The Lucky One

“Cut!” Mason didn’t stop right away. His tongue was still in my mouth, his hands still trailing my waist, my ribs, higher still. Finally I pushed him off. A thick trail of saliva stretched between our faces, inches apart.

I looked over at Jamie dawning his usual head-to-toe black. I think he liked that he could blend in with the crew, or disappear into his director’s chair at will. He focused in on the monitor. The whole set - usually a constant bustling frenzy - fell still, like even the props were holding their breath. Finally, Jamie let out a sigh and addressed the crowd. 

“And that, folks, is a fucking wrap!” He beamed. The hoard of crew members let out a cheer and a round of applause. Mason put a lazy arm around my shoulders and squeezed.

“Good job, kid!”

“Yeah?” I looked into his piercing eyes, unsure.

“Yeah, of course! Just wait, when this comes out you’re gonna take off.” He flashed me a smile. A blinding, charming, winning smile though even after months of seeing it every day, I still hadn’t quite determined whether it was genuine. He was like that. Nestled in the uncanny valley. He was by far the most effortlessly charismatic person I’d ever met, but underlying every single interaction with him was a quiet thrum of unease. Whatever he felt, it never quite met his eyes.  

We stood around hugging and congratulating and “look forward to working with you again”-ing for a few hours. It wasn’t until the door of my trailer clicked shut behind me that I let myself collapse onto the sofa. For the first time in months, I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding. Getting a starring role in the newest Jamie Scheffield film had been the greatest thing to ever happen to me. At least that’s what I’d thought when they offered me the job. Of course, I accepted it in a heartbeat, packed my bags and moved across the country. Within the first few weeks of filming, though, the shiny finish of my new, perfect, dream-come-true life had started to fade. The hours were long, and Jamie was temperamental, and I’d needed to keep a strict diet and exercise regimen. And all of that was fine, I’d known at least a little bit, that such a large role would entail that sort of thing. It was the way people looked at me that I hadn’t expected, though. Their eyes clung to me, like I was made of honey. They enjoyed it too much, too unabashedly. I could feel myself shrink under their gaze. They did the same to Mason, though he took it in stride. The fame seemed to come naturally to him. I stared up at the ceiling of my trailer, trying to shake the feeling of being watched that now clung to me even when I was certain I was alone. Eventually, whether I’d managed to do it or whether it was simply exhaustion that took over, my eyes shut and I fell into a heavy slumber.

…

Jamie had insisted on hosting a wrap party at his Malibu house (though ‘house’ was quite a significant understatement). I’d spent several hours getting ready, something that, according to Mason, I would have to get used to as we started doing press. 

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I’d showered the fake blood out of my hair though a slight red tinge remained. I peered at the framed photo sitting on my dresser: Sadie and I throwing our notes up in the air at the end of our last exam before graduation. It had been taken a little less than a month before I got the part. I took in her wide, smiling face. I could hear her voice, low and a little raspy like a sip of brandy and a crackling fire. I could hear her laugh, her singing: off key but so full of passion it made me wonder whether I really understood what it meant to be completely alive. I could hear my phone spring to life, her name plastered across the screen time and time again, I could feel the guilt in my chest as I let it ring. I was on set with the Mason Ward, I couldn’t talk. I could hear the ringing stop. I could hear my sheepish, pathetic excuses when I finally did call back. I could hear her sighing on the other end as she muttered 

“So, what? Are you fucking Mason Ward?” 

I closed my eyes, letting the crushing silence of my empty LA apartment wash over me. We’d planned to move to New York together after graduating college. As far as I knew she was still looking for work, living with her parents. 

I shifted my focus to my own face in the picture, then to my reflection in the mirror. Trying to make sense of how the two images could be of the same person. My hair was blonde now. It’d taken more than a few bleaching sessions to get it to a shade Jamie was happy with. The pale gold ringlets fell perfectly around my face ending past my chin, the ends just tickling the tops of my shoulders. My whole face had gotten smaller, my features were daintier, save my lips, plump and perfectly pouty now sporting half a milliliter of filler. My teeth were several shades whiter, my skin clearer, my nose quite a bit smaller. The emerald silk dress Jamie had told me to wear hung from my now slender body, falling in effortless, draped curves around my waist. 

I’d gotten much prettier, no doubt about it. 

I looked back to the photo, then the mirror again. I could only find scant traces of myself in the reflection staring back at me, though I guess this was the face of someone people actually wanted to watch. Someone people would pay to stare at for the better part of ninety minutes. I understood this. I’d wanted this, but as I glanced back at the photo one last time, a pang of something I couldn’t quite identify reverberated in my chest. The feeling bounced inside of me, clanging against the inside of my ribcage. It felt like finishing a book, I decided. Like when you go to flip the page only to be met with the wrinkled, wilted cardboard of the back cover. And you realize that something has ended. And it’s just a book, and none of the characters are even real and it feels so silly but at the same time it isn’t fair, because maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe you would’ve liked to know it was going to end so quickly. 

I shook the thought away, willing myself to accept the face staring back at me in the mirror. To admire it, to own it.

My phone buzzed. A text from Jamie: Party starting, you almost here? 

Then another text: Andrew York here. Wants to meet you!

Then, as if he’d read the confusion from my mind: He’s the producer for Evelyn Hugo

I stared back at myself: at my blonde hair, red lip, green dress, string of pearls, and let out a chuckle. The art of subtlety wasn’t one Jamie had quite perfected.

Andrew York had been exactly as slimy as I’d expected him to be. He raked his eyes over by body as he spoke. “Yeah, you know, Jamie’s really excited about you and… I gotta say I see why…” He let out a laugh. Was he expecting me to laugh with him? But the conversation had ended quickly enough and I made my way to the small sofa in the back corner of Jamie’s living room. I tried to make myself comfortable, running my clammy palms along the deep blue velvet. My dress was a little too short, a little too low cut, I realized. I couldn’t figure out how to sit. 

My mind wandered back to the photo on my dresser. I’d been too tired, to hungry, too distracted to really look at it since I moved to LA. I closed my eyes. I could see Sadie strut through the door, dawning her one nice dress she wore to every occasion. I could see her face light up as she spotted me in the crowd. I could feel the couch sink as she sat down next to me, and her soft, small hand clasp mine. I could feel my own hand squeeze hers as if to say I’m so sorry. And I could feel her do the same, as if to say I know. It’s okay. You can do this. 

And then I felt it, a dent in the couch. My eyes darted open, then fell: Mason had made himself comfortable next to me.

“These kinda parties are fuckin’ bullshit.” He took a long swig of his drink. He looked down at me.

“What?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“Come on, I'd like to think we know each other pretty well. You’re upset about something.”

I didn’t answer. He continued.

“Look, this job is weird. I don’t blame you for being disappointed. You can’t show that shit, though. The world is gonna want to be you, so you have to make sure they believe that your life looks perfect. Doesn’t matter what’s really happening.” I looked over at him. Something felt different. His shoulders slumped, his brow furrowed, his eyes… There was pain behind his eyes. It wasn’t the peaceful apathy he usually maintained. He eyed me.

“And I don’t mean to be condescending, you know, I just grew up in this shit. And I guess I want to help you.” I could hear the edges of his words start to slur. He continued.

 “This business will eat you alive. There’s no getting around it. You’re gonna need someone you can trust. Find them and hang on to them. You won’t survive otherwise.” 

“Okay.” I answered. He shrugged. 

“Whatever, I get fucking sappy when I’m drunk. Don’t listen to me, I’m a fucking mess…” And with that he rose, polished off his drink and stumbled towards the bar. He rattled as he walked - pills. A lot of them by the sound of it. Something about his words scared me. They made me want to run home to my childhood room, hug my mom and tell her I was never leaving again. I looked out at the party. The music had been turned up, the base throbbed, making everything in the room shake. Some people danced, most tried to yell over the music. Everyone bore a shining, winning smile. But I realized then that in their eyes, lay nothing but peaceful apathy. That quiet thrum of unease. The more I eyed the drinking, swaying guests, the more I heard the thrum. Like a chant.

Do you like me? WIll you hire me? Am I beautiful enough to make it? 

I sat alone on the sofa, feeling smaller than ever. My eyes flashed over to Mason, he’d almost finished another drink, but he smiled bright.

I fumbled for my phone, I tried to call Sadie. She didn’t answer, and even if she had I wouldn’t be able to hear her over the music. I texted her:

Done filming. Coming home tomorrow.

Then:

I miss you.