by Karina Halle
But for some reason I find myself pounding back the rye like it’s water and by my fourth one I know I’m taking a cab home. Maybe it’s that I’m feeling increasingly frustrated lately, which reminds me that I probably should schedule another meeting with my therapist, Christine. Or it’s that Will is getting married tomorrow and while I’m happy for my best friend and Jackie, his sweet, pregnant and young bride-to-be, it reminds me that while my career might be moving forward again, my personal life isn’t. It’s as stagnant as ever. One step forward in one direction, two steps back in the other.
Whatever it is, I stay until the bar closes and the bartender calls me a cab. My head is foggy but my heart rate is doing a dance. I still feel this vague frustration and anger even though I don’t know why or what to do with it. The alcohol hasn’t masked it, it’s only encouraged it.
“Hey buddy,” someone says from behind me after I stumble out of the bar and onto the street. The cab isn’t here yet but I’m obviously not alone.
I turn around to see a rotund guy with a paunchy gut staring at me, phone aimed in my direction, a dick-ish smile on his fat face.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask him. I shouldn’t even open my mouth, especially when I’m drunk.
“Look, he thinks he’s the next De Niro,” the man laughs to his phone, obviously recording this exchange.
Take in a deep breath. Don’t engage. The world is full of people waiting to pull you down and that says more about them than about you.
I go over the things that my therapist has taught me.
But right now, none of that matters.
“Are you recording this?” I ask dick face, trying not to slur my words.
“Hey buddy, how does it feel to go from Cruiser McGill to Bruiser NoChill?” he asks snidely.
Bruiser NoChill.
My new nickname.
And I know exactly why he’s saying this. He’s trying to provoke my reputation. Trying to make me say something stupid, something he can capture on his phone and sell to fucking TMZ.
Somehow I manage to corral the instinct to give him what he wants. AKA, put my fist into his nose. Two weeks ago I did that to a bouncer at a bar downtown, probably where the fucking nickname Bruiser NoChill came from. Or maybe it was from the week before when I told a paparazzi who took a photo of me and a young actress leaving her house to go fuck himself and threatened to break his camera.
I’m not really Mr. Popular as of late.
I put my back to him, my fists balling, and wish the damn cab would show up. There’s nowhere else for me to go and this guy is still right fucking here.
“You’re, like, forty, dude,” the guy keeps talking at my back and he’s getting closer. “You really think playing Doctor Death is going to help your career? That was over when you left Degrassi, you Ryan Reynolds wannabe.”
I swear I don’t have anything against Ryan Reynolds.
But those words set off a bomb inside me.
I spin around and almost clock the fucker right in the face.
Lawsuit, lawsuit.
Those words, flashing in my head like a siren, are the only thing that saves me.
Instead, I grab his phone and throw it down to the pavement, then take the heel of my boot and slam it down on the case until I hear the glass crack.
“Holy fuck!” the guy exclaims and then I bring my eyes to his and I know I look drunk and crazy but it’s enough for him to back up while shaking his head. “You broke my phone! You fucking broke my phone!”
“You need a social media break,” I tell him dryly, something that Doctor Death would say.
Fucking hell, what’s wrong with me?
I need to get out of here.
Just then the cab pulls into the parking lot and I wave my arm frantically, jogging towards it.
I get in and give the driver my address. I can’t help but stare out the window at the guy trying to pick up the pieces of his phone.
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair and lean back in my seat as the interior of the cab begins to spin.
What are the chances all of this will go unnoticed?
* * *
“Well, well, well if it isn’t Mr. Movie Star,” Ted Phillips says to me as I open the door to see him and Will standing on my stoop in tuxedos, squinting in the sunshine.
“TV star,” I correct him with a smile, always happy to see Ted. “And a pretty mediocre one at that.”
“Ah, false modesty,” Ted says, patting me on the back and strolling past me down the hall, looking around the open living area of my house. “But damn what false modesty can buy you.”
“You should try it sometime, Ted,” Will calls after him.
I let Will step in, looking him over. The man has always had an old school James Bond way about him, though more Roger Moore than Connery. He’s tall, dashing, with a jaw that needs its own postal code. Naturally, he looks extra dapper now that it’s his wedding day.
“I’m not sure if it’s the groomsman’s role to tell you that you look good, but you look good pal,” I tell him.
“Well, it’s sure as hell not the best man’s role, is it?” Will says, directing his words at Ted yet again as Ted slides open the glass doors of the living room and steps onto the patio that overlooks the bay.
“How are you doing? Are you nervous?” I ask Will, heading to the kitchen.
“Not one bit,” he says smoothly. He’s so damn unflappable. The opposite of me.
“Need a drink?”
“Why the hell do you think we’re here?” Ted asks with a grin, stepping back inside. “We can’t get properly boozed at the wedding without raising a few eyebrows.”
“You mean I can’t,” Will says. “If you don’t have a glass in your hand at all times, someone is going to check your pulse.”
“You seem you like you need a drink too,” Ted calls out to me. “Make it doubles all around.”
“Single, please.” Will is trying to be the responsible one here.
“Ah, not in a few hours,” Ted says, wagging his eyebrows.
“Why do I seem like I need a drink?” I ask Ted as I start pouring the Crown Royal. I did wake up with a hangover but after a shower and a quick run of the beard trimmer (I have it in my contract that I can’t fully shave–part of the doctor’s charm is having permanent stubble which is harder to maintain than you’d think), I cleaned up pretty well. My brain fog cleared on the cab ride back to North Vancouver where I had to pick up my car before they towed it. The last step to looking and feeling presentable is the tuxedo and no one can look lousy in a tux.
“Don’t pretend, I’ve seen the news,” Ted says. “TMZ, Perez, Just Jared. That asshole is pissed that you broke his phone. He deserved it, no doubt, but he’s livid.”
I close my eyes and groan. Ted is in his sixties with a shock of white hair but his charming smile makes him seem much younger and he keeps up-to-date with all the Hollywood gossip more than anyone I know, like he reads Variety and the Hollywood Reporter in his sleep. Being the owner, along with Will, of Mad Men Studios, which does animation and visual effects here in Vancouver and in their LA office, I guess he prides himself on being the first to know everything, even if it has no direct connection to his business.
“Maybe you should be my publicist,” I tell him, handing them both their drinks. “You take this sort of news a lot better than she does.” In fact, it’s kind of strange that Autumn hasn’t called me yet but then again she did say she was going hiking all weekend and I’m sure cell reception is scarce. Maybe the whole thing will blow over by the time she gets back. Maybe she won’t know at all.
Wishful fucking thinking.
“How bad was it?” I ask him with a wince.
Ted cocks a brow. “Well, it was on Instagram live.”
I groan.
“Which was actually a good thing because people were able to see what an asshole the guy was being. Like I said, he deserved it. People are on your side this time. Still think he’s going to raise a
fuss and get you to pay for his phone though. Luckily if you can afford this house,” he notes, looking around him again, “you can afford a new phone.”
That doesn’t change the principle of the whole situation. Why should I have to buy him a phone when he was in the wrong? Why do the boundaries of being a decent human being fail to exist when you’re a celebrity? The moment you become a public figure you cease to have feelings, cease being able to express yourself without getting shit on. You cease to exist as a person, you’re just a pixelated image on a screen.
I exhale loudly and get myself my own glass before turning to face them. “Well, that’s enough about me, then. Today is Will’s day. Let’s focus on that.”
“Also, it’s my day since I’m the father of the bride,” Ted adds, raising his glass.
“Every day is your day,” Will says under his breath before breaking into a grin.
I guess this wedding is a little different from the usual. Not only are Will and Ted business partners and friends but Ted is Jackie’s father. Will and I have been friends for a long time, even when I was living in London and doing theatre and he was at the LA office with his ex-wife. We both helped ourselves through some messy breakups and now he’s finally met the real love of his life. Of course there were complications, since she was his employee and the daughter of his best friend. But true love prevails and all that fucking bullshit.
Stop the cynicism, I have to remind myself. Some people are built for love and long-lasting relationships. Some people aren’t. I know which category I fall into, it’s time to start owning it.
With that slightly bitter thought lingering in my head, the three of us cheers and finish our drinks outside on the patio, the waves of English Bay lapping against the rocks beneath the house. When we’re sufficiently buzzed–at least Ted and I–I get on my tuxedo and the three of us leave. The wedding venue is at the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club down the street, about a fifteen-minute walk from my place.
We must make a peculiar trio, all dressed to the nines under the late July sunshine, enduring some honks from passing cars and I swear a few snaps from the paparazzi, though I’m probably just paranoid. After last night it’s hard not to be. We stroll around the corner to the yacht club and head down the driveway to the ornate building.
A small crowd of wedding guests have gathered outside beside the large, white columns that surround the front steps. Jackie, thankfully, is nowhere in sight. Will is old-fashioned enough to believe in that “not seeing the bride before the wedding” superstition.
And then I see a sight for sore eyes.
It’s hard not to.
For one, she’s in a hot pink dress that’s nearly blinding in the sunlight, beaming against the white building like radioactive bougainvillea.
For two, she’s got the nicest set of tits I’ve ever seen.
For three, her face is fresh, glowing and sweet, and yet her eyes are full of snark and sass.
She’s got that “bitch-hot” vibe down pat.
Poor girl doesn’t know I’m a sucker for that.
“Who is she?” I ask Will, nodding at her as we make our way towards the group.
“Which one, the tiny Asian one, the blonde, or Jackie’s grandmother?”
“The blonde,” I tell him.
“She’s off-limits,” Will says, giving me a stern look. “I mean it.”
I jerk my chin back. “Says who?”
“Says me and it’s my wedding.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Is she your long-lost sister?”
“Are you talking about Alyssa?” Ted speaks up.
Alyssa. She has a name.
“If she’s the blonde,” I tell him.
“She works for us,” Will says quickly.
“And she’s a handful,” Ted says. “And not in the way you think I mean. Because believe me, those seem more than a handful. Maybe two handfuls. Depends on the size of your hands. I wouldn’t know of course.”
I give Will a curious look.
He rolls his eyes. “Neither would I. But she’s my employee and Jackie’s best friend and the maid of honor and I really want to get this marriage off on the right foot. You…doing your thing that you do now, it would make it that much harder. Plus, I’d have to murder you and honestly I just want to get on our honeymoon.”
I scoff, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I’m just asking who she is. She’s pretty.” Pretty fucking hot.
Will laughs. “She might be pretty but she can do without the likes of you.”
“What? Just yesterday you were telling me I needed to go out and meet women outside of the dating app world and here I am, enquiring about that hot pink blondie at your wedding of all places, in the real world, and you’re telling me to back off. She have a boyfriend or something?”
Ted laughs. “I think she scares the pants off most men.”
“Why?” I like a challenge and the closer we get to her, the more I realize how enticing she is. There’s something almost delicately cute about her face that lends an air of vulnerability. Combine that with the take-no-shit look in her eyes as she talks to the other bridesmaid, and I feel heat coursing through me, a nice change from the anger of last night.
“Because the guy I gave dating advice to was Emmett from last year,” Will points out, lowering his voice. “Emmett before he became Doctor Doom or Death or whatever you are. The Emmett who wasn’t sleeping with every starlet or model within a ten-mile radius and becoming gossip mag fodder.”
I wave at him dismissively. “You can’t believe everything the media tells you.”
Will lets out a caustic laugh. “I’m believing what you tell me. Don’t think I haven’t been listening.”
He’s got a point. While Will’s been stuck in pre-matrimonial bliss, I guess I have been giving him a weekly rundown of who I’ve been screwing. I have to blame the fact that we’re usually at a bar and I’ve had one too many when it happens.
“What Will is trying to say,” Ted says, slapping me on the shoulder, “is that this is his wedding. And I’m the father of the bride. And the two of us have vested interest in Alyssa. Without her, the office just doesn’t run. So, for our sake, back off and behave yourself tonight.”
“Fine, fine, I promise to behave,” I mutter as we approach the group.
Everyone lights up when they see Will, but I’m watching Alyssa. Her features become warmer when she sees him. It might bother me a little but the man has the effect on everyone. Fucking bastard.
Of course I have my own effect. I don’t have a name for it yet. It’s a mix of nostalgia and awe whenever people see me and right now every single person in the group is staring at me with either that “I know that guy from somewhere” look or “It’s Cruiser McGill!” Despite Boomerang’s success, people still resort to my character from that damn TV show. As long as my nickname doesn’t come up, I should be okay.
But Alyssa isn’t looking at me with either of those expressions. She’s looking at me like she’s completely unimpressed. It’s not that she doesn’t recognize me and I know I look fucking good in a tux. It’s that she can see right through me–and she doesn’t like what she sees.
I feel my smile falter, just for a moment, and tear my eyes away from her. It’s probably for the best. Any longer and I would have been caught in a war between staring at her tits and her face, both absolutely mesmerizing and vying for my attention.
“Everyone,” Will says, addressing the group. “You all know Ted here as my best man. I’d like to introduce you to my groomsman, Emmett Hill. You may remember him from such TV shows as Degrassi: The Next Generation and Boomerang.”
“It’s Degrassi the New Generation,” the other bridesmaid corrects him before wiggling her fingers in excitement. “I can’t believe I get to walk down the aisle with Cruiser McGill.”
Damn. I was hoping for the blonde.
And then everyone starts talking about the show and my character and what a good ol’ boy I was, how the old Degrassi was better tha
n the new Degrassi, and of course everyone’s favorite topic, Drake.
Fucking Drake. After being on the show for ten years, everyone always wants to know if I know Drake personally. And the answer–no, I don’t, I left before he joined the cast–always disappoints them.
The only one who isn’t interested is Alyssa–in fact she seems like she’s trying to look everywhere but at me–and looks just as relieved as I feel when a woman in a blue cocktail dress shows up from around the corner, clapping her hands together.
“All right, we need you all to get in your places!” she cries out.
“That’s the wedding planner,” Ted says beside me. “She’s also a handful. Best to just let her do her job. She seems nice until you ask if you can have a karaoke machine.”
I stare at the woman, her mouth too wide, her teeth too white. There’s far too many people like her in my life at the moment. I feel like wedding planners and publicists are the same thing right now, one tries to plan your wedding, the other tries to plan your life.
The wedding planner isn’t dicking around either and soon we’re all ushered around the building to the grassy area at the back of the club overlooking the docks, the sparkling waves of English Bay and the towering North Shore Mountains in the distance. My own sailboat is moored below which is the reason why Will and Jackie were able to have the wedding here. Lord knows someone oughta take advantage of that perk.
It’s not long until I’m paired up with the Asian bridesmaid who introduces herself to me as Tiffany. She’s cute, young, and smells like champagne. From the way her face is going red, I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or just has a low tolerance for booze, though the more she talks to me, the more I realize she probably doesn’t embarrass over anything.
“Wait a minute,” I say, pulling away from Tiffany and addressing Will as he stands beside the minister. “Who is walking Alyssa down the aisle if Ted is walking Jackie down the aisle?”