The Role

by A. B. Wilson

  “Alina, hey,” I whispered. “Candace is calling.” I handed her the phone and grabbed my own to silence it. She pawed at it and barely managed to get it to her ear.

  “Hello?” she muttered, then sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Hey, Candace, slow down. I’m barely awake.” She listened for a bit, then jumped off the bed and shrieked, “What?”

  As I clicked through the news items on my phone, I started to feel a wave of anger beginning to rise.

  Alina broke in on what sounded like a frantic spiel from her friend. “Candace, shh. Quiet. You’re hysterical. Some blogger is making allegations about Markus cheating on me and has proof? I may be minimally functional, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s total bullshit.”

  I had to admit to being slightly pissed that there was even a one percent question about my fidelity in Alina’s mind.

  “No, seriously, Candace, you don’t get it. These claims have been happening off and on for a while, but they’re all fake. Stop. Yes, this is bad, but Markus literally hasn’t left my side in weeks. And you know that, you’ve been here with us half the time.”

  She turned into a statue and I could vaguely hear Candace’s shrill voice urgently explaining something.

  “Thanks for calling and warning us.” She waited for another long pause, then followed it with a sigh. “Yeah, I know. You’re looking out for me. Bye.”

  “Candace?” I asked somewhat unnecessarily. “I take it she’s seen the news?”

  “Yeah, you heard most of it. What is she talking about?”

  “Well, it’s a story,” I hedged. “First, can I thank you? For standing up for me and trusting me.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “I have to, right? Unless there’s something else you’re not telling me?”

  “Of course not! Here’s why she’s freaking out.” I handed over my phone and she started reading. “It’s super fucked-up, but Kate took all of our old texts, plus made up new responses supposedly from me, and sold them all to one of the big outlets.”

  Alina’s eyebrows rose as her eyes darted back and forth across the screen.

  “They tried to get quotes from basically everyone on Southern Gods—no one talked, except Vanessa, who had a whole load of her own shit to add to the pile. They also dug up your old boyfriend and some people from Chicago. I’m not going to lie. It-it’s bad.” I stuttered to a stop.

  Her face paled as she kept reading, her eyes getting bigger and bigger as they remained glued to the screen. Finally she dropped the phone and looked up at me. “Fucking hell,” she breathed. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ve already messaged my team, asking for a conference call. You should bring Vinny in—I’m sure you already have a text from him.” She nodded and I continued, “I want Michael there as well. I need to know he’s on our side in this.”

  “What are we supposed to do in the meantime? Like, how are we even going to be able to get out of the neighborhood?”

  “I think we ignore it and stay in, see if Michael can move start time.” Even I didn’t think that was viable and she snorted at my weak-ass response, swatting my arm like I was an annoying fly that had the gall to buzz bullshit in her ear.

  “Whatever. I’m not sticking around here feeling like a prisoner when, A, there’s no truth to this story, and B, we start shooting for real in a few hours. Let’s roll. We can get to the lot before a ton of people show up. Crash in your trailer or something, it should be ready.”

  Alina jumped into the shower, and rather than join her like I usually did, I reread the article. There were a lot of allegations in it. Some were the truth, some were close to truth and most were outright lies. None of what they said about me really bothered me—I knew it wasn’t true, and I’d been in the public eye for so long that it was easy to take it in stride. What was most concerning to me was the amount of dirt that they had dug up on Alina.

  Vanessa’s description of Alina as a scheming gold digger who had slept with her husband, another actor on the show, was especially damning. But it was obviously untrue. Given her background with a cheating ex, there was zero chance Alina would get involved with a married man. The story was clearly full of holes, but Alina had never dealt with this kind of shit.

  The water was still running, so I went into the bathroom to see if Alina might want company in the shower. She had her back to me and her face in her hands. I quickly slipped out of my pajama pants and climbed in with her.

  “Hey,” I said as I enveloped her from behind. “I know this is so messed-up, and I’m sorry you’re involved. How are you feeling?”

  Alina turned within the circle of my arms and tucked her head into my chest. I could barely hear her over the rush of the water. “I don’t know. A lot of feelings, really. Bad ones. There’s also something that I have to tell you.”

  “What?” My heart started to pound erratically and I was afraid to hear her answer.

  “Some of it’s true,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “Which parts? Chicago? I knew about most of that.”

  She kept her head down, burrowed into in my chest, and didn’t answer immediately. The walls started to close in on me.

  “No. Terrance.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked carefully.

  Finally she met my eyes with tears streaming down her cheeks to mix with the gentle rain of the shower. “It doesn’t matter. It happened a long time ago, right when I moved out to L.A.”

  “It does matter,” I said firmly. “These stories involve both of us. I’ve been up front with you. What happened?”

  Alina was full-on crying with her face buried in her hands.

  “It’s not like it’s something I’m proud of. Terrance hit on me all night at an industry party Michael dragged me to. I’d been in town for only a few days and he said that he was separated from his wife. He was hot, I was lonely, one-night stand, you know? I didn’t find out the truth until my first day on set, when I saw him all cozy with Vanessa.”

  “You should have told Michael then. Or quit.”

  Her voice began to rise as she moved inexorably toward anger. “Fuck that. I wasn’t about to quit on my dreams because of a lying, cheating asshole. He cornered me that first day and swore up and down that he wouldn’t say anything to anyone and begged me to keep my mouth shut too.” She slapped a hand, hard, against my chest. “I’m sorry if you’re mad, but this isn’t about you. It was a poor decision on my part and I’m paying for it now. What else do you want from me?” Her voice cracked on the last question.

  “What do I want? I want this to have never come up. I want you to never have fucked Terrance and given the media such a perfect opportunity to hurt me,” I shouted, and knew that I was being completely unreasonable. It wasn’t about me.

  “Hurt you? Yeah, I totally slept with a guy two years before I met you just to fuck with you. What about you? This shit with Kate? What am I supposed to believe?”

  “You know that’s complete bullshit—”

  “Stop. Jesus, sometimes I wish I’d never met you. That I’d pushed back on Michael when he begged me to join the cast and save the show.” She turned her back to me and leaned against the wall of the shower. “Get out, Markus. I can’t stand to be near you right now. I’m done.”

  “You can’t be serious. This is it? You’re going to break up with me?”

  She kept her back to me and didn’t respond, letting the spray of water divide us further. I waited, hoping against hope that she would say something, anything, but her silence spoke for her and I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. I disappeared into my theater room until an alert on the alarm system told me that she’d left the house.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Alina

  Michael moved back the start of filming one day to give us time to run interference. Even though Vinny and Markus’ team quickly got the article pulled and were investigating the sources behind it, we were still the center of a shitstorm of public opinion and gossip. Eno
ugh people had screenshotted the article or posted parts of it in other places that copies were still circulating. When I’d left Markus’ house the morning the story broke, I’d taken a Lyft to a spot near the boardwalk and walked home via the beach in an effort to avoid the photographers camped in front.

  My house smelled stale, musty. It had been too long since I’d been home. I lit a few candles to cut through the scent of abandonment and made sure all of the curtains and blinds were shut before running through my list of texts, starting with Candace’s.

  ARE YOU ALIVE?!

  At least some things didn’t change.

  Yeah. Just walked into my house. What’s up?

  WHAT’S UP? Only a few things. Like, what the fuck is going on with you and Markus?

  …

  DON’T GIVE ME THAT PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE BULLSHIT

  Sigh. Fine. What are you doing? Can you come over? I don’t want to do anything except get very drunk and cry.

  YES. I can be there in an hour and a half. Order me lunch.

  K

  DID YOU JUST K ME?

  K

  OMG. You’re near dead to me. Don’t push it.

  Can’t wait to see you, missed your face!

  I dragged myself upstairs and plopped on my bed, ignoring my phone after a quick check revealed four messages and two missed calls from Markus. I was done with my life being on blast because of him, done with this acting bullshit. I was so fucking done with everything.

  A few bottles of wine were still left in my rack, so I cracked one open and ordered a bunch of sushi for delivery from a neighborhood joint while I waited for Candace. Both the delivery guy and Candace conveniently arrived at the same time, which meant that I didn’t have to continue my self-destructive bent toward finishing a bottle of wine on an empty stomach.

  The delivery guy practically dropped the sushi and ran as Candace shrieked, “Alina, what the fuck are you doing? Get over here!”

  We hugged as she gauged the level of liquid in the bottle. “Wait, how’re you almost done with that bottle?”

  “Sorry,” I slurred lightly. “It’ll be fine. Hand over the sushi and we’ll make it better.”

  “Oh no. I did not come over to babysit. We need to talk.”

  “Give me a break, Candace. It’s been a rough few days, weeks, months—whatever.”

  She looked contrite and went in for another hug. “Oh, sweetie. I know. But you’re tough as nails. If anyone can handle this, it’s you.”

  I shrugged as Candace swooped up the sushi and grabbed two plates, somehow gracefully balancing everything. I slid open the patio door to my small deck and plopped into a café chair as she stared at me encouragingly.

  “Fuck, Candace. It’s bad,” I started. “Thanks for the warning.”

  She nodded furiously. “Of course. I’m so, so sorry.”

  There was so much sympathy in her eyes and I struggled not to cry as I tried to order my thoughts. My words wouldn’t be pretty or approved messaging, but I needed to talk to someone about our argument and its aftermath. To her credit, she listened to it all—with her mouth hanging open—before responding.

  “Jesus. So how many times has he called and texted since you left his house?”

  “Hmmm, let me see, six texts and five missed calls—which is two more texts and calls than the last time I checked around an hour ago.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you looked at them?”

  “No. I don’t want his apologies right now. When the story broke, he downplayed it. Got mad at me for never telling him about Terrance and never even denied the shit about him and Kate. I can’t take it anymore, the pressure, the attention. It’s too much and, right now, I don’t know if he’s worth it.”

  “I know, Alina. I know… But the guy is clearly floundering and super broken. Even I could tell when I met him in Georgia. Not to make excuses for him, but I wouldn’t doubt his feelings. Despite the fact that he’s being a dick for brains right now.”

  “And here I thought we were friends,” I said, stung by her defense of him.

  “We are. You know I’m on your side. Yeah, Markus has got some major shit to work through—but so do you. You’ve been ignoring this thing with Terrance for too long and have never come to terms with it. Your instinct to help Markus allowed him to suppress everything with Kate too, rather than deal with it full-on.”

  I was shocked that she’d read me so well, that she’d dare to call me out. It was all true, but facing my emotional baggage would mean I’d need to open up and be vulnerable. I was terrified of what would happen if I lost all control.

  Candace continued, “And you’re forgetting about the media—they’re the real villains here. So what are we going to do to get the truth out? Once it’s out and you’ve finally dealt with the narrative, then you can deal with Markus Eat-a-Bag-of-Dicks Shellenberg.”

  Despite the near constant tears, I laughed. She was right. Of the two, taking down the tabloids would honestly be easier to deal with than Markus. “What does my devious friend have in mind for taking on the entirety of the celebrity gossip machine?”

  Candace rubbed her hands together and cackled like an animatronic Halloween witch from Costco. “Oh, Alina, I’m so glad you asked. Pour me another glass and let me school you in the ways of a petty bitch’s strategy for revenge.”

  I poured. I was down for pettiness in a major way .

  “First, we’re going to figure out who all of the sources are. Then we’re going to go after them, with a focus on Vanessa and Terrance. They’re going down.”

  She continued to add more details, and I started to smile. I genuinely felt bad for Rory and Ethan if they ever tried to cheat on her—her levels of petty were off-the-charts.

  * * * *

  Thanks to my agent Vinny, a private investigator that Candace knew from high school, and Rory’s agent, who had a slightly obsessive interest in true crime documentaries, we were able to track down and put a decent amount of pressure on the people who had made the exaggerated statements about me to the press. My asshole ex, in fact, showed us text messages from a blogger berating him for not saying worse things about me. That blogger had gone ahead and manufactured uglier storylines when he hadn’t been satisfied with what he’d gotten.

  Other than interacting with him at work now that we were shooting, I still hadn’t talked to Markus since the day the news had broken, and refused to answer any of his messages or calls, which had tapered off somewhat. Perhaps that was immature, but I had decided it was an important bit of self-care. He wasn’t even a part of my life anymore and the man still had the infuriating ability to whipsaw my emotions. I hated how he turned me inside out, that he’d refused to fight for me. My mind was descending into a by-then familiar whirlpool of depression and distrust when Candace called early in the morning and nearly tore my ear off in her excitement.

  “Alina! Oh my god. It’s done. Are you at home?”

  “Yeah, what’s up?” I sat up and scrubbed my face.

  “Oh shit. I recognize that tone,” she accused. “We’re ready to drop those retractions and get the ball rolling on the new stories. The bigger tabloids have already fought it out for rights to the story and now we can go on a blogger blitz.”

  “It’s over?” I asked, disbelieving that the forces that had shaped my life over the past few months were suddenly going to be neutralized.

  “It’s over, baby girl. The story is back under your control. And you know what you need to do now? You need to call Markus. You need to figure that shit out, because I know you still care. And you know he does too.”

  I nodded into my phone, even though I knew she couldn’t see me.

  “Yeah, lady, I heard you nodding. You know you need to fix this. Can I count on you to pull up your big girl pants and speak to him?”

  “Yes, I promise,” I muttered.

  “One more time, louder for the people in the back,” she commanded.

  “Yes!” I h
ollered. “I’ll call him, okay?”

  “Excellent, chica, let me know how it goes, love you!” she chirped and hung up.

  I’d lied, though. In the end, I didn’t call him. Seeing him at work was hard enough, but trying to talk about this—about us—was going to be impossible, and I needed time to prepare myself. Finally, I settled for the coward’s way out and sent him a text asking him to meet me at my house later that evening.

  When Markus’ hesitant knock tapped on my door a few hours later, I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, shook out my wrists and repeated my mantra, “You are a badass boss lady. You confront your problems head-on and kick their asses.” I nodded resolutely, opened the door and drank in his disheveled state. It made me feel better, in a very shallow way, that his physical appearance—with his scrubby, patchy beard, purple circles under the eyes and wrinkled T-shirt—matched my insides. I’d tried to block out his slow decline in rehearsals as makeup worked overtime to keep him looking consistent, but it wasn’t something that I was proud of and my heart shattered into a few more pieces every time I saw him.

  When he looked hopefully at me with those bruised eyes from the other side of the threshold, I almost broke and reached for him. But he’d crushed my heart with his wild accusations. Sometimes it was a fine line between love and hate, and I was living right on it. I stepped to the side and allowed him back into my home.

  “Come in, Markus. Thanks for coming,” I said quietly.

  He nodded stiffly and made his way into my living room, clearly remembering the familiar set-up of my house. I gestured to the couch as he hovered uncertainly. I sat down across from him, the coffee table a small but not insignificant barrier between the two of us.