Today marks a year.
A year since that night you showed up drunk on the sidewalk in front of the white two-story house in Bennett Landing and asked the girl to run away with you, and she did. Your Dreamiversary, she calls it. The day you decided to follow your dreams.
But following dreams isn’t easy, especially dreams like yours. You live in a city where thousands of people are chasing that same dream, and a lot of them have a head start.
They tell you that you’ve gotten lucky so far, but you don’t feel it. You signed with a small agent, and your IMDb lists a few more minor roles, but ‘Heroin Dealer’ on CSI and ‘Guy #3’ on Criminal Minds isn’t who you’ve dreamed of being since you were a child, nor does it pay the bills.
The money ran out long ago. It didn’t even last three months. You’ve gotten a few odd jobs, but they always seem to get in the way of auditions, and every penny you manage to scrounge up disappears in a cloud of headshots and acting classes. So much has fallen onto her shoulders, but she doesn’t complain. Because every single night, you tell her you love her. She knows you care, and that was the only promise you ever made her.
“Happy Dreamiversary,” she says, popping up in the bedroom doorway of the tiny apartment. It’s late, maybe one in the morning. Everything about her screams exhaustion, because she just got home from pulling a double-shift waitressing at the all-night diner around the corner. “I have something for you.”
You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. You can’t sleep when she’s not here. She used to say you couldn’t sleep because the two of you only had an air mattress on the floor, but you got a real bed a month ago and nope.
Can't sleep.
Well, not unless you let alcohol do the work, but she doesn’t like that, so you take it easy. Not only does it upset her, finding you passed out, but it makes you an inconsiderate asshole to spend money you don’t have getting wasted.
You sit up, gazing at the girl through the dim bedroom lighting. Though, she’s not really a girl anymore. She’s wearing the little pink button-up dress that is her work uniform, a white apron tied around her slim waist. She’s lost weight lately, but she has more curves. She’s a woman, one with an apartment and a job. One with her hands behind her back, hiding something.
“What is it?” you ask, and she whips out a business card, waving it at you as she approaches. She climbs right onto the bed, on top of you, straddling your lap as she smiles.
You take the card, looking it at. Caldwell Talents. Clifford Caldwell. You know who he is. You’ve been told dozens of times this past year that if you want to be someone in Hollywood, he’s the man you need. But despite your best efforts, you can’t get anywhere near him. He sees people by appointment-only, and it’s Battle Royale trying to get one of those.
“You see the date and time written on the back?” she asks. “That’s your meeting with him.”
You look at her with shock. “How…?”
“He came into the diner tonight,” she says. “He was with some clients... that guy in that new dance movie? Step On In or something. And that guy from the vampire movies! And some girls, uh... oh, that model, the one that’s on all those billboards? The young blonde? Her name is like Markson or something? Selena, maybe?”
“Kennedy, baby, focus,” you say, laughing as she rambles on and on, your hands framing her face. “I don’t give a fuck about some model. How the hell did you snag an appointment?”
“Oh.” She blushes, grasping your wrists. “I kind of just asked.”
“You asked.”
“Well, I mean, I worked up to it. He wouldn’t even look at me at first, too busy on his phone, but I couldn’t let him leave without getting his attention. So I spilled his coffee.”
“You did what?”
“I didn’t spill it on him. Just on the table. And some of it on the model, but it wasn’t that hot, so whatever. She was mad, though. But anyway, when I was cleaning it up, Clifford put his phone down to look at me, so I went for it.”
“That’s when you asked?”
“What? No. That’s when I flirted my butt off.”
“You? You flirted?”
“Batted my eyelashes and everything. The whole damsel in distress act. Oh my god, Mr. Caldwell, sir, I’m so very sorry... I just get so frazzled sometimes around such powerful men. I can barely contain myself when it comes to an utterly brilliant mind and uh, stunning body of work.”
You laugh. “He believed that shit?”
“Yep.” She grins. “I swear, they stayed for like an hour after that. He kept striking up conversation, asking me questions about my life. I told him all about you, and wham-bam, appointment!”
“Wow,” you say, looking at the card again.
“Oh, I forgot the best part!” she says, shoving you back onto the bed, kissing you. “He left me a crazy big tip.”
“Hmm, how big?” you ask, grabbing her hips, grinding against her. “That big?”
“Bigger,” she says. “Much bigger.”
“Are you trying to make me jealous?”
“Is it working?”
She squeals as you flip her over, onto the bed, and settle right between her legs. You shove material around, and she gasps with the first thrust.
“You changed our lives tonight, baby,” you say. “Happy Dreamiversary.”
You don’t know this, but that woman? As you make love to her, whispering in her ear how much you love her, telling her with every thrust that things are going to be beautiful, she’s believing every single word. And she’s imagining it, how life is going to change, how so many doors are going to open for you. Your dreams are coming true. She lies there, with you on top of her, inside of her, and feels the weight on her easing for the first time in almost a year. Finally… finally… things are looking up. Finally, some good news.