by Julie Murphy
“But what about the finale?” I can feel my eyes begin to water and my breath hitch, like I might start hyperventilating if I don’t concentrate on breathing in and out.
“Oh, Cin,” she says, her voice fully of pity. “Okay, this was a lot to just drop on you.” She nods. “I know that. And I’m sorry. But we can’t have you at the finale. We need you to be only slightly hurt, so the audience doesn’t think you’re rebounding too quickly. And don’t worry. We’ll coach Henry through his interviews so it’ll sound like a really tough decision. After the finale airs, we’ll set up a few interviews. You can shed a few tears. Say something like yada, yada, yada, if it couldn’t be me, I’m glad it’s my friend Sara Claire. You lie low for a few weeks and then boom! Big splashy announcement. Oooo, maybe we could do an exclusive with People or US Weekly. We could even have Sara Claire come back as a special guest next season…. We could do a girl-chat segment…” She begins to lose herself and me as she spews idea after idea.
The car stops, and Beck checks her phone. “Oh shit, you gotta catch this flight. Erica’s driver will be waiting for you at LAX.” She reaches into her back pocket and digs out a twenty and two fives. Using her mouth, she uncaps the pen she slid from her front pocket and scribbles a phone number on one of the fives. “Here,” she says and hands me the wad of cash. “Call if anything happens or your flight gets canceled. We’ve got Mallory watching the airline schedules, though, so if anything happens, we’ll send a car.”
“I…I don’t have a phone” is all I can manage to say.
“Ask the airline clerk or, I don’t know, but you’re going to miss this flight if you don’t go now.” This time it’s her who hugs me. “You’re a star, Cindy. America loves you. And I really like you too. I’m proud to call you a friend.”
I nod into her shoulder, unable to bring myself to say anything for fear I might burst into tears if I so much as open my mouth. Normally, I’d find the declaration of friendship so charming and endearing, especially coming from her, but I barely even hear what she’s telling me.
My door opens, and the driver helps me out. I wheel my bags inside as the car drives off, and wordlessly check in at the counter, showing my ID and going through the motions.
America loves you, I hear her say over and over again in my head.
America might love me, but Henry does not.
The hardest part about Dad dying was not being able to say goodbye. The last time I saw him was just like any other time. At least with Mom, despite my age, I knew things were serious and that every time I saw her could be the last. But with Dad, I barely even remember it, honestly. He dropped me off for school. I probably mumbled I love you too as I stared blankly into my phone, and that was it.
And now I’ve missed my chance to really say goodbye again. Henry and I said bye, of course, but that was when I thought I’d be seeing him again in a few days, and that when I did, he’d be picking me. But suddenly it’s over, and I’m numb with shock.
Filming up until this point has not been what I would describe as a peaceful or even quiet process. And yet my senses are overwhelmed from the moment I walk into the airport. Cell phones ringing. Crying children up past their bedtime. News reports in English and Spanish. Security guards snapping and pointing at my dazed expression. It’s the first time in weeks I haven’t been led by the hand to exactly where I’m supposed to be.
On the plane, I’m seated in international business class, where men in golf shorts and their bejeweled arm-candy wives look at me like I’m diminishing the value of their airfare. If my brain wasn’t so cluttered and if I had a phone, I’d be furiously texting Sierra. Our imaginary conversation would likely play out like this:
Sierra:
Do they even know who you are? Are they even aware whose presence they’re in?
Cindy:
You mean a recent fashion school grad with no job prospects and only a brief stint on a cringy reality television show?
And then Sierra would say something inspirational and I would send her a series of poop emojis.
But I don’t have my phone and I don’t have the mental energy to stew over what my fellow passengers think of me, so I plop down in my seat, drink a cup of tea, and pass out.
Just like when I flew in from New York after graduation, Bruce is waiting for me. But he’s not the only one. A few photographers are circling the security exit like vultures, waiting for any semifamous person catching a late flight in. But Bruce is a pro. He swoops in, shielding me with his body from the constant clicking of the cameras.
“Cindy, what can you tell us about the villa?”
“Will we see you back at the château for the live finale?”
“Who do you think your biggest competition is?”
“What do you have to say about Addison?”
“No comment,” Bruce barks at them as a staff-only door swings open just outside baggage claim and Bruce shuffles me inside. “It pays to know the custodial staff. I’ll be right back.”
“Awww, come on, man,” I hear a paparazzo say as the door shuts, leaving me in a musty broom closet. Normally I’d have some pithy LAX joke to make, but tonight I’m just thankful for this gross little bubble of quiet.
“No dice,” Bruce tells him as he goes, I assume, to retrieve my bags.
Even in this broom closet, the world is so much louder than I remember, but I’m grateful to Bruce for helping me ease in. The silence is just as deafening, though, because then I’m just left with my thoughts and the memory that Henry and I are over.
When I get home, Erica is pacing in her kitchen. Her face is bare, and her normally effortless silk robe has been replaced with one of Dad’s old T-shirts and running shorts.
The moment she sees me, she rushes to me and pulls me in for a crushing hug. “Oh God, I wanted to fly down and escort you home myself. Beck just barely talked me out of it.” She steps back to take me in and sweeps her fingers down the side of my face before smoothing my hair behind my ear. “She said the last date went well. It went well, didn’t it?”
I nod. “It was…good.”
“God,” she says, “the network loves you. The higher-ups haven’t stopped talking about my hidden gem. Did Beck tell you…about the next season? That they’re looking at you for—”
I nod. “I…think my reality television career might be a one-hit-wonder sort of thing.”
She nods slowly. “We can talk in the morning,” she says carefully.
And I can’t help but wonder what discussions Erica’s had and what promises she’s made on my behalf.
“Uh—” My voice cracks. “I better go to my room. I need to call Sierra.”
She runs a hand up along her slender neck. “I…actually locked your phone in the safe…I saw you left it in the kitchen drawer.”
“You locked up my phone?” I ask.
“Just for the night. I…There’s a lot to digest, and I wanted you to get just one good night of sleep.”
Not gonna happen, I nearly blurt. If my cell phone isn’t going to keep me up, my thoughts will. But then I remember how overwhelming just walking through the two airports was, and I think I can manage to last just one more night without my handheld information highway. I finally nod in defeat. “The triplets?” I ask.
“Asleep,” she confirms with a soft smile. “Though Gus fought until the very last yawn. I’m sure you’ll have them crowded around your bed earlier than you’d like.”
“I missed them,” I tell her.
“They missed you. And your grilled cheeses.”
That gets a smile out of me. I take my bags and head for the expansive sliding glass door leading out into the backyard and the pool house.
“I filled your mini fridge with mineral water and fruit leather,” she says. “Do you need anything before bed? A late-night avocado toast? Jana picked up some Ezekiel bread at the store.”
“I’m good. I ate on the plane,” I lie. I don’t know why, but now that I’m with someone from the outside wo
rld—even if it’s just Erica—all I want is to be alone.
“Oh God, don’t even get me started on plane food. It’s just dehydrated astronaut—”
“Erica, did you know?” The question is eating away at me. “Surely you knew.”
Her brow furrows with confusion.
“Did you know the network was going to have him choose Sara Claire all along?”
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans her hip against the counter. “I…did, but, Cindy, you yourself made it very clear you weren’t going into this expecting to find anything. This was about visibility for you from the get-go.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “I guess that changed.”
“Cindy.” The way she says my name is so gentle, just like the night she told me Dad died. It stings, still. “Was it…real for you?”
“I’m pretty sure nothing on that cheap ratings-grab excuse of a television show is real. It’s trash. The whole thing is trash, and so is everyone who has anything to do with it.” The second the words have left my mouth, I regret it. “I gotta go to bed.”
Erica masks the hurt on her face by pursing her lips in a thin smile. “Don’t forget that you chose this, Cindy. Good night.”
The next morning, it’s not the triplets who are waiting for me. Instead, Anna and Drew stand hovering over me with multiple cell phones and devices in their hands.
“We can’t let her sleep any longer. These requests are rolling in and I can’t keep track,” I hear Drew say through my foggy, partially asleep state.
“I’m up,” I grumble. “I’m up.”
“She’s up!” Anna echoes.
Drew holds three lattes hugged to her chest. “Oh my God, finally. Have you been online? Talked to anyone? Anything?”
I shake my head, unable to string together many words so soon after waking up.
“We got your phone out of Mom’s safe,” Anna says as Drew hands me a coffee. “The lock combo was—get this—90210. Is Mom old? Do we need to teach her about how to make good passwords or whatever?”
“Extra whip,” Drew says as she plops down on the bed beside me. “I can’t believe you’re back.”
Anna cozies up on my other side. “And that we’re all three together again.”
They both lean their heads against my shoulder as I take a nice long sip. After a few blinks and a yawn, I manage to say, “I’m so glad to see you both. I am. But did someone say something about my phone?”
Anna fishes a phone out of her sports bra and hands it over. “For safekeeping,” she explains.
“I’ve already sorted your in-box,” Drew tells me. “Interview requests, old friends trying to creep in on your newfound fame, job offers, famous or semifamous people reaching out to say hi—apparently, James Van Der Beek is a Before Midnight stan; who knew?—and managers and agents looking to pitch themselves to you.”
“Wait, how did you know my passcode?”
She coughs up a laugh. “All of that and you want to know about your passcode?” She shrugs. “Your old apartment number was my sixth guess. Speaking of apartments, Sierra called dibs on being the first friend you talk to.”
“Noted.” I take another swig of coffee and can feel the light board of my brain start to slowly come to life. “Go back a sec. Did you say something about job offers?”
“Yeah, there are a handful. The media interview folder is bursting at the seams, honestly, and I think we should really be strategic about who we give access to.”
My thumb begins to scroll through the endless emails. There are so many my hand starts to cramp, and Anna must see the horror on my face, because she softly pats my thigh. “Turns out Drew’s calling is publicity. When I got home, everyone wanted to interview me about leaving the show. I guess I caused some waves in the Before Midnight universe. Drew was basically my own personal and really well-dressed bouncer but politer and with an email address.”
“I feel like I’ve found my calling,” Drew says as she leans back against the headboard and crosses her legs.
“Well,” I tell her, “I officially dub you my publicist and agent and manager and whatever else you want.”
“Oh, good,” Drew says. “Honestly, I wasn’t really waiting for you to offer.”
“What are you gonna do before the last ball?” Drew asks as she bounces up from the bed. “Go shopping? Get your hair done? Go to the beach? Get a spray tan?”
“I’m not getting an invitation.” I look up from my phone to find them both awaiting further explanation. “Beck said so on the way to the airport. I guess Henry knows what he wants, and it’s not me. And all I really want to do is just veg out and watch old movies.”
“He’s dead to me,” Drew says, like a switch has flipped in her brain. “Scorched earth. Dead to me.”
Anna nods. “His pulse is nonexistent. The doctor is pronouncing the time of death as now o’clock. They’re calling the morgue. He’s dead.” She sighs lightly. “You get dressed…not really dressed. Just, like, daytime-pajamas dressed. And Drew and I are on snack duty. Meet you in the main house in five?”
“Deal,” I say.
Drew presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, and they both meander to the door as I down the rest of my latte and slither out of bed.
“Oh,” I say, stopping them just before they walk out into the backyard. “Thank you both. For being here first thing this morning.” I hold my phone up. “And for dealing with this.”
“Of course,” Drew says, like there’s no other place they could possibly be.
Anna knows the way to my heart is through peel-and-eat cherry Twizzlers and The Lizzie McGuire Movie. (Closely followed by the High School Musical franchise.)
My in-box is…daunting. And I can’t imagine how much worse it was before Drew got ahold of it. The interview requests range from podcasts with twenty listeners to Entertainment Tonight and even a few late-night shows. The messages from old friends and acquaintances are interesting, to say the least. There’s even an ex or two and a few elementary school teachers, all of whom I cringe to think have now seen me make out on network television.
Some people I haven’t heard from since Dad died. Most are nice and encouraging, but a few are a little passive-aggressive and some are just…aggressive. A handful want to know how they can get on the show, and my most recent ex, Jared, emailed just to let me know he’s now engaged and that he unfriended me on Facebook because his fiancée was less than pleased to know he had watched a few episodes without telling her.
My thumb hovers over the folder titled Job Prospects (6). This is why I chose to come on the show, isn’t it? I wanted to jump-start my career. To get some visibility. Maybe even get that spark back. I’ve got no boyfriend and no cash prize, but maybe this could be my silver lining. But why do I feel so awful at the thought of landing a job because of the show? I never expected to fall in love.
And there it is. I fell in love. I’m in love with Henry Mackenzie. I always assumed I would have a difficult time knowing if I was in love. What if I didn’t recognize the signs? Or what if it wasn’t as intoxicating as the whole world has built it up to be? But, for me, it feels very simple. It’s the kind of thing I know with just as much assurance as my birthday. It’s not something I feel lost in or confused by. It’s a truth, and some truths hurt more than others.
I read the email at least twenty-eight times before taking a breath.
Dear Cindy,
My name is Reneé Johnson, and my firm scouts out creatives and helps place them in positions that perfectly match their skill set.
Since I’m sure you’re being inundated with offers and requests, I’ll be brief and concise.
My client, Crowley Vincent, president of Gossamer, is looking to expand his brand and move into women’s footwear. To make that happen, he is in search of a team of fresh, new talent. I’ll be honest, you first caught my eye when I was watching over my daughter’s shoulder as she was catching up on Before Midnight, but after speaking with your advisers and
faculty at Parsons, I’m nearly positive that my instincts are spot-on. We would like to bring you to New York for a meeting with Mr. Vincent. This is a time-sensitive offer, so please reach out to me immediately if you are interested. We would need you in New York by Friday, July 16.
Your fan, Renée
Gossamer. GOSSAMER. Holy…Gossamer has been around longer than Chanel. They’re a men’s footwear dynasty, and their designs range from sensible and everyday to extravagant and avant-garde. And with Crowley Vincent at the helm, they’ve been breaking rules left and right. Last season they included two pairs of heels in their men’s line and moved into outerwear.
“What day is it?” I ask over the sound of Hilary Duff absolutely belting it out to a concert of thousands as she pretends to be an Italian popstar.
“Sunday funday,” Gus calls from the floor, where he lies on his tummy with his iPad pressed to his face.
“No, like the date,” I say.
Drew glances at her phone. “July eleventh.”
I have five days to get to New York.
After reading my response aloud over and over again to Sierra over Facetime, I email Renée back, and her assistant immediately books me a red-eye into JFK for Thursday night.
I pack and repack my bag at least six times over the next few days. What do you wear to a meeting that could likely change your life?
I spend the week at home—not leaving once. Anna, Drew, and the triplets keep me distracted enough to avoid the news and social media. I catch up with Sierra, and after I give her the scoop on the show, she does her best to distract me with gossip about random people from school. I barely see Erica, as she’s busy working on the two-part finale this week. On Thursday night, the three-hour villa episode will air, followed by a live finale on Friday night. Neither of which I plan on watching.
On Wednesday night, after helping put the twins down for bed, I go back to the pool house and lock the door behind me. It’s time to do something I’ve been putting off for a very long time.