Unscripted

by Jayne Denker

  “So why have you been applying for writing jobs instead of auditioning for parts?”

  “Somewhere along the line I realized that I’m a better writer than actor. I’m fine with that—I really enjoy writing. And every once in a while, I try to, you know, be a writer. Not that I don’t love my job here. It’s just . . .” He trailed off, and although I waited for him to finish the thought, he stayed silent.

  So I decided this was the perfect time to hit him with, “If that’s the case, why did you turn down the job on Modern Women?”

  He gave me a sidelong glance. “You heard, huh? It, uh, lost its appeal.”

  “Why?”

  No answer.

  “Mason. Why?”

  “Watch the movie.”

  “I’ve seen the movie.”

  “I mean with the commentary. I think you’ll like this bit here—especially in light of our conversation about your mom, last night.”

  And he turned the volume up again, in time for me to hear Mona say, “Oh, little Haley. There really was no question about casting her in the lead role. She was a natural. I just loved her—she reminded me of my own daughter in so many ways—the same spirit, the same fire. In fact, that was the main reason I chose her.”

  That brought me up short. I’d never heard Mona say that before. I glanced over, saw Mason watching me. Whatever had just started to open up in my chest slammed closed again. It wasn’t going to be that easy. “And that’s supposed to make up for my entire childhood, is it?”

  “You’re one tough nut—and I do mean that in the psycho way, Faith Sinclair.”

  “Right you are. And that’s Faith Freakin’ Sinclair to you.”

  “But I’ve got your number. I’ve seen your human side. I’ve held your hair back while you hurled.”

  “You’re going to guilt me with that for eternity, aren’t you?”

  “I will definitely try to, yes. And while we’re on the subject . . .”

  “Oh God, what?”

  “When you were asleep last night—”

  “When you were watching me sleep, creeper—”

  “When I was watching you sleep to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit—”

  “Why is it always about the vomit?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you about. You kept saying, ‘Why is it always about the vomit?’ and something like—and I could be totally wrong here, but this is what it sounded like—‘No vomiting strippers.’ At one point you even said, ‘I’ve got your puke right here, boys.’ What in the world was all that?”

  Oh lordy, I was talking to Evan and Sean in my sleep? I shook my head. “Trust me, you do not want to know.”

  “Oh, I think I do.”

  I stared at the smile playing around his lips, and I realized dimly that I was finding them quite interesting. Delectable, if I had to choose a sensual word for them. I wanted to reach out and run a finger over them, see if they were as soft as they looked. I wanted to—

  “Faith?”

  I blinked. “Yeah.”

  “What’s with the vomit talk?”

  Okay, that was a mood killer. I paused, gathering my thoughts, then launched into the unfortunate tale of Faith Freakin’ Sinclair’s Adventure at Random Shit Productions. To my great relief, Mason roared with laughter, quite frequently. Yeah, it was pretty ridiculous.

  “So let me get this straight,” he chuckled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You actually tried to work with a couple of hipsters—”

  “To help them become the next big thing. Yeah.”

  “And they fired you.”

  “For being too old.”

  “Jesus.”

  “See how my life has been lately?”

  “You’ve had a rough few months, I’ll give you that.”

  At the moment, however, after unloading all of this on somebody else, somebody as understanding and—dared I say it?—as trustworthy as Mason, my load was feeling pretty light for the first time in ages.

  “Jamie got along with them better than I did; I should have sent him there with my ideas, and it would have worked out better . . .” I froze. “Oh God, Jamie.”

  “Sorry?”

  I rubbed my eyes. “My stepbrother.”

  “I remember.”

  I got the feeling that Mason would remember everything I told him. He was that kind of a guy. “I was going to go back to L.A. this weekend to try to hunt him down, find out what he did with my money.”

  “Wait—the credit card problems? He did that?”

  I nodded. “I made the deadly mistake of telling him to, um, how did I put it? ‘Take whatever he wanted.’ Of course I didn’t mean for him to clean me out, but—”

  “Faith, that’s a crime. It doesn’t matter if he’s your stepbrother. You need to call the police.”

  “That’s what Jaya said. But . . . I can’t. You don’t get it—”

  “I get that someone you trust just took all your money and disappeared.”

  “Jamie’s a flake, but he’s not malicious. I’m more worried about him than angry. I can get more money freed up; I can’t get another stepbrother.”

  “Well, technically—”

  I laughed ruefully. “You’ve got a point. Mona could indeed dump Dominic and find Husband Number Five, complete with kids. She’s still young. Ish.”

  “Look, I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, but you need to—”

  “He could be in trouble. I’ve got to find him.”

  “You still need to recuperate. But I could go to L.A. tomorrow for you.”

  I gaped. “What? No! That’s . . . above and beyond the call. I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “I would, though.”

  Nearly speechless, I could only fight out in an awed whisper, “I believe you.”

  Mason was staring at me, and the urge to throw myself at him returned with a vengeance. He couldn’t be real, could he? An apparently straight, possibly single, good-looking, intelligent, funny, caring, compassionate guy? They didn’t really make those in real life, did they? They only existed in fiction—and I should know, as I’d filled my character roster with more than a few of them in my day.

  My breath shallow, I inched toward him. Just a bit. Did he come closer to me too? Oh God, I was hoping he did, and that it wasn’t my imagination.

  But . . .

  Two people on a sofa, in soft lighting, with an awkward pause . . . it immediately put me in mind of the last time I was in this situation. With Alex. And how badly that ended.

  I couldn’t risk this. I didn’t dare attempt the same thing, only to end up rejected by Mason as soundly as I had been rejected by Alex. My ego couldn’t take it, for one thing, but more important, I realized my heart would break if Mason did it—far worse than with Alex. Wasn’t that an interesting development.

  So instead, I resettled myself on the couch, crossing my arms in front of my chest, worrying that my braless boobs were giving away my true intention.

  Mason’s eyes flicked downward to my breasts—the exact opposite of what I had intended—but he only reached over to an easy chair, grabbed a fleece blanket, and arranged it over my lap and my bare feet. “Better?”

  Was there such a thing as being too chivalrous? I sighed. “Play the movie, Professor.”

  * * *

  We watched the rest of the film, mostly in silence. Once in a while Mason would point out a part that he particularly liked, and on occasion I was able to add even more insight than my mom’s commentary, like some odd thing from a particular day that affected what happened on camera. I may have been young at the time, but I was already paying attention to everything Mona did, learning how to put stories to celluloid.

  By the time we got to the last act, I was feeling far more comfortable beside Mason again. I slid down and rested my head on the back of the couch.

  He glanced over. “Tired? Want me to save the rest of this for later
?”

  I shook my head. “I’m okay.”

  When the movie ended, Mason turned to me as the credits rolled. “Thanks for watching with me.”

  “Happy to.” And I meant it. For the first time, watching one of my mom’s movies wasn’t painful or boring or irritating; I saw the whole thing through Mason’s eyes, and the experience was completely different. Plus I found myself able to recall that time of my life with less bitterness than usual. And that was progress, right there.

  As if he could read my mind, Mason asked, “Still hate your mom?”

  “I told you, I don’t hate her—”

  “Still resent her, then?”

  “Not for what happened in the past, no. The present, well, that’s another story, isn’t it?”

  “She’s still sticking in your craw?”

  I laughed at his archaic expression. “Far less than she used to. But she still manages it on a fairly regular basis.”

  “Come on, when was the last time your mother drove you crazy?”

  “Um, two days ago?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.” And I told him about Mona’s plans to make me her errand girl while she recovered from her plastic surgery. Even though it occurred to me that she’d kill me if I told anyone she was having “work” done.

  I expected him to moan and groan along with me, but instead he was quiet, reflecting on what I’d just said. Then, “Do you really think she did that just to boss you around?”

  “She’s a bit of a control freak, you know,” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

  “I remember. But I mean, in this instance, do you really think she wanted you there just to annoy you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hm.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What if she wanted you with her because she was, you know, scared?”

  “Mona’s neverscared. Of anything.”

  “Like you?” He dropped that bomb and sat back, waiting. I didn’t rise to the bait, just made a face, so he went on, “Surgery is a scary thing, even elective surgery. I mean, sure, she opted for it, but the fear may have hit her later, when she was already committed.”

  “Even if that were the case, why would she want me there? I couldn’t do anything—”

  “Not to ‘do.’ Just to be with her, because you’re her daughter. And she loves you.”

  I laughed at that. “I am the last person Mona would look for if she needed her hand held. I told you, it’s like I’m daughter in name only.”

  “Okay.” He picked up the remote and scrolled through the DVD menu. “Do you think you can handle another half hour or so? There’s another interesting bit here.”

  I would have stayed up all night if it meant spending more time with Mason. “Fire it up.”

  It was an interview with Mona. Just her, in a room that was supposedly in her Palm Springs home, but which I was certain was a well-lit set instead, as she never allowed film crews into her house. Not even one guy with a camera and an interviewer. She had her rules, and she stuck to them.

  In the mini-doc, Mona talked about the films she made in the eighties and a bit more about Whatever She Wants, then segued into her personal life, which I found surprising. She didn’t usually open up about anything that wasn’t directly related to her work.Just like me, I thought . . . then buried it quickly. I turned my attention back to my mom’s interview.

  She was saying, “One stepson, whom I think of as my own. Jamie lives a . . . vibrant life, let’s say. I adore his energy. And of course my daughter, Rosemary—well, she goes by her middle name, Faith, but I can’t help but think of her as Rosemary, so please do excuse me if I slip here and there—Faith Sinclair, a marvelously successful television producer, director, and writer. Her show, Modern Women, is just fabulous.” The interviewer murmured a question, and she said in a choked voice, “I’m so proud of her, of everything she’s accomplished. The women of my era opened the door a bit, and the women of today, like my daughter, have blown it off the hinges. I’m so, so proud. I wish her every success in the world.” Another murmured question, which she answered, her eyes glassy, “I just wish . . . I wish we saw more of each other. Oh, I understand what she’s up against, better than anyone. Yet . . . I do miss her. What can I say? I love my Rosemary.”

  The interview moved on to another subject, but I didn’t hear a word after that. When my mother got teary, so did I. When her voice constricted, my throat closed up. Dimly, I was aware of Mason watching me.

  “Faith?”

  “Yeah,” I answered, my voice raspy.

  “You okay?”

  I nodded, looking down, and a couple of tears dropped onto the blanket he had tucked around me. I intended to say, “Fine,” but instead I heard myself blurt out, “Why doesn’t she ever say that to me?”

  Then Mason was gathering me in his arms—not in a romantic way, but to comfort me. And I was happy to lean against him as I unsuccessfully fought back more tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I thought you should see that. I was wrong.”

  I shook my head, my hair moving against his shoulder. I tipped my head all the way back until I was staring at the ceiling, trying to keep more tears from falling. They didn’t stop, of course. They just ran into my ears. “I’m glad you showed it to me. Really.”

  “I’m finding that hard to believe at the moment.”

  I laughed a little and swiped at my eyes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to freak you out.”

  “You’re not freaking me out,” he whispered. “Except . . .”

  I raised my head to look at him, pressing the heel of my hand to one eye, then the other. “What?”

  “It’s just . . .”

  “What?” I asked again, growing alarmed.

  “. . . Rosemary?”

  “Shut up.” But I was smiling through the last of my tears, as Mason pressed his lips to my forehead.

  Chapter 18

  I’d love to say that after that, Mason’s lips moved from my forehead to my mouth and (ahem) other places, and that we stayed up all night, showing that sofa a thing or two. But I’d have been lying. Instead, we sat there quietly for a while longer, Mason waiting patiently until my tears finally stopped. Then he told me to get some sleep. And I went to the guest room.

  Alone.

  Yeah, I was pretty pissed at that, myself. But it was what it was, and I tried to view myself as he saw me—a jobless, moneyless wreck with a messed-up relationship with my mother. Not exactly alluring, especially with that whole “recently having vomited a lot” thing going on. So when my eyes opened the next morning, I vowed to present myself as physically, mentally, and emotionally whole. Because in one night—okay, it had been creeping up gradually, but officiallyas of last night—Mason had become what I’d call a “person of interest.”

  I hopped out of bed, feeling even better, physically, than yesterday. And mentally and emotionally? Far better than I had in a long time. Corny as it may have seemed, I had Mason to thank for that.

  I opened the bedroom door a crack and called, “Mason?”

  He came down the hall. “Good morning.”

  “’Morning,” I smiled. “Mind if I take a shower?”

  “You don’t have to ask, Faith.”

  “Okay.”

  “Towels are in the closet next to the bathroom; toiletries are in the cabinet. Help yourself. I put out a new toothbrush by the sink.”

  “You always think of everything?”

  He smiled. “Hardly. How does your stomach feel about waffles?”

  “Seriously? Waffles? I could make do with a bowl of cereal.”

  “You could. Or, you know, waffles.”

  “That would be amazing. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  I intended to hurry with my shower, but first I felt compelled to snoop through the entire bathroom for evidence of a wife or a girlfriend. I wanted to find some frou-frou berry-scented shampoo or facial scrub—somethin
g, anything. But there was nothing. However, this must have been a guest bathroom, because there weren’t any of Mason’s personal things in here either, so my search didn’t prove anything.

  But waffles were calling, so I cleaned myself up—but not too quickly, because I was enjoying getting the last of the funk off me. No wonder Mason only kissed my forehead last night. Why would he want to go any further with me in this state?

  After my shower, I put Mason’s T-shirt and sweatpants back on. I decided to go commando. It would be my little secret. And maybe, if I played my cards right, Mason would be privy to my secret as well.

  I shuffled into the kitchen to find him pulling out waffle batter ingredients. He had already made a pot of coffee, and he immediately put a mug on the counter in front of me. “Relax. I’ll get the waffles going.”

  “No, let me,” I said as I helped myself to cream and sugar. “I owe you for the perfect grilled cheese last night.”

  Taking a step back, he said, “Be my guest.”

  “Okay, let’s see. Waffle iron . . . ?”

  As Mason poured some coffee for himself, I opened up a cupboard. No waffle iron, but some lovely crystal dishes stared back at me. I checked another cupboard, this time under the counter. There was the waffle iron, next to a fancy mixer, crock pot, and blender. I pulled it out, plugged it in, then took a breath and spun around.

  “Mason,” I said, and it came out more forcefully than I intended, “are you gay?”

  He spluttered into his coffee. “What?”

  “Are you gay? Or are you married, and your wife works in, I don’t know, Seattle or something, and only comes home once a month?”

  “What . . . why?”

  “Not that it matters or anything,” I rushed on, desperate to repair the damage of my outburst. “If you’re gay, I mean. It’s cool, whatever—”

  “Faith. What are you talking about?” He wasn’t angry, but he was puzzled. And I didn’t blame him. This wasn’t coming out right at all.

  I tried again. “It’s just that . . . I mean . . . okay, no straight single guy has crystal.” I yanked open the first cupboard I had checked for the waffle iron. “I mean, what is this—a pickle dish? Idon’t even have a pickle dish. And you have a waffle iron? Come on—oh my God.” My words tumbled over themselves as I realized. “You are married. This is wedding swag.”