Tall Dark & Handsome

by Wilde, Amelia

  “Don’t bullshit me. You never asked, because you were too wrapped up thinking about your own sad life story. You don’t even realize that all those people are already gone. It’s wasted energy trying to win them over. What matters is what’s right in front of you.” He steps back and puts his hands in his pockets, and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the sight of him like this.

  I close the distance between us and put my arms around his waist, every breath scorching my throat. Cannon doesn’t fold his arms around me. He stands, tense, waiting.

  “What matters in this moment is my career,” I say, and the instant the words are out of my mouth, I can feel him pulling back. “No—”

  “That is just…” The smile on Cannon’s face is bitter, sharp. “That’s so like you to say. Do you know that? For a minute there, I thought you might surprise me. But you’re like everybody else. It doesn’t matter how much you put in. You’re only ever going to get used. And shit, you got a great deal.”

  “Cannon, no—”

  He barrels on. “You got a great fucking deal. Because my name on your movie is going to make it a hit, even if it blows. Which it might, honestly. It might be terrible, if you’re as heartless in editing as you are right now. But even then...” He pretends to consider his next thought, but the anger comes off him in waves, volatile and hot. “Even then, you might be too embarrassed by me to let it stand. You always were looking for a way to fire me. Here. I’ll do it for you. I quit.”

  He steps around me, neatly, no movement wasted, and starts back across the parking lot.

  I want to howl. I want to scream. I want to rage at the overheated pavement until I can finally wrest some sense of calm from all of this. This is not how I wanted the conversation to go. This isn’t how I wanted any of this to go. I wanted to do a good fucking job. That’s all I wanted to do.

  “Cannon.” He freezes at the sound of his name, stopping dead in his tracks.

  I should beg him to come back to me. I should tell him that I’m just scared, that now that time is running out, I don’t see how he could choose this in the long term. He’s Cannon Hunt, and I…

  I have to save this. I still have to save this. The battle isn’t over yet.

  “Please,” I call across the parking lot as the door of the studio opens. Maggie pokes her head out. “Please don’t leave the film.”

  He looks at me, expression hard.

  “For their sake.” He points back at the studio. “For their sake, I’ll finish this. But make no mistake, Juno. When this is done, I’m leaving you.”

  He turns away again.

  It’s too much.

  “You don’t…” It’s a pathetic, last-ditch attempt to salvage this, but I have to make it. “You don’t have to do that.” My voice trembles. Tears sting at my eyes. I won’t let them fall.

  “I do,” he calls over his shoulder, still walking. “I do.”

  29

  Cannon

  It ends.

  Forty-six hours later, filming ends. I’m barely there for the wrap party. The extra crew gets a shot of everybody cheering when Juno yells cut for the last time. It’s a relatively boring shot—a wide-ish scene of me and Chloe in the kitchen, but you wouldn’t know it based on the shouting.

  Then the party, the drinks, teary goodbyes, final pictures—and for me, nothing but a horrible hollow feeling in the pit of my gut.

  It’s that gray predawn hour when I finally get back to the hotel.

  Juno’s adjoining door is shut tight. One look at that door, and I know I can’t stay. I can’t. Not another hour, looking at that wall between us. I throw all my things into my bags and go.

  It’s still cool enough in the rental car when I pull out my phone and dial Scott’s number. He answers on the first ring. “I’m on my way into the office, buddy. Talk in fifteen?”

  “I need a plane,” I tell him, my voice cracking on the last word. I clear my throat and start again. “I need to charter a plane, and cancel my commercial flight out.”

  He laughs. “Wouldn’t this be a better job for your assistant?”

  “Didn’t bring an assistant on the shoot.”

  Scott must hear the question in my voice. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Private flight out, I’m assuming?”

  “Yeah.” I give him the information from the studio-booked flight.

  “You coming home today?”

  I straighten up in the seat and scan the hotel lobby for any movement. A lot of people are still back at the party, but I thought—I hoped—Juno might have come back. There’s nobody inside but the woman behind the counter. “I’ll be back in New York way before noon. Is your lunch open?”

  “Hell yes,” says Scott. “I’ll get everything together so we can go over your options. Are you sure you don’t want a day to recover? Didn’t shooting just wrap on this project, like, five minutes ago? You should probably stay in case they need any—”

  “They’ll handle it.” Now that I can’t see her, my entire body strains to get the fuck out of this parking lot and away from this nowhere city where everything went wrong. “I’ll be at the airport in less than an hour. Will there be a plane waiting for me?”

  Scott pauses, the briefest hesitation, like he wants to ask me something. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m ready to move on.” My chest feels tight and tender, like someone punched me there and then kept punching. “I’m ready to get out of here and back home. I’m sure you know how that is.”

  “I’ll get the plane ready to go,” he promises, and hangs up without another word.

  I start the car and back out of my spot.

  I give the lobby one final glance.

  Then I reverse into the half-light of the morning and head for the highway.

  I don’t look back.

  30

  Juno

  Is this what people mean when they say “out of body experience”? Because I’m hovering over my own idiot self right now, watching myself do this job on autopilot. It’s a pretty damn good autopilot, but most of my mental energy is dedicated to torturing myself via looking at Cannon, who is not doing everything on autopilot. And if he is? He’s the greatest actor in the entire world, and I shouldn’t have been an enormous bitch to him when he showed up for that audition.

  Or ever.

  Especially not after everything we did. Everything I wanted.

  I’m a fucking fool.

  I hone it in at the wrap party, smiling for pictures and counting the minutes until it finally peters out. This is my last on-set responsibility before it’s all post-production and approving final edits and endless meetings with Milton to get this absolutely right. I can’t walk away until the bitter end. I’ve never walked away from anything before the bitter end before, and I’m not going to start now.

  Even though I have to get to Cannon.

  I don’t see him by the catering table toward the end of the night, or at any of the other gatherings of people. I shove down my uneasiness. He’d probably be hanging around near me if I hadn’t stormed out on that interview.

  Very fucking professional. It was even better having to go back later and ask them to film a solo just to make sure they had what they needed.

  Finally, the very last knot of grips and assistants finishes their beers and wanders off.

  Aside from the cleanup crew, I’m the last one left.

  I make a run through the studio in case Cannon is lurking in one of the dark rooms, hope burning brightly in my chest. If I catch him here—if I catch him now—we can move past this. Urgency thunders in my veins. If we can sort this out before the sun rises, then everything might be okay. It feels like the last day of summer camp, running after a bus to say one last hurried goodbye to your best friend forever, knowing that if you don’t catch them in time, the friendship will dissolve when the leaves change and that’ll be the end of it. I want to catch that bus. I want to arrest that summer. I want to stop thinking of everything in terms of weird shit like my sin
gle visit to summer camp and start thinking of the rest of my life.

  He’s not there.

  I am stone-cold sober, so I climb into one of the golf carts and ride at a slightly inappropriate pace all the way back to the hotel. I’m pulling into the parking lot when the sun breaks over the horizon. It bleeds orange and pink light into the sky, and my pulse pounds in my ears. If this were a fairy tale, time would be running out. But this is real life, and I don’t have to sprint like a madwoman to the lobby doors, frantically shoving my key into the slot to unlock them at this early hour.

  I do it anyway.

  It’s unsightly at best to sprint through the actual lobby, though, so I force myself to walk at a quick pace to the elevators. They’re so fucking slow. I’d have been better off running up the stairs, but there’s more decorum in stepping off the elevator. Plus, Cannon could be in the hallway, just returning from the party.

  The doors open.

  I step out.

  The hallway is empty.

  No fucking matter.

  I shouldn’t have closed my adjoining door in a fit of rage. I should not have done that. But it might be a nice cinematic moment, to throw it open again, to fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness. I might not... beg, exactly, but I would get on my knees. I’m tired enough to do it. I’m sorry enough to do it. My chest throbs with the need to be in the glow of his smile.

  I am officially the most pathetic, lovesick woman on earth.

  My shoes are quiet on the carpet as I make my way to my room and slide the key card delicately into the slot. The lock clicks and I push the door open, that familiar blast of air conditioning like a caress on my face. It’s not a good enough caress, to be honest. The only caress that will do is from Cannon.

  The sight of my closed door makes me sick. Sick that I reacted the way I did. Sick that I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Sick that even if I hadn’t stormed out, all this might have painted my reputation anyway. There’s no way to know. They got it on camera. They won’t use it. That would be awkward as fuck to watch on DVD, but everyone will know.

  It was too late the moment the words came out of Cannon’s mouth. It was a whole new world, and I was too busy clinging to the old one to see it.

  I steel myself. Should I... shower? Should I dry my hair? Should I make myself look like less of a mess before I throw myself at his mercy?

  No. There’s not enough time. And he’s seen me at my worst. There’s nothing left to hide.

  I pull the handle of the adjoining door, the metal cool under my palm, the seal releasing. Cannon’s door is open a few inches. My heart soars. If the door is still open, there’s a chance. There’s still hope.

  I push the door open with my fingertips, letting it swing softly into the room. It’s dark. The curtains are drawn, and there’s only a sliver of light coming through. Maybe he thought he’d sleep. Well, think again, buddy.

  Whisper-quiet, I pad to the curtains and throw them open wide, then turn back to the room with what I hope is an expression that communicates exactly how sorry I am, exactly how much I want him.

  It’s... empty.

  It’s completely empty.

  The bedding has been gathered into the center of the bed, and there are no bottles or cans on the bedside tables.

  “No.”

  I stagger through the room. There is nothing between the beds. Nothing in the closet. Nothing in the bathroom, except a few towels piled in the corner.

  And at the door...

  A single sheet of paper.

  I pick it up, hands trembling. Instructions? A note from him? Even a “fuck you” would be better than nothing.

  It’s a notice from the front desk, thanking him for checking out via phone.

  He’s gone.

  31

  Cannon

  Seven months later

  “Mr. Hunt? We’re ready for you inside. Can I get you anything? A drink? Energy bar? I know some actors need a little pick-me-up before an audition, so if there’s anything—”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  The assistant beams up at me, her cheeks as pink as a sunburn. I flash her a half-hearted version of The Smile. It has roughly the same effect, which begs the question—why was I trying so hard before?

  The audition room is barely bigger than a hotel room, bare except for a chair in the center for the talent, a camera rig, and a table with two chairs for the casting director. My heart does a slow flip at the sight of the woman behind the table, her head bowed. Then she looks up. It’s not Juno, and her hair is too blonde. Seven months, and I’m still thinking about her. I can’t help it.

  This woman is, unlike Juno, over-the-top excited at my presence. She leaps out of her seat, extending her hand and giving me a name that’s so forgettable I don’t bother to remember it.

  “We are so happy to have you sit for this role, Mr. Hunt. It’s an honor.”

  “Happy to be here.” Happy… and unprepared. It’s one of three auditions today, and like the others, it seems to be largely a formality. Even so, I spent most of the ride staring out the window. I have no idea what movie this is for. Based on the gigawatt smile of the casting director, I’m in for another romantic comedy.

  That could be relaxing.

  I’ve spent the last month filming a military thriller with a shooting schedule so tight I constantly felt short of breath. I spent the month before that on a press junket for Homeland, which was—to nobody’s surprise—the hit film of the year.

  Scott had to move up the press tour, because once the producers got their hands on the footage, they knew they had a live one. From what I understand, editing was done at top speed, working around the clock so it could hit for the holiday season.

  I thought I was famous before.

  That was nothing.

  “Let me tell you a little bit about the film,” says the casting director briskly, as if she’s used to people walking in here without a single clue. “It’s the story of a young man from the Midwest who joins the military in an effort to save his family from…”

  I don’t sigh heavily, but I want to. The words keep coming out of her mouth in a hazy buzz. It just doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because I’ve been walking around for seven months with a hole in my heart the size of the continent.

  It’s for the best. Of course it’s for the best.

  I drag myself back into the present, back into this interview, where the casting director is handing me a copy of the script.

  “Angie will read with you. Page twelve, if you would. Though if you have another preference, we can accommodate.”

  “Not necessary.” I give them a grin, open the script to page twelve, and read the first line. “It’s not something I can back down from,” I say. The dialogue isn’t amazing to start off with, and I should have known that coming in. I just never bothered to pay attention. Look what it got me last time.

  “You can,” says Angie the Assistant. “You can stay with me. We could have a life together.”

  I look her in the eyes—or, I try to, but she’s staring down at the script in front of her. It doesn’t matter. The expression is the same. “I’ve made my choice. It’s a matter of honor now.”

  “Honor?” The script calls for a whisper, but she says the line full voice. “What about us?”

  “You’re why I have any honor at all.” I steel myself for more of the monologue.

  “Thank you so much,” says the casting director, giving Angie the Assistant a totally unconcealed look of triumph. “I think we have all we need. Someone from our offices will be in touch with you.” She turns back to me with a wink. “Probably by the end of the day.”

  “That’s great.” I shake both their hands and leave, wandering back outside into the bitter sunshine of February in New York. Sun all the time, and it never warms up.

  The car, along with my driver, is waiting outside, and I’ve no sooner put my ass on the seat than my phone rings. My heart beats faster. Juno? But no. It’s Matt’
s number on the screen.

  “I’m in town for the ceremony,” he says without preamble. “Come get a drink with me.”

  I want to go stare at my television for several hours with the curtains drawn, but I’ve missed him since Homefront wrapped.

  Plus, I don’t have anything better to do. “Where are you? I’ll meet you there.”

  * * *

  Matt looks good. He’s leaner and meaner and... tanner?

  “Where’ve you been getting a tan?”

  “My latest movie,” he says, sliding his beer in front of movie. “Filmed on location in Hawaii.”

  “That’s awesome.” The beer is tasteless, but that’s not a surprise. Just about everything is these days. “When is it out in theaters? I’ll go see it.”

  Matt wrinkles his nose. “It’s a rom-com,” he says, eyes glued to the menu. He picked a sleek new brewery in Midtown and seemed so happy to order that I bet Homefront changed everything for him. “But it’s out in November, if that’s really your thing.”

  “I’m happy for you, man.”

  He looks at me over the menu. “Are you? Because you seem sort of dead inside.” Matt considers me. “Did something happen?”

  I laugh, and it sounds hollow, even to me. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’ve been busy.”

  “Shit, yeah,” he says with a genuine smile. “I bet you had tons of offers.”

  “I had a few, but not enough time. Still tried to fit them all in anyway.” I told Scott to fill my schedule to the brim. I figured a few months of wall-to-wall work would be enough to forget Juno. I was wrong. It didn’t help that every time I went in for postproduction work on Homefront, I felt like she’d just left the room.

  And then came the Rogers nominations.

  I got one—Best Actor—and so did the sound design and special effects people. It’s a long shot for me. I’m up against some regular heavyweights in the industry. But the real stunner was Juno’s own nomination for Best Director. Her face was everywhere. And I had to spend the entire press junket talking about how it was a match made in heaven. Never mind that I’m in my own personal hell.