Tall Dark & Handsome

by Amelia Wilde

  “Did you, ah…” Matt forces the smile off his face. “Did you ever make up with Juno? I still feel bad about that, by the way. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  That’s right; he had yelled out something ridiculous after my equally fucked-up confession of love. “No, I…” There is no explanation for it. There is no good explanation, except the fact that I knew it was for the best. I’ve avoided her for seven months. It’s what we both need. “No.”

  “Too bad.” Matt frowns, his gaze steady. “I really thought there was something between you two. I know there was something between you two.”

  I shake my head. “How?”

  “Hey, genius. You knew Juno didn’t have a corner room, didn’t you?”

  I bark out a laugh. “Shit.”

  “Yeah. I was the human on the other side of that wall. I heard everything. The day after we wrapped…” He screws up his face. “I heard her crying, but I figured you’d wooed her with a secret engagement or something.”

  “She was crying?” My heart pounds.

  “Yeah, sounded like—well, now that I think about it, she sounded pretty devastated. I don’t know, man. I was drunk. I was hoping you’d show up here with her and then I wouldn’t have to shoulder the blame for pissing her off in that interview.”

  The waiter comes to the side of the table and we both order. Burgers. Simple stuff. Tomorrow’s going to be the awards show dinner, then the ceremony, then the after party. I’ll probably be dying for a burger then. Might as well have it now.

  “Oh, trust me. You’re not the one who pissed her off. That was all me.”

  “Did you send any flowers?”

  “Flowers? No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen her since then.”

  “Seriously?” Matt’s blue eyes are wide. “I’ve seen her lots of times, doing all the stuff for post. God, I’m so glad the movie’s out. If there’s ever a sequel, I hope they’ll get their shit together. I’ve been back in the studio a thousand times, and—”

  “You’ve seen her?” My throat is tight. Too tight. “How has she looked?”

  Matt cocks his head to the side. “About the same as you. Sad. Pathetic. Even though you guys have it all.” The burgers arrive, and he picks his up in his hands, sighing with happiness at the sight of it. “You should talk to her tomorrow. At the awards ceremony.”

  I laugh out loud. “That, my friend”—my own burger is in front of me, and I’m going to have to eat it. I’m not going to enjoy it—“would be a disaster.” It doesn’t matter that Juno brought out the best of my acting abilities. It doesn’t matter that she saw right past the front to what I needed, which was her. It was her from the moment I first saw her. It doesn’t matter.

  “Why?” Matt says around a mouthful.

  “Remember the last time I talked to her with a camera around?”

  He shrugs. “You could come back from that. It’d be worth it, if it got that sad puppy look off your face.”

  “Maybe.” It hurts too much to talk about her like this. “Where’s your next shoot?”

  I force myself to eat while Matt tells me all about his new and wonderful life.

  32

  Juno

  Has anyone ever Hulked out of their own dress at the Rogers? I might be the first woman ever to rend her garments on a live backstage feed.

  No—I will not. I will grin and bear it and everything will be fine. It will be extra fine the moment I can get back to my apartment, lock the door, and pull the comforter over my head.

  I have been doing this Rogers thing all day, and I thought it would be more fun. I didn’t think I’d feel weighted down and abandoned. I’ve hardly been abandoned. There are plenty of people from work here, and Milton’s an attendee. Plus, I haven’t been alone. Hair and makeup started at eleven in the morning, followed by a lineup of pre-interviews, and then I was shellacked into my dress. It’s the most designer thing I’ve ever worn. It’s heavy. I look great, but it’s taking every fiber of my being not to sink to the floor and lay down.

  That, sadly, is not an option. I have already walked the red carpet, giving three more interviews on the way. I wonder if they saw how badly my hands were shaking. I’m supposed to be the country’s golden girl director, and here I am, nervous about being on camera.

  “Juno? Our guests are here.”

  Maggie’s voice brings me back to the stifling reality of the interview area. It’s a giant, overstuffed couch and a giant, overstuffed armchair, and I have been standing here for the better part of fifteen minutes waiting to film a special live interview. And I’m not prepared for it.

  My heart ricochets into my chest, but I turn, smiling, to the two men standing behind Maggie.

  Dayton Nash and Wes Sullivan. The real ones.

  “Hello,” says Dayton, extending a hand. His voice is the same as it was on the phone, during all the many discussions we had when the script was still being written, but he’s—well, he’s not like he looked on camera. He and Wes, along with Ben Powell, another one of the men in that Humvee, made a lot of press appearances just before the movie’s release. Our paths didn’t cross then.

  They’re crossing now.

  “It’s nice to finally meet,” I say, and my voice only wobbles a little bit. Up close, he looks nothing like Cannon. He’s broader, more muscled somehow, and yes, he has a prosthetic leg. “Nice to meet you, Wes.”

  Wes shakes my hand too, wearing a boyish grin I didn’t expect out of one of the heroes who inspired the movie that’s launched my entire career. He’s about an inch shorter than Dayton, with blue eyes and blond hair. They’re very nearly exact opposites. “Can you believe this whole setup?” His blue eyes dance with excitement. “It’s fuck— Sorry. It’s crazy.”

  “It’s madness.” We stand there in an awkwardly silent moment. “Have you guys had a chance to see the film?”

  “Oh, of course,” Dayton replies with a smoldering smile that might have knocked me out cold if I had any life left inside me. “My wife was a little too into it.” He grimaces, but then his face brightens again. “That Cannon Hunt. I’m sure you know.”

  My stomach flip-flops at the mention of his name, but I hold it together. What other choice do I have? I could faint on the couch... but I can’t do that in front of Dayton and Wes. “I do,” I say quickly, before my throat can tighten. “Before we get started, I was just hoping to say…” I had a thing all planned out, and now the words are disappearing. These two men are, without being sappy, a total inspiration. I can see the work they’ve done in the lines of their bodies and in the confidence as they plant their feet and prepare for the interview. It’s sexy. I’m sure they broke a million hearts out on the press junket. “I wanted to say... thank you for sharing your story. With me. With all of us. I hope I did it justice.”

  Wes nudges Dayton on the arm. “You owe me.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “You do.”

  “Is there…” They really are best friends. “Is there a bet I’m unaware of?”

  “Hell yes,” Wes says, and Dayton shoots him a glare. Voice lowered, Wes continues. “Dayton bet me that you’d thank us for our service.”

  “Oh.” The heat of embarrassment rushes up into my face. “Thank you so much for—”

  “Nope, nope, nope.” Wes cuts me off with a hand in the air. “I won this bet, and I will be collecting my winnings now.”

  Dayton rolls his eyes just as Maggie breaks in to let us know they’re ready to start filming the interview. “Just put it on my tab,” he tells Wes.

  “No way. Cash or nothing.”

  “I don’t have cash right now,” Dayton gripes, a touch of irritation in his voice as we settle onto the overstuffed sofa. “I’m here to do an interview. American hero, remember?”

  “Better American hero, remember?” Wes jabs a thumb at his own chest. “Now pay up.”

  Dayton snipes at him, but the interview begins and they put aside their differences for the sake of a pleasant interview. They’re t
rue professionals, and I can tell they’ve done this many times. Dayton takes the lead telling the story of what happened in the Humvee, and Wes takes the lead on telling the story of how Ben Powell ended up writing a script about it. I tell the story, obviously, of how the movie got made, throwing in some anecdotes about how it was tough, but nothing could compare to an actual deployment.

  “Are your wives in attendance tonight?” asks the interviewer.

  “As if we could convince them to stay home,” says Wes. “Yes, they’re both here, hopefully enjoying the open bar as we speak.” I’ve never met their wives, but I know their names are Sunny and Whitney. A pang of envy scorches my chest. I know whose wife I’d want to be.

  “I hope you have a wonderful night,” says the interviewer. “Thanks for sitting down to talk with us.”

  “Thank you,” replies Dayton, and we all stand up and divest ourselves of our clip-on microphones.

  “I’m going to find Whit,” Wes says, clapping Dayton on the shoulder. “It was great to see you in person, Juno. Stay in touch, would you?”

  “Of course,” I tell him. He heads off toward the refreshments, and I sink back into myself.

  Dayton hands his microphone off to one of the assistants and we step outside the too-hot ring of lights in the interview zone. I’m already fading, already sinking back into myself.

  At the edge of the crowd, Dayton stops and looks down at me. “Congratulations on the nomination, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, forgetting at first to be excited. “It’s a really big deal.”

  His eyes are empathetic, warm, and they don’t leave mine. It’s familiar in a way that makes my heart skip a beat. “Can I... ask you a question?”

  “Sure. I made a whole movie about you, so it’s only fair.”

  He laughs, a deep, rich sound. “You seem sad.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t say anything more. “That’s not... really a question.”

  “Okay.” He puts his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo. More events should really call for men to wear tuxedos. It’s my favorite look. “Why do you seem so sad? I would’ve thought this would be the best day of your life. Unless you lose.”

  I cough out a laugh. “Being nominated is enough of an honor.”

  “You’re not excited about it?”

  “I am.” For some reason, standing at the edge of a slow-moving crowd next to the real Dayton Nash, who appears at the end of my movie in home video footage under a white caption of his life after the Humvee, the words that have been stuck in my throat for days, for weeks, for months, tumble out. “Do you ever…. Have you ever fucked something up so royally that there’s no recovering from it? And you’d be better off if you’d seen it for what it—what it really was in the first place?”

  He frowns. “The movie was great.”

  “I don’t mean the movie.”

  Understanding dawns on his face, and he looks at me, sincerity written in his eyes. “Yes. I left Sunny behind to join the Army. And then when I came back, I tried to convince her that I wasn’t good enough.” Dayton raises a hand and rubs the back of his neck. “I wasted a lot of time thinking that kind of bullshit.”

  I look back out at the crowd. “You fixed it, though. You still had a chance.”

  Dayton lets out a breath, turning to face the same direction as I am. “As long as you’re still breathing, there’s still a chance.”

  “Even if—”

  “No matter what,” he says, his tone forceful for the first time. “No matter what, Juno.” He puts a gentle hand on my elbow. “Thanks for telling that story,” he tells me softly. “You did a great job, and I hope you win tonight. I’ll be on my feet if you do.”

  Then he walks away, and I’m left standing in a wash of my own heartache.

  Is it true? Is he right? Could there still be a chance? If there was a chance, would I be brave enough to take it? Cannon’s going to be here tonight, but if he avoids me, shouldn’t I accept it as a sign?

  I am totally occupied by these thoughts for the next forty-five minutes. My heart flutters with it as I take my seat in the giant auditorium, as the sweeping music starts, as the celebrities begin crossing the stage one after the other to give and receive awards that will shape their careers as much as the movies themselves.

  It’s what I’m thinking of, so deeply I don’t hear it at first, when they announce the winner of this year’s Best Director award.

  33

  Juno

  It’s me. The winner is me.

  I hear my name and laugh. It’s a joke, right? No. Not a joke. Reality.

  It’s the greatest and worst moment of my life, walking up on stage with all those people clapping. For me.

  The score of Homefront plays over top of clips from the movie while I climb the steps, heart pounding, tears in my eyes. For a hot second, I feel like I’m watching myself from the audience at home—all those sweeping shots to show off my dress and closeups to highlight my expression. I have no control over what’s happening on my face, I realize, as I slam back into my body. I try for a grin but remember the closeups. Will I look crazed? Probably. I settle for pressing my lips closed, the hint of a smile, because my eyes are misty as it is and it will not be professional if I fall to the floor sobbing on live TV.

  Sobbing for joy. Sobbing for heartbreak.

  I do not sob as I accept the little golden Roger statue. I smile out at the audience, knowing that at least some of them are clapping because they know me. Half of me is bursting with joy, and the other half is collapsing under the infinite sadness that I am alone and I made it this way.

  I have thirty seconds to make a speech. The metal of the statue is cool under my hands. I grip it for dear life and lean into the podium. It’s a sea of faces out there, the bright stage lights washing them out, and as I begin to speak, the applause settles and fades so people can hear me.

  All of them, looking at me.

  I want to close my eyes, but then there’s Cannon’s voice in my ear—eyes open.

  I face this moment, this incredible moment, head-on.

  “Thank you so much to the board for choosing me to represent all the fantastic directors who did amazing work this year,” I start out, and after that, it’s easier. “Thank you to everybody who worked on Homefront, and to Silver Studios for believing in the dream. To Milton Greene, I thought you might get in my way, but you turned out to be this movie’s biggest champion.” Laughter rises and falls, and I’m pretty sure I hear Milton laughing near the front. My heart squeezes, twists. “My parents couldn’t be here tonight.” The noise cuts out, a pin-drop silence falling over the room. “They had better things to do.” Laughter, as if they can’t decide if I’m joking or not. “But I learned on the set of Homefront that sometimes your family is the people you choose, not the ones you’re born with. And thank you to the heroes Dayton Nash, Ben Powell, and Wes Sullivan for letting the world into your adventure.” I’m babbling, and I’m running out of time. “And finally, to Cannon Hunt.” Oh, shit, I’m going to cry. I swallow back the tears. Cameras are swooping in on him right now to get a closeup shot of his reaction—if he’s in the audience. Maybe he’s got better things to do, just like my parents. “To Cannon Hunt, all I can say is that you were a dream come true.”

  The theme music from Homefront is almost louder than the answering applause, and my big moment is over. A gorgeous woman in a sequined dress guides me to the wings.

  “I’ll take this,” she says, lifting the Roger gently from my hands.

  “What? I just won it.”

  “I know,” she tells me with a perfect smile. “Your personalized statue is on a table offstage. Keep walking and you’ll see it.”

  My mouth drops open. “You guys give out the same statue over and over again?”

  “We have three of them.” She winks at me. “Go ahead and get yours. I’m sure you don’t want to miss the rest of the show.”

  I don’t care about the show, but I walk forward anyway. I�
��m humming with adrenaline. That was utterly surreal. Did it even happen? I’m half-tempted to go back and ask her if it was really me up on that stage or if I’ve been mildly hallucinating all evening.

  The backstage area is massive, and once I’m out of the wings, I’m confronted with a blank wall painted a flat black. I follow it to the left on instinct and take a ramp downward into a little tunnel—for moving set pieces? I don’t know. And that’s when I hear the voices echoing from the other end. I’m on the right track.

  I hurry down the hallway. I need to get somewhere I can process this. Home? No. I want to go back to my seat. I’ll wait out this whole damn ceremony if it means I can somehow engineer a chance to run in to—

  The hallway opens up to a room hung with velvet curtains.

  At the back of the room is a table, filled end to end with gleaming Roger statues.

  And leaning against the table, causal and beautiful and dark and handsome, is Cannon.

  I stop dead the instant I see him.

  His eyes track mine, a slow, languid smile spreading over his face. “Your parents are the worst,” he says, standing up to his full height. “They didn’t come to see you win?”

  “No,” I gasp, and I’m on the verge of tears. I’m on the verge of laughter. “Nobody came.”

  “I did.” He nods behind me. “You looked great up there.”

  I turn and register two things: a TV installed high on the wall, and a camera in the corner, blindly recording everything that happens in this room. It’s probably part of a live feed for some website or another.

  “Cannon.”

  “Yes?” He turns to the table, looks down among the statues, and plucks one up into his hand. “Here’s yours, by the way.” He holds it out to me.