Day 4: No One’s Ever Going To Believe This

It’s Saturday– I’m so dedicated that I am up writing my chapter.  Actually, I can’t decide if that makes me dedicated or OCD.  Either way, I gotta get a move on because my children will soon come find me and force me to LEGO with them.

NOTE: Today’s story is pure fiction. It’s not based on any real people you may have seen on TV or at the movies.

* * *

DAY 4: No One’s Ever Going To Believe This

 

Range-Rover-Evoque_2584490b

I hobbled to my car wearing only one shoe just as the sun was peeking out over the smoggy horizon.  When I made it to the driver’s seat, I had to dump my purse out and stake stock.  Bra, check.  Make-up bag, check.  Other shoe, check.  My phone? Oh, God, where was my phone?  Frantic, I dug through every side pocket and frisked myself looking for it.  I finally found it inside my rolled up camisole.  Two bars of battery, thank God.  I had to call someone– my agent, my publicists, my ex.  Someone.

Who was ever going to believe me?

Half the world thinks he’s gay; the other half thinks he’s psycho.  He’s all but fallen off the radar.  But he’s still Tad Croth.  No matter how many couches he jumped during daytime TV or how many misogynist comments he made about women and postpartum depression, he’s an A-lister.  Period, full stop.

And I just slept with him.

Eighteen hours ago I’d come out of the audition knowing full well that I’d fucked  it up.  My inflections were off and my movements felt stiff.  After every line I delivered in the wooden monotone of the Bride of Frankenstein, panic surged to my throat.  That only made it harder to “act naturally.”  The show runner cut it short.  “Thanks, Brie.  We’ll be in touch.”  Right.  When Santa Monica gets hit by a blizzard that asshole will call me up and offer me a spot on the show that NBC is banking on to replace Seinfeld.

I was in my Prius crying like a total Hollywood cliché when Tad knocked on the window.  When I rolled it down, he’d said, “Can I borrow your phone?”  He was locked out of his car and his “people” were still inside.  I was stuffing tissues down the side of my seat, pretending I wasn’t crying over my pathetic life.  (I had less than $457.00 left in my bank account and zero work lined up.)  “Of course,” I’d said handing him my phone, while wishing I had a cooler case on it.  Hello Kitty didn’t seem ironic and whimsical in Tad’s hand. It seemed stupid.

“You okay?” He’d asked after he called someone named Berman to bring him keys to his Range Rover.

“Oh sure, I’m fine.  Rough day at the office, you know.”  I laughed as breezily as I could.  He leaned in.  “Do you want to grab some coffee while I wait for my rescue.”

Yes.  Yes, I did.

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