart’s not in it.