Aaron
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s the desperate, pleading questioning that often seems to come with the territory of any sort of romantic relationship.
Especially when it’s not supposed to be any sort of romantic relationship.
Yes, I’ve been guilty of it, too, once upon a time. I’ve been on all sides of a lot of this bullshit before wising the fuck up.
Although I’m apparently not as fucking wise as I thought.
Right now, Macy’s demonstrating a prime example of one of the pitfalls of getting too involved. She’s not asking one question—no, she’s repeating question after question at a speed which redefines the phrase rapid fire.
It’s a childish gesture, but I feel like putting my hands in my ears and shouting, not listening at her.
Instead, I just put my head down and skulk quickly along the beach like a sullen teenager. I’m used to easily being able to handle anything, but now that I’m faced with something I don’t know where to even fucking begin with, every part of me is unified in a primal, childish shout of make it go away.
But it’s not going away.
This is another reason I detest industry press. If it weren’t for the arrival of that fucking toxicity, this week would’ve continued in the beautiful way it was supposed to.
“I don’t understand why you can’t talk about it,” her voice calls after me.
I detect a hint of hysteria in her tone. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it seems very real.
Instead of replying to her increased desperation, my feet keep moving away from her.
Throughout my career, I’ve gotten better and better at averting conflict and defusing it before it escalates. Usually, I’m not directly involved. But if there’s a confrontation that I need to face, I don’t run away from it.
But right now, there’s nothing to fucking explain. Anything I do will just make this worse, and I’m already in too deep.
That’s how it happens sometimes—it all goes to shit in a few minutes if you don’t see it coming.
I should’ve fucking seen this coming.
“Aaron!” She’s now screeching behind me. “Wait. Why won’t you talk about it? What’s the big fucking deal?”
She sounds out of breath.
With a tortured expression, I stop and turn toward her.
She closes the gap between us steadily and catches her breath. It takes her about a minute.
Her cheeks are red, her face is sweaty, and her chest is heaving.
“An...explanation would be good.”
We stare at each other a few seconds that feels like an eternity.
A universe of thoughts surges through me—some of them conflicted about what I really want and what’s the right thing to do, some of them ideas on just what to tell her and on where to begin.
Part of me feels that I don’t have to fucking say anything. It’s a vacation fling, for crying out loud.
It’s starting to feel like Macy’s method-acting, staying in character between takes.
Or she didn’t hear that loud announcement of Cut when the take ended. Although if and when that happened is unclear, it’s clear that shit’s getting way too real.
“Macy...”
Her eyes are soft, vulnerable—if I didn’t know better, I’d think she was on the verge of tears or something. I want to tell her something like we’re not actually married, just as a gentle reminder, but there’s enough power in the way she’s looking at me that I can’t give anything except what she wants.
The ominous drone of an approaching plane starts getting louder.
An explanation.
Even though it’s just a fling.
Even though I’m sure she’s got her own baggage that she’s keeping to herself.
I’m only human, and if she wants an explanation that fucking badly, I can’t just walk away.
Macy doesn’t even seem to notice the plane, although its noise will be unbearable soon. I try to explain while I’m still audible.
“Okay, so look...it’s kind of complicated. There’s this production at one of the majors, one of these things that keeps stopping and starting—except now the investors are getting impatient, and the studio needs to deliver something. I’m not part of it, but it’s such a fucking mess they’re desperate to bring me on. That could work out very well for me, but I’d need to leave here a few days earlier...the cast is packed with A-listers, too, though that means I’d have to work with...”
The noise of the massive airliner flying what seems like only feet away from us overpowers my voice and my thoughts and rattles the fucking ground around us. It’s good timing, too, because it drowns out the most important detail.
Or so I thought—from Macy’s expression, it looks like she hasn’t even heard a single fucking word.
It probably doesn’t matter anyway. That was such a shitty, garbled explanation it would make a politician blush.
Macy’s pointing upwards, confirming that she didn’t hear shit.
If I repeat myself, I’m not going to do any better. It’ll probably be worse, and I feel like I shouldn’t be doing this shit in the first place. That plane may have saved me from letting this get too fucking far.
But Macy’s eyes are still killing me, and so in the end, I do the only thing a man in my position can do.
I storm off.
At least now I’m heading directly for the hotel and not aimlessly drifting down the fucking beach.
Maybe the only thing for me to do is go to my room, and what?
Pack? Leave? Run away?
Of course I’m not running away.
There’s a job which, in many ways, could be the most important of my career. If I see this production through, it’ll be a legendary fucking accomplishment.
If this were a honeymoon, even leaving for that could still be a problem.
But that’s one of the reasons I’m not on a honeymoon right now. This was supposed to be something with minimal stress, minimal drama, and minimal to no impact on life outside this fucking vacation.
And it’s still that—just a fling.
Just a bit of fun before going back to the real world.
In time, Macy will come around. She may not understand now, but she will.
When I get to the lobby, realizing I’ve been traveling much fucking faster than I thought I was, I hesitate. Now what?
The plan was to keep storming, like I stormed away from Macy on the beach, all the way up to the suite and slam the door behind me.
Yes, that was my fucking “plan,” as much sense as it fucking makes.
And I think I need a new plan, anyway. Once my feet are planted inside the hotel lobby, I’m suddenly paralyzed. My feet refuse to move, and my mind stopped working.
It’s like somebody’s finally hit the pause button, freezing time—except they were about a day late and chose the worst possible moment.
How fucking hard is it to go up to the room, pack my few bits and pieces, and get the fuck out?
Obviously, it’s too much for me to handle, since I’m still standing in the same spot I arrived at several minutes ago.
It’s only a matter of time until Macy catches up with me.
“Coward.” Well, wouldn’t you know it, she’s fucking behind me already. “Is that your fucking answer? To run away?”
Getting over my paralysis, I run my left hand through my hair.
It’s fucking futile, isn’t it?
“It’s complicated.” My voice is measured and calm, a separate entity from the chaos that’s taken over my insides.
“Isn’t everything? Newsflash: life’s complicated.”
It takes me a while to realize she said something.
And her words sink in slowly, and I turn around to face her.
“If you put it like that.” I sigh. “So, I’ve been contacted about this film. It’s not just any project. It’s super prestigious, but it’s riddled with problems and needs someone like me to pull it from the brink. A major studio head has been sending me fucking emails—like, typing them out himself. It’s a big deal.”
I stop to gauge her reaction. Poker-face herself gives nothing away.
“The movie has an absurdly high-wattage cast, a fucking wall of A-listers, and...”
This is the hard part.
No part of this should be hard.
But it is.
There are two pieces of information I need to get out. One of them’s probably no big deal, the other may be...problematic.
So I just say it all at fucking once.
“One of the actresses is Anna Bell. She used to be my fiancée.”
There it fucking is. No big deal, right?
“Your fiancée?”
None of this should be hard, or problematic, or a big deal.
But the way, Macy’s voice trembles, cracking slightly, makes it clear that all of the above have taken up residence in this situation, and I’ve just made things even worse.
Things may be out of anyone’s control now, but I can try to mitigate this somewhat.
“Look, it was some time ago. It was no big deal, and...” I stop.
The more I explain, the worse things seem to get.
“No big deal?” she spits, her words flying at me angrily. I can feel the air in the lobby growing increasingly uncomfortable. “No fucking big deal? You were engaged to...fuck, I didn’t know you were engaged.”
“I’m not anymore.”
“No? Is it ‘technically’ over?” There are those air quotes again.
“Over in every sense of the term.” It’s true. And to be fair, even with a fling, it’s understandable to want reassurance about that.
She doesn’t seem reassured.
“But you’re running back now. It must be pretty fucking important for you to cut your vacation short. Do you really expect me to believe it’s about your career?”
She can’t be serious—but she’s serious.
And I’m paralyzed again. All I can do is stare, confused.
It’s not just the press surrounding it—it’s the entire fucking industry that’s noxious and destructive. I can operate within it for work, but when it starts to follow me around the world, ruining a perfectly nice fling…
Honestly, it wasn’t just perfectly nice—it was fucking beautiful.
And it’s also my fault it’s ruined.
I never should’ve felt so compelled to explain. I should’ve thrown that poison as far the fuck away from the orbit of this vacation as possible.
It’s a fucking fling…nothing else.
But it’s too fucking late now, isn’t it? The only thing I can do now is stop things from getting any worse.
I walk away, without another word, toward the lobby doors.
I exit the lobby with the impulse to turn around, to explain to Macy that I haven’t even taken the job yet, that it really is over with Anna and will never, ever have any interest in rekindling that disaster of a flame...
No, this is bad. I’m getting just as intense as she is.
“Do you need help with anything, Mr. Michaelson?” Miguel asks as I walk by, even though he’s busy helping unload a mountain of luggage from a shuttle.
“I need a limo.”
“It’ll be there by the time you reach the main gate.”
“Thank you.” I’ll have to mail my big tip for Miguel and the rest of the staff.
I need to keep moving. If I stop, I might end up turning around and running back inside, back to Macy, to explain everything, to hold her, to tell her everything’s going to be okay.
To do everything I can in the world to make her feel better.
No, it’ll only make things worse.
The vacation fling is over.
Goodbye, farewell, amen.
End of story.