“You don’t,” said Trip, stopping her once they had passed the open door and were a safe enough distance away not to be overheard. He turned her toward him and locked eyes with her. “So, don’t let him. No matter how nice he pretends to be. Remember they begged to have you. Everyone would kill for a piece of you right now. You’ve been out of circulation for four years. Your movie is slated to be the hottest thing out this season. He needs you more than you need him, all of which I told him. Now you make sure that he behaves. I know you can.”
“I’m not the same—”
“Hush,” said Trip, putting a finger over her lips. “No excuses. Release your inner Reilly!”
Reilly sighed, took his hand, and headed toward the green room where they could wait together for her stage call. She estimated that she had about twenty minutes to get her head straight before facing the first interview she’d given since the accident. It was time to talk, she knew that. And she was ready. Well, at least as ready as she’d ever be. Her head had raced with responses to possible questions all night long—hence the dark circles beneath her eyes. She just hoped that it all came out right.
The short jaunt to New York was supposed to have been an easy re-immersion into doing promotional appearances. Her schedule was already crazy, but she and Trip had deliberately scheduled only minor appearances and dinners for this whirlwind visit. There had been no one-on-one interviews planned—not until Trip’s phone call, that is. And before The Morning Show booking, she could have probably handled most of it on her own, but the last minute request for an interview had thrown her for a loop. It was her first televised interview—her first personal interview, period, since she had gone to prison—and even though it was just The Morning Show, where the interaction rarely went too deep or got too serious, she was still going to be on the spot to answer questions. And she hadn’t forgotten the last time she had been there. She’d pushed it pretty far by kissing Melinda. She wouldn’t blame Tristan for retaliating in some way.
The first thing she had done when she had hung up the phone with Trip the night before was call Drew, who had immediately started to make plans to fly out so she could be with Reilly. But when Reilly found out that Fergie was on rotation at the prison and was unavailable to take classes in Drew’s absence, she tried to dissuade Drew from coming. It was only because Trip had texted Reilly saying he had already purchased a ticket to meet her that Drew decided not to cancel her classes and come out. Reilly’s heart had swelled at the show of support, which helped her more than she could express. It was because of it that she knew that she would be able to deal with this part of her job again.
Reilly and Trip sat on the couch in the green room and watched the show on the closed-circuit monitor while they waited. On the enormous screen, a woman with two toy poodles demonstrated their skill at building towers out of plastic cups. Reilly barely absorbed it; she was busy remembering how she had behaved the time before, but more acutely, she was worried about how he would bring up the accident. She’d gone over what she would say in her head a thousand times. What could Tristan really do? Tell her that she was a terrible person? She already knew that. She lifted her chin and breathed out. She kept the rhinos in her stomach calm, remembering that no one would judge her as brutally as she already judged herself. She might never stop beating herself up over her past, but she couldn’t change it, so she had to learn to deal with it and keep moving on. How could she convey that without coming off as unaffected by her terrible mistakes?
The door to the room opened a crack, and a young woman with an iPad in the crook of her arm poked her head in and put a hand to the side of her head over an earpiece.
“Ms. Ransome? You’re on in five.”
Reilly stood. Trip followed suit, straightening her collar.
“There you go, kid! Give them the Reilly smile!” He picked something from her shoulder and she tried to smile as she smoothed the front of her outfit. Another Hank original—a fitted black women’s business suit with two dancing skeletons stenciled on the left breast pocket. An almost translucent purple blouse under the jacket and a pair of chunky heels that she had swapped out for the Converse gave the outfit a feminine touch. She felt good in the clothes. They gave her confidence, even though she still felt like throwing up. Taking a deep breath, she headed for the door.
Reilly followed the stage manager down the short hall and took a place in the shadows just off stage. Her arms rested at her sides, and she clenched and unclenched her fists to relieve the itching as she wrestled with the wildlife in her belly. She stood next to the stage manager, who seemed oblivious to Reilly’s nerves. With intent focus, the woman watched the iPad waiting for the signal, and then with a dramatic flight attendant’s gesture, she signaled for Reilly to follow the dashed line around the backstage curtain. On her cue, Reilly shook out her hair, pulled her shoulders back, smiled, and started walking. The dusty smell of the television stage under the bright lights and the sound of the studio audience gave her a visceral memory of filming her first sitcom, a time and place when her future held unlimited possibility and her past wasn’t tied around her neck like a noose. She remembered those perfect moments when she had been happy, excited, ready for anything. A little bit of her old confidence returned.
Reilly pushed past the curtains into the bright light and remembered not to squint as her eyes adjusted. Tristan and Melinda stood near the seating area to greet her, clapping and smiling at her as she approached. She gave each of them a hug before she followed their lead and moved to her own chair. Tristan’s hug was warm, but when she embraced Melinda, the crowd went wild. Melinda seemed to enjoy the reaction, and when Reilly loosened her hold, Melinda held tight, extending the hug a few seconds longer.
“Sorry about last time,” said Reilly into Melinda’s ear, her mouth obscured by the co-host’s hair so viewers couldn’t see what she was saying.
“I’m not,” said Melinda, squeezing Reilly’s arms as she stepped back from the embrace.
Reilly glanced over at Tristan with a questioning smile. She knew that she appeared confident, but inside, she was worried about his response. She wasn’t in the mood to spar with him on national television. Tristan dropped his chin and shook his head, but his wide smile indicated amusement, which filled Reilly with relief.
Reilly stood in front of her seat and scanned the audience. They were on their feet and the energy was far more powerful than the last time she had been there. The clapping swelled when she waved to them.
“We love you, Reilly!” shouted a woman in the back. Tristan nudged her shoulder. When she looked at him, he was making a puppy face and forming the shape of a heart with the fingers of both hands over the left side of his chest. Reilly laughed at the adolescent gesture and blew a kiss in the direction of the woman’s voice.
“Here she is! After a four-year interview hiatus! Two-time Academy Award winner! In all her salsa hotness—Reilly Ransome!” introduced Tristan over the din.
Melinda took her seat, and Tristan’s trademark bright smile sparkled as he seemed to drink in the crowd’s response to Reilly, which continued to build until Tristan had to signal the crowd to settle down. When the noise subsided, Reilly and Tristan took their seats.
“Wow! What a reception. Listen to all that love! Welcome back, Reilly! Welcome back!” shouted Tristan, clearly enjoying the audience’s response to his guest. He slid a cup of coffee toward Reilly as if they were sitting down to chat. It was something that Tristan did with his favored guests. Reilly had never been one of them. This detail was not lost on her, although she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “Let’s chat over coffee, why don’t we? Thank you so much for being here with us today, Reilly. It’s always so nice to have you on the show.” He turned toward the audience and lifted his eyebrows, and then turned back to Reilly. “But I hope you don’t mind if I keep a protective eye on Melinda!”
The crowd roared. Despite the reference to her last visit, Reilly was pleased with the playful way he appro
ached it. She laughed.
“I’m happy to be here! I promise to behave this time,” she said with a genuine smile. And she discovered that she was happy to be there. She swung her smile Melinda’s way. She just couldn’t resist. “Although it may be difficult. Melinda, you just get more ravishing every time I see you.”
Tristan laughed and leaned to the side to put his hand on Melinda’s knee. Unlike last time, Reilly didn’t see it as a misogynist’s gesture, but as a sign of insecurity. She wondered if the edge between Tristan and her had always been from the subtle tension she now knew was between her and Melinda. She had never acknowledged it, even though she had accidentally exposed it when she had kissed Melinda the last time there.
“I can see why both ladies and men adore you,” he said with a smile, as he glanced at his blushing wife and then shifted back in his chair to get down to business. “Now, let’s talk about your second Academy Award, the one you received for Angel’s Flight. If I’m correct, this is the first interview you’ve done since you were released from prison?”
“That’s right, Tristan.” Reilly swallowed but continued to smile. Publicly acknowledging her time in prison for the first time wasn’t as hard as she thought it would be.
“And the last time we spoke you were up for the Best Actress award, which you ended up winning. Congratulations, by the way!”
He clapped and smiled as the audience applauded again.
“It was such an honor,” said Reilly, and she guessed at what was coming next. She struggled to keep her hands loose along the arms of her chair, even as all of her muscles wanted to clench. She vacillated between hoping he would—and hoping he wouldn’t—go there as she worked to maintain her smile.
“The director of the film accepted the award for you that night.”
She decided to beat him to the punch.
“Yes. I was down at L.A. County being booked for manslaughter. I wasn’t released on bail until the next day, so I missed the awards show.”
Tristan paused for a beat, and Reilly wondered what he would say next. The silence in the room was deafening. She prayed that he wouldn’t ask her how she felt. It had never been about her. His next words were a surprise.
“Well, the speech that Peter gave on your behalf was fabulous. Did you work with him on that?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I hadn’t even watched it until a month or so ago. He was quite inspiring.” Reilly remembered watching Peter’s speech in an internet clip, his tears flowing as he talked about the movie, only skimming over Reilly’s situation, but bringing them together by talking about the need to overcome obstacles. She thought at the time that he had been too generous in his regard for her, but in the past few weeks she had come to understand his capacity to see the strength in people through trying situations, which had ultimately been the secret to making an award-winning movie along that theme. A surge of emotion rose in her at the memory, and she was unable to elaborate on her comment through the lump in her throat. Thankfully, Tristan pressed on.
“It’s no wonder that the film swept the awards that night. The story of four young women, escaping wretched lives to become nuns, only to find that their mortal savior was worse than what they’d fled. It’s brutal. And you were exquisite in the role as the street smart heroine.”
“Thank you, Tristan. It was a difficult movie to make,” replied Reilly, relieved that her voice didn’t betray her internal turmoil.
“I can imagine. And then you immediately went on to make Salsa Nights. A blockbuster, but hardly Academy Award fodder.”
Reilly’s relief at the tangent was huge, and she wondered if it was visible.
“Don’t be so sure about that, Tristan. There are some dance numbers in the next one that I think might just blow some minds.”
“And that brings us to my next question: the upcoming Dare to Dream, the sequel to the blockbuster dance hit, Salsa Nights. We hear it’s set to open up to the same, if not larger, opening weekend sales. And by the trailers I’ve seen, I think they’re right. How did you ever learn to dance like that, Reilly?”
“The same way everyone does,” began Reilly, casting aside her earlier emotion and remembering the grueling schedule of dance classes and the fun but exacting dance coach that the studio had hired to teach her.
“Tequila?” suggested Tristan, interrupting her response.
“I was going to say a personal dance coach,” laughed Reilly, going along with the joke, though the mention of tequila seemed in poor taste considering the topic that she knew they would eventually address.
“Well, you and Cray sure heat up the screen as you play the underdog contenders in the International Salsa contest, not just once, but twice. Who would have thought that two Southern California beach bums would break that mold?”
“Not me, that’s for sure,” said Reilly. Words started to flow more easily. “When I read for the role… what, five years ago? Has it really been that long? Wow! Anyway, I did it against advice from my manager, my agent—my friends even. But I did it on a lark. I wanted to try something other than the dramatic teenager or the girl next door. I love those, too, don’t get me wrong, but the dance movie seemed fun. And I’m so glad I did it. It allowed me to expand my repertoire and show a different side of me. Plus I met some great people. I’m glad it works. Cray Layton is the one who should get all the credit, though. He makes it work for us. That man sure knows how to shake his tail feathers.”
“You’re telling me,” said Melinda, waving her hand in front of her face like a fan. “Aye carumba!”
“It appears Reilly isn’t the only one I have to watch out for,” laughed Tristan, playfully swatting at Melinda before he turned back to Reilly. “You’re being modest, though.”
“Not at all. Cray is the secret to the Salsa Nights success. I believe that one hundred percent,” said Reilly with full sincerity. She started to think that Tristan was going to avoid a direct conversation about the accident, and part of her was grateful to put it off for a while longer. Maybe The Morning Show wasn’t the proper venue for it, anyway.
“Well, you’ll have to convince the rest of the world,” laughed Tristan, leaning forward to rest his chin on his fist. “So, Reilly, tell me your secret then.”
“My secret to dancing?” she asked, confused. “I had an awesome dance coach.”
“No. The secret to rising above it all,” said Tristan, leaning back in his chair and lifting his hands in the air for emphasis. “The secret to plunging into the abyss and coming out unscathed. The secret to being untouchable.”
The switch took Reilly by surprise. She was immediately reminded of the interviews on Randy Candy’s website, and she felt sick. The strength that she had so diligently established in order to open up about the accident slipped away. Did the entire world think she was so cavalier?
“I’m not sure how to answer that, Tristan,” said Reilly, as she tried to retain her poise at the sudden re-introduction of the topic that she had stupidly thought that they had already skimmed through.
Tristan’s eyes searched hers for a moment, and Reilly saw something there that she had never noticed. Depth. And because of that, she couldn’t be upset by the dramatic change in topic. Uncomfortable, yes. But upset, no. Tristan was asking what the rest of the world wanted to know.
“Let me rephrase it then, how do you go through what you went through, and not have it stick to you? You killed someone, Reilly,” said Tristan, leaning forward. He whispered the last three words as if they were in a private conversation. Then he leaned back and tented his fingers beneath his chin with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “Yet you’re more loved and more in demand than ever before. We hear that you have movies scheduled for the next six years. How did you do it?”
Reilly hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to answer the question, but because she wasn’t prepared for the feelings that came up when it was finally asked of her. It seemed no amount of anticipation would make it easy. She wanted to talk about
it. She needed to talk about it. But it deserved to be approached with more respect. A man had died because of her terrible decisions, and she couldn’t discuss that immediately after a skit containing toy poodles, a reference to tequila, and a joke about infidelity. Most of all, it couldn’t be brought up in context with Reilly’s continued success. Her decision to hold off was supported by Tristan’s next comment. “It must make you feel invincible.” She hoped that he couldn’t see the cringe that his statement induced in her. She felt the exact opposite of invincible. “Some people think your silence on the subject gives you a mystique, and therefore a power. You haven’t done a single interview about that fateful night.”
“You’re right. I haven’t spoken publicly about it, and I was wrong to wait so long,” Reilly said, hoping that her voice didn’t shake with the emotion that was swirling in her head, thudding in her chest.
“It must be so hard, having all of that locked inside,” offered Tristan when Reilly once again paused and tried to compose herself.
She wanted to say that she didn’t deserve to whine about how broken she was, that she thought about the man she had killed almost constantly, that not long ago, she hadn’t thought about him for an entire day, and the guilt that she had over realizing it had almost consumed her. She wanted to explain that if it weren’t for the love of Drew—the best thing in her life—that she’d probably still be sequestering herself to her house, only to leave for work and required engagements. She didn’t deserve to whine about that, because Matt Traynor would never get to say his share. And for that, she deserved to suffer without comfort. That was her lot in life. She needed to let people know that she wasn’t impervious, that she didn’t deserve to rise above it all, seemingly unscathed.
Reilly watched Tristan search her eyes again, and she hoped that he didn’t see the storm inside of her, the chaos that was her private hell. He saw something, she could tell. But she had no idea what he was thinking. Part of her was grateful for that.
“Tristan, Matt Traynor deserves...” she paused, trying to give words to what she needed to say. But all of the words that she had rehearsed seemed to fall flat. This wasn’t the place to talk about a man who deserved more. How did she tell Tristan that she didn’t think that his show provided the respect that Matt Traynor deserved? That she didn’t have the words to express it adequately. All of her thinking, all of her meditation, all of the growing that she had thought she’d done came down to this one minute, and she realized that nothing had changed. “I killed Matt Traynor. He was a good man. And because of my bad decisions, his family has to live with that loss. I think he deserves every bit of respect that I can give him when I tell his story. Because it’s his story. Not mine. I will discuss the accident and what I have learned about him. But not right here. Not today. Soon, though. Okay?”
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