Semi-Scripted: A Wanderlove Novel

by Amanda Heger

  Felipe’s forehead wrinkled. “Where did you get this video?”

  “I made it. Well, I parsed it together from a bunch of places. Some footage from the show, the stuff your mom sent me, a couple of things from Marisol.”

  “So Marisol knows?”

  “No.” Evan felt like he was being interrogated. Like maybe he should ask to have a lawyer present or to at least have his rights read. He shifted on the crutches. “Not yet. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  Felipe shook his head. “I think it is best if she knows.”

  “Evan?”

  His chest tightened. He’d know that voice anywhere. Especially after listening to it on repeat for hours on end. Suddenly he was hyperaware of the fact that he probably looked—and smelled—like a hobo.

  “Hey,” he said. “I was looking—”

  “What happened to your leg?” Marisol kept a safe distance. Way too safe.

  “My grandpa decided to play dead.”

  She cocked an eyebrow, but beneath that sheath of skepticism he saw her lips twitch up at the corners. “Your grandpa?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Her expression went slack again. “Why are you here? I am not going back on the show.”

  The show. The gauntlet was about to come down, and he wouldn’t be there with them. Wouldn’t be there to sit on the stained couch and participate in the world’s worst countdown. Wouldn’t be there to see if busting his ass over the last week and a half had made any difference. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. That the news would find its way to him one way or another—probably multiple ways. But still it stung.

  “I wanted to talk to you, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

  “I threw it away.”

  “Because you don’t want to talk to me?”

  Annie and Felipe were suddenly fascinated by a painting of the Los Angeles skyline. Marisol stared at her feet, then ducked back into the bathroom.

  Evan blew out a breath. He’d prepared himself for this moment, or at least he’d tried. Somehow it was more painful than he’d imagined. And he’d imagined it to be somewhere between stigmata and spontaneous combustion.

  It was all the confirmation he needed. He’d have to make the video without Felipe’s help. He’d just cross his fingers that two years of high school Spanish had given him enough to stumble through the information.

  “These are for Marisol.” He handed Felipe a pair of tickets. “It’s a special taping, so she can take whoever she wants. When they do the contestant interviews make sure she says the words ‘giant banana hammock.’” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t pick the password.”

  Evan started to hobble away, hoping to hear Marisol call out for him to wait. But the sound of his crutches rubbing against the hotel carpet was the only thing that followed.

  One more errand and he could get out of here.

  He pushed his way through the crowd until he found the person he was looking for: Easton Sullivan. The man was a small potatoes documentary producer who thought he was big potatoes. According to the conference website, he was also the film festival’s biggest sponsor.

  “Mr. Sullivan?” Evan balanced perilously on his crutches and stuck out a hand. “I’m a big fan. Your piece on the hazards of jump rope was very thought-provoking.”

  The man straightened his jacket. “Ah yes. Amusement or Assassin: Jump Rope in Jeopardy. One of my favorites as well.”

  Not only did he have an inflated sense of the size of his potatoes, but Easton Sullivan loved alliteration.

  “If you have a minute, I wanted to ask you about the documentary festival tomorrow.”

  “Are you with the press?” Easton ran a hand through his—mostly nonexistent—hair. “Variety? ScreenDaily? Filmmaker?”

  “Uh, no.” He was standing there on crutches in a crusty T-shirt. In what world did he look like a journalist? “I wanted to see about putting in a late entry.”

  Easton’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, son. No can do. The last deadline passed two days ago. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Please. I know you have room in the schedule. I looked online. It’s…” He remembered how silent Marisol had fallen when he asked about her phone. “It’s important.”

  “Lots of things are important. Death and taxes and all that. Doesn’t mean I can break the rules.”

  Evan refused to let himself correct the death and taxes line. “I’m only asking you to bend them. Please. I’ll pay the late entry fee. It’s not a problem.”

  “We’ve already printed the schedules. Again, I’m very sorry.” The man started to shuffle away.

  Time to bring out the big guns.

  He cleared his throat and tried to sound more like a member of the mafia and less like a mid-pubescent Peter Brady. “I’m sure your mother is going to be very disappointed.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your mother.” Evan pulled out his phone, and a few swipes later the woman’s face appeared onscreen. Right beside James January and her twin granddaughters. “Betty. She’s really something. I’d hate to tell her she can’t be on the show anymore.” The thought of not having Betty clomping along the stage of So Late hurt Evan’s heart. But Easton Sullivan didn’t need to know that.

  Evan had made the connection his first week at the show, when Betty showed up with a complete photo album and list of her son’s accomplishments—in case she needed to “throw some weight around” to get a seat. Little did she know she’d have her pick of seats. Every day.

  “How did you get that picture of her?”

  “I’m the one who gets her out of the audience every afternoon and helps her to the stage—with the assistance of your daughters of course.”

  “Old bat. All she does is complain about James January—rightfully so; that whole studio is a shit show. But she won’t stop going.” Easton leaned in closer to look at the photo, his nostrils flaring.

  Either it’s working or he’s going to tear my arms off and beat me with them.

  Evan shrugged and adjusted his crutches as if he were about to walk away. Please don’t make me walk away. “To be fair, all she does is complain about you too. But I think that’s just her way of showing love. Anyway, too bad she won’t be able to be on the show anymore.”

  “I thought the show was getting cancelled.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. You know how the executives are. One minute they love you—”

  “The next they’re ready to serve you your balls on a silver platter.”

  “Exactly. Well, nice to meet you.”

  Easton Sullivan’s balding head turned a shade of red never before seen with the human eye. “Fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Fine. Our entries are sparse anyway. You can have the two o’clock spot.” He jotted a note on the notepad in front of him. “But you have to pay the late entry fee.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And you’ll let my mother keep going on that stupid show.”

  “For as long as it’s on the air, Betty will have a place in the audience.”

  “Where is it?” Easton stuck out a chubby paw.

  Evan glanced over his shoulder. “Where is what?”

  “Your movie. The thing you just blackmailed me over.”

  “Oh, right. It’s not done yet. I’ll have it to you tomorrow morning, I promise. First thing.”

  The man rolled his eyes. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’

  Maybe. Probably. “Absolutely not.”

  Evan made plans to drop off the video at ten the next morning and hobbled toward the door. The rolling tides of adrenaline that had plagued him all day—brought about by hope and fear and hope again—had officially subsided. At that moment, he would have promised Betty her own late-night talk show if it meant he’d have an extra day to work on this film. And a pain medication-fueled nap.

  Instead, he grabbed a cup of coffee on his way out the door. Maybe with a little more caffeine he could at least make
it to the studio to grab the footage he’d asked for. Assuming Julia hadn’t burned the entire place to the ground in a fit of cancellation rage.

  “Evan?” Felipe still held the Who’s Got the Coconut tickets in his hand.

  He blew out a long breath. Not only had Marisol made it clear she didn’t want to talk to him, but she’d spurned the tickets. How had he messed this up so bad?

  “What’s up?”

  “These are real?” Felipe waved the tickets.

  “Yeah. It was part of the deal. She did the show, she got the tickets.”

  “But she quit the show, yes?”

  Evan nodded. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve never seen anyone who loved that show so much.” His mom had loved that stupid show that much.

  “Okay. I will do it.”

  “Do it?”

  “Help with the movie.”

  Evan nearly choked on his coffee. “Seriously? Great. I need to go to the studio. Can you come to the studio? Are you free right now or…” The wave of adrenaline came crashing back.

  Felipe glanced over his shoulder where Annie and Marisol huddled together, obviously pretending not to look at them. “Give us five minutes.”

  • • •

  Marisol braced herself against the doorframe, trying to keep herself upright while simultaneously not looking out the window. Because every time the car jerked, she ended up closer to Evan, but looking out the window meant facing the terror of Annie’s driving.

  “Are you sure you have a license?” Evan asked from the backseat.

  “It’s fine. I’m a little rusty, that’s all.” Annie yanked the car into the next lane. “Plus, LA is notorious for horrible traffic.”

  “Maybe I should drive then?” he asked.

  “You have a broken leg, and you have not slept for days.” Marisol focused all her attention on the headrest in front of her. She still wasn’t sure how she’d ended up like this—crammed in the backseat of Evan’s car with her best friend at the wheel and her brother in the front, looking like he was about to vomit. But her life seemed to get stranger by the minute, and all she could do was hold on for the ride.

  Literally.

  The weirdest part of all was Felipe’s insistence on going to the set of So Late It’s Early. There had been no talking him out of it when he’d come back from whatever chat he’d had with Evan. Instead, he’d tucked a few pieces of stray paper into his back pocket and slipped his hand into Annie’s before whispering something in her ear.

  “Come on,” he’d said to Marisol. “Evan is going to take us to the studio.”

  “Why?” Every time she set foot on the set, something went wrong. If she’d learned anything, it was that the universe was screaming at her to pack up her bags and go home.

  Apparently, her brother preferred to taunt it.

  “We are going to have to explain all of this mess to Ahora’s donors. And probably a few of our NGOs. Since you do not want to tell me anything, I guess I will have to go there and find out for myself.”

  “What do you want to know?” she’d asked. She wasn’t sure how much he already knew—obviously a lot—but she’d spill it all if it meant she didn’t have to go back there.

  “Too late.” He turned and pulled Annie along with him. “Vamos.”

  Now her brother didn’t trust her, but it didn’t matter because his girlfriend was going to kill them all in a fiery crash.

  “Marisol?” Evan asked, his voice hushed.

  “You have insurance, yes?” She wouldn’t look at him. Just the thought of looking at him made her resolve slip a little.

  “I heard that!” Annie met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “It’s fine, I swear.”

  “Marisol?” It was almost a whisper this time.

  His eyes were bloodshot and tired, like they had been after their marathon day of writing and filming. His shirt had taken a dive from rumpled to full-on wrinkled, and his scruff situation was about to become a beard situation.

  Damn it. She’d looked. “What?”

  “Have you seen the paint and crank segment?”

  “I have not seen any of them.” And she didn’t want to. Ever.

  A phone appeared in her field of vision, accompanied by a set of headphones. “Just hit play.”

  Her stupid, traitorous finger pressed the little triangle before her brain could protest. And then she was lost in it. Everything on-screen looked exactly like she’d imagined it would that day—but better. With some distance, it was more ridiculous. More funny. More everything.

  Something she hadn’t imagined was there too. In spades—super obvious, megaphone-style spades. The way Evan looked at her—not the fake, lovesick look either. And the way she looked at him.

  She hit the replay button, and on the second viewing she saw what every member of the public had fixated on. The camera had caught every single glance between them. Those unspoken conversations about what was happening onstage and a few stolen looks that suggested what was happening offstage.

  “We’re here.” Annie pulled the headphones from her ears. “You okay?”

  Marisol nodded. She’d been so lost in the video that she hadn’t stopped to worry about the terror of Annie’s driving. Or noticed they’d arrived at the studio. She handed the phone back to Evan. “Very funny.”

  He glanced at the screen. “We have about ten minutes before the show starts. Can someone get my crutches out of the trunk?”

  Together, the four of them hobbled inside. Marisol expected at least a dash of resistance. After all, the show was about to start and the intern was dragging three—well, two—strangers in behind him. But the security guards and staff only nodded as they walked into the studio. It buzzed with preshow excitement, and almost every seat in the house was filled.

  “You guys can sit there.” Evan used a crutch to point to two empty seats at the edge of the front row. “Uh, Felipe, I better take you backstage. For that thing…”

  “No one is going to be able to answer your questions right now, ’Lipe.” Marisol tried to keep her voice to a whisper. Already they’d attracted the attention of every audience member in a ten-foot radius. The last thing she wanted was for Felipe to make it worse.

  Evan cleared his throat. “Well, there are only two seats, so I’ll take him back and see who we can find.”

  The two of them disappeared into a side door before Marisol could protest further.

  “Down in the front!”

  Marisol turned.

  Ted the Man Baby.

  She never thought she’d be grateful to see an adult man wearing a diaper and nothing else. She marched up the aisle and to his seat. “Where is your flask?”

  “Right here, baby.” He pulled it out from his diaper and wiggled it between two chubby fingers.

  She snatched the flask from his hand and unscrewed the cap. “What is this?” She almost didn’t care. If it could numb all of these feelings—or some of these feelings—until she could get out of this place, she’d drink it all.

  “You don’t wanna do that, sweet cheeks.”

  “I think I can handle it.” She lifted the flask to her lips, closed her eyes, and prayed Ted wasn’t addicted to something horrible, like baby food-flavored vodka. Or nail polish remover.

  He wasn’t.

  And what was in the flask wasn’t going to numb anything anytime soon.

  “Iced tea?” She wiped her lips and shoved the flask toward him.

  His eyes widened and his eyebrows went so high they nearly touched the bonnet he wore. “Shhh. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I’m sure you know what that’s like.”

  Marisol slipped back to her seat.

  Where Penny waited.

  “Julia wants to talk to you,” she said. “Now.” Penny’s face filled with desperation—a look so removed from her usual unmasked contempt that Marisol couldn’t protest.

  She left Annie behind and followed Penny backstage. Everywhere she turned, monitors glowed with James’s opening monologue, but there was n
o one around to watch it. The studio had become a ghost town, haunted by the awkward silence falling between their footsteps

  “Did you know it is tea?” Marisol asked when she couldn’t take it anymore.

  “What are you talking about?” Penny asked.

  “The thing with the baby and the flask. Tea.”

  “Yeah, I know. Everybody knows. Ted’s been sober for like eight years now or something.”

  “Oh.” Marisol stopped in the hallway. They’d come to a dead end, and the only option was to turn back or go straight into the doorway ahead of them. “Why are we back here?”

  Penny shrugged. “Nobody tells me anything. Well, unless they’re telling me to bring them coffee or sweep the stage or escort the guests to the green room. Whatever.” She rolled her eyes, again, and twisted the door knob.

  “Penny?” Marisol asked.

  “What?”

  She tried to find the words. This wasn’t how she’d planned to confront Penny, but now that she’d started she wasn’t sure she could stop. “Why did you post all those photos? Why did you make it look like the sketches were about me and Evan?”

  “Because they were about you and Evan?”

  “No. They were about fake people.”

  Penny shook her head. “Not really. I mean, the sketches were always about the fake people, but the social media stuff—the stuff people really latched on to—that was about you and Evan.”

  “Well, the real me did not appreciate the rumors. Sex tapes? Pornography? A green card marriage?”

  Penny held up her hands. “I didn’t have anything to do with that. I posted the pictures, and everything took off.”

  “Nothing to do with it?”

  “Okay, maybe once the paparazzi got interested, I tipped them off about you guys filming a sketch in the parking lot. I’m sorry. But I didn’t spread any of the rumors, I swear. It’s just, I worked so hard to get an internship—any internship—and then when I finally did, everything started to fall apart.”

  Marisol sighed. She knew what it was like to hold something together that kept threatening to crumble in her hands. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

  Penny pushed open the door, revealing Julia on the green room couch.

  Mascara smears stained both her cheeks, and she sniffed between orders into her headset. “Cut to commercial.” Sniff. “I’m working on it.” Sniff.