It’s strange how much perspective can change in such a short amount of time.

I’ve wanted to be an actor for as long as I can remember, but somewhere along the way, I lost the spark. Between the cocaine binges and rocky relationships, between the stints at rehab and the paparazzi confrontations, between struggling with sobriety and facing notoriety, I forgot what it was I loved about it all.

And it’s funny that an almost six-year-old could remind me in just shy of two months.

I laugh, sitting on the steps of the Hair & Makeup trailer on set. It’s barely dawn, and everyone else is gathered in the caterer’s tent for breakfast, while I sit here, reading through Madison’s notebook. It’s funny, this story she came up with. It’s mostly pictures with just a few words and reads like a Scooby Doo crossover, a literal ghost mystery getting solved by Breezeo. Because he’s invisible, she says that means he ought to be able to hang out with ghosts. It’s common sense.

So at the end, Maryanne gets blown up in the warehouse.

BOOM.

It’s a happy ending, though, in a twisted way, because now she, too, is a ghost, and they live happily ever after, invisible together.

The logic of a child.

“Well, well, well... if it isn’t Johnny Cunning.” Jazz’s voice calls out as she approaches the trailer. “Talk about a sight for sore eyes.”

I glance at her, grinning, as I close the notebook. “Jazz.”

“Is that…?” She grabs her chest, feigning shock. “Is that a smile on your face?”

“Maybe,” I say. “What, can’t remember the last time you saw one of those?”

“Oh no, I remember,” she says. “Five years ago, your very first day on the set of Breezeo. Only time I saw you genuinely smile was the first time you put on the suit.”

I stare at her blankly. “Jesus, what did you do, write it on your calendar like an annual holiday?”

“Johnny Cunning isn’t always a dick day. We used to celebrate it with a bottle of hard liquor but now we just sleep all day and avoid being around assholes.”

“Sounds nice.”

She smiles. “So what’s got you grinning at six o’clock in the morning?”

I hold the notebook up. “Somebody wrote me a story.”

“Somebody, eh?” She shoos me away from the trailer steps so she can go inside, motioning for me to join her. “And who would that somebody be?”

“My daughter.”

“Your daughter,” she repeats, not sounding surprised. She pats a chair in front of her big mirror, wordlessly telling me to sit down. Hair, first, so Jazz leans against a vanity to watch as one of the hairstylists gets to work. “So it’s true? What Hollywood Chronicles said?”

“Doubtful,” I tell her. “Most of what they print is bullshit.”

They get to work, because well, they've got their work cut out for them this morning. I need a haircut as well as a shave, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg of how I’ve let myself go since the accident.

Haven’t been to a single acting class. Certainly haven’t gone on any auditions.

Can’t remember the last time I saw the inside of a gym, and I damn sure haven’t been sticking to the diet. Hell, I haven’t even spoken to my therapist.

“They said you met a girl at some prep school you went to,” Jazz says. “The two of you ran away together, and you were some sneaky little criminal until Mr. Caldwell discovered you.”

My brow furrows. “It said I was a criminal?”

“Well, in other words.” She laughs. “Said you were stealing to survive, which is unbelievable, since your family is loaded. But it said you got your big break and the girl, she got pregnant, but she resented your fame and left you without telling you about the baby, so you’re just now learning about your daughter.”

There’s so much wrong with what she just said that I’m not sure where to begin. My mind keeps going to the stealing—which, ironically, is the true part. But few people know that. I kept that secret tightly guarded out of fear that it proved I was the failure my father said I’d be. So who the fuck told them?

Jazz doesn’t wait for an explanation. I never give her one. So she looks damn surprised when I say, “I knew about my daughter.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And she didn’t resent the fame—she resented what fame turned me into.”

She stares at me. “So, wait, you knew you had a daughter?”

“Yes.”

“The whole time I’ve known you, you’ve been a father?”

“Yes.”

WHACK.

I flinch when she picks up a hairbrush and smacks me with it. “Jesus, Jazz, what the fuck?”

“Why in the hell were you wasting your life away with all those sleazes when you had a family you could’ve been with?”

I just blink at her.

I have no good answer.

“Unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head. “So, what’s your daughter like?”

“She’s smart. Creative. Funny. Beautiful. She’s a lot like her mother, actually.”

“Her mother, huh?” Jazz grins. “Hate to break it to you, but it sounds like you might be smitten.”

“No might about it,” I say. “I love her.”

Jazz gasps. WHACK. She smacks me again. “Shut your mouth!”

I don’t have a chance to respond before someone clears their throat, stepping into the trailer. I glance over, seeing Cliff. Jazz is suddenly on high alert, completely professional.

“Johnny,” Cliff says. “I’m glad to see you. You weren’t at the hotel this morning for pick up.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get to set early.”

“That’s good,” he says, an edge to his voice that tells me he doesn’t think it’s good at all. Any break in habit is concerning. “Just tell me next time.”

He lurks, lingering, taking a seat to do some work on his Blackberry, so Jazz doesn’t bring anything up again, everyone just doing their jobs.

“Well, would you look at that,” Jazz says after half an hour. “You look like Johnny Cunning again.”

I stare at my reflection.

“Wasn’t sure it would ever happen,” Cliff says. “He was becoming unrecognizable.”

People come in and out of the trailer, greeting me and welcoming me back, being overly friendly. I don’t mind it. It’s kind of nice, being back at it, especially once I put on the suit. The material feels tighter than usual, and wardrobe works hard to get it to look how it should. I stand there, surrounded by mirrors, and smile.

“Boy, if you keep making that face, it’s liable to get stuck,” Jazz says, spinning around in an office chair as she watches.

“Don’t you have work to do?” I ask her. “Someone else to be fixing up?”

“Nope, just you, superstar.”

At eight-thirty, I’m called to set. We’re filming inside today, so I don’t have to worry about the gathering crowd. Excitement stirs inside of me. I feel hopeful. On top of my fucking game. I’m ready to take on the world and conquer it… until the camera starts rolling.

It moves in a blur. We have a lot to cover. Jumping from scene to scene, from moment to moment, trying to get my head right and channel the emotions. I’m out of sorts, out of breath, completely exhausted by the time we wrap for the day.

“Get to the gym tonight,” Cliff says, walking beside me on the way back to wardrobe to take the suit off. “Build up that stamina, or you’re going to have the longest month of your life. It’s not going to get any easier.”

“I know,” I mutter, heading into the trailer.

It takes another hour before I’m back in my clothes, ready to leave, but I can’t because the director is requesting a meeting and a producer wants a quick word and my script needs altered after my schedule gets updated. The excitement is wearing off as the pressure mounts. I grab a muffin from the caterer before he can pack up, and endure a few dirty looks because I’m supposed to stay in tip-top shape and that doesn’t leave room for shit like carbs.

Cliff, meanwhile, is talking to PR, and I want to have a word with them myself, but they leave before I can.

“You ever tell anyone how you discovered me?” I ask Cliff when we head for the car. “You ever talk about it?”

“No,” he says. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it just came up.”

“What’s this about?” he asks.

“Chronicles mentioned something about me being a thief.”

He sighs loudly. “How many times do I have to tell you not to read that? You shouldn’t even be looking at it. Stop worrying about them.”

“I’m not worried,” I say. “I just found it strange they knew.”

“This industry springs more leaks than the Titanic. People like to talk. That’s why I push for the confidentiality agreements—so we can control the narrative as much as possible.”

“But not many people knew what I did back then,” I say. “Me. You. My therapist.”

“Your girlfriend,” he says, not even looking up from his Blackberry.

“I never told her.”

“Come on, you think she didn’t figure it out?”

“Even if she did, she wouldn’t have said anything,” I say, “and my therapist can’t.”

“Okay, then, they made a lucky guess,” he says, that edge back to his voice again. “They’ve accused you of a lot. Throw a bunch of darts and something is bound to stick. But I don’t know why you’re stressing. You have people for this. Let the grown ups handle it.”

Few things are more infuriating as a grown man than having someone tell me to let the grown ups handle things.

* * *

“Did you fuck up?” Jack’s voice sounds incredibly hopeful. “I bet you fucked it all up, didn’t you?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I tell him, “but even when I suck, I’m damn good.”

He snickers, not bothering to hold back. I realize how those words sound the moment I say them, and Jack being Jack isn’t going to let it slide. “Is that how you keep landing these roles? Blowing your way straight to stardom?”

“Fuck off.”

“You know, now that I think about it, you do talk about people riding your ass a lot.”

I laugh at that one, strolling through the hotel lobby, wearing an old white t-shirt and sweats, looking like I ought to be in bed. Wish I could, frankly. I tried calling Kennedy but got no answer, so instead I called Jack and well, you know how it is.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” I tell him. “At least I’m doing something.”

“I’ll have you know I’m doing something as we speak.”

“What? Whacking it to tentacle porn?”

“Christ, are you spying on me, man? How the hell did you know?”

“I figured it was either that or you were trolling dating sites using my picture.”

“Ha-ha, you’re the last person I’d use to pick up ladies,” he says. “I’m not sure how you even get them, running around looking like that.”

“Like what?”

“Sweatpants,” he says. “Pretty sure that t-shirt has holes in it. And those Nikes are filthy.”

Brow furrowed, I glance down at myself. “Are you spying on me?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes.” I look around the lobby, my gaze shifting outside the front doors, spotting him standing along the curb. He waves. “That’s creepy as hell, Jack.”

“Creepy is my middle name.”

Hanging up, I slip my phone in the pocket of my sweats before strolling out of the hotel, meeting him on the sidewalk.

I haven’t seen him in a while. We’ve only hung out in person a handful of times. Our lives are so different that the opportunity doesn’t happen often.

“Am I going to have to get a restraining order?”

“Probably,” he says. “I was in the neighborhood, knew you’d be here, so I thought maybe you’d want to do something.”

“Well, I was on my way to the gym, but any excuse not to work out tonight is good with me,” I say. “What do you have in mind? Video games? Fast food? I’m going to have to draw the line at prostitutes.”

He grins. “Something much more exciting.”

“What’s more exciting than that?”

A meeting, it turns out. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding. Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting in a dim basement, listening to another alcoholic’s sob story. They take turns sharing before the room goes quiet. An awkward silence. Those are a nightmare for an actor.

Fuck it.

I stand.

“My name’s Jonathan and I’m an alcoholic.”

They welcome me. Half of them probably recognize me, but I don’t care. As many of these as I’ve been to, this is the first time I’ve spoken, always too worried about my damn image.

So I tell my story, not sugarcoating. I tell them how much of a fuck-up I was. My daughter went the first few years of her life without a father because I chose it all over her. The drugs. The alcohol. The movies. The red carpets and the parties and the people I didn’t even like, but I humored them because they were famous.

The meeting ends a few minutes after I finish.

As we’re leaving, Jack turns to me and says, “So, how about a drink?”

I laugh, shoving him. “I don’t think I could’ve chosen a worse sponsor.”

“Yeah, you suck at making decisions.”

“I’m getting better, though.”

“Are you?”

My phone starts ringing. I glance at it. Kennedy.

“I’m gonna prove it right now,” I say, shaking the phone at him, “by choosing my family over a drink with your dumb ass.”

We go our separate ways as I answer the call. “Hello?”

“Hey, you,” Kennedy says, her voice quiet. “How was your day?”

“Long,” I say. “Yours?”

“It was okay,” she says. “Sorry I didn’t answer when you called earlier. I wanted to, but Maddie insisted I didn’t.”

My stomach drops. “Is she still mad?”

“No.” She sighs. “She heard Meghan say you should always play hard to get, because it’ll make a guy want you more if he has to wait. So she said not to answer yet and then you’ll love us even more.”

“Well, who can argue with that?”

“Right? Which means I can’t talk long. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I appreciate it,” I say. “I’m actually heading back to the hotel to get some sleep. Just got out of a meeting.”

“A meeting-meeting or like… a meeting?”

“Whichever of those is for alcoholics.”

“Ah, well, that’s good.” She pauses. “I’m gonna go before she catches me. Have a good night.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

I look up when I reach the hotel, pocketing the phone, my footsteps slowing when I see a handful of people lurking. They spot me, so I stop, signing some autographs and chatting, taking a few pictures before going inside.

Instinctively, I look around, always on alert. And for the second time in a week, I see a familiar face in the lobby bar.

This time, though, it’s Cliff.

He’s sitting alone at a small table with what looks like a glass of scotch. Never have I known Cliff to drink alcohol. I take a few steps that direction, curious, when a guy slips into the chair across from him and picks up the glass.

Something strikes me as familiar about him, but I’ve seen a lot of faces in my life, so it’s not always easy to place them. I watch for a moment, the two men casually chatting, before the guy downs the rest of the scotch and stands up to leave.

He makes it halfway through the lobby before his eyes flicker my way. He looks surprised to see me, which is funny, because in that moment I remember where I saw him.

He followed me that morning when I walked Madison to school. He works for Hollywood Chronicles.

The guy turns away and keeps on going, which makes this whole thing even funnier, because I’ve never known any of them to pass up the chance to provoke me.

* * *

“Hey, Daddy!”

Madison’s grinning face takes up my whole phone screen. Guess the self-imposed ‘make him wait’ strategy has been abandoned, considering she’s FaceTiming me at seven-thirty in the morning.

“Good morning, beautiful,” I say. “You getting ready for school?”

She nods, shaking the phone as she does. “I already got my clothes all on, and Mommy said we had some minutes, ‘cuz I got my backpack ready early.”

“So you decided to call?”

“Uh-huh, to remind you so you didn’t forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Me, duh.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, but I’m glad you called. I miss you.”

“Miss you,” she says. “Guess what! Yesterday it was Aunt Meghan’s birthday and Mommy got her cupcakes, but Aunt Meghan didn’t eat none, ‘cuz she says cake don’t like her thighs, but I dunno why. So we can have them all, and I saved one for you, but Mommy says it won’t be good in thirty days so I ate it.”

“You ate it.”

She nods. “For breakfast.”

I laugh, because I have no idea what to even say to that. Her eyes narrow, like she doesn’t know what I find so funny.

In the background, I hear Kennedy yelling, something about it being Tuesday.

“Uh-oh,” Madison says, her face flashing with panic seconds before she drops the phone to the floor and runs off.

I stare at a view of the ceiling. “Madison? Madison! Pick the phone back up!”

There’s a knock on my trailer door behind me. It opens without invitation. Cliff steps inside, looking at me incredulously. I’m sitting here with my feet propped up, relaxing.

“Wardrobe’s waiting,” he says. “You should be in costume.”

“Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You know, maybe if you hired a personal assistant…”

He finishes that sentence, saying something, but I don’t pay attention, because Madison returns. “Sorry, Daddy. I forgot it was Tuesday and I had to get some Show & Tell.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “What did you pick?”

“Guess!”

“Breezeo?”

“Nope!” She whips out her Maryanne doll to show me. “Ta-da!”

“Wow, something new, huh?”

“Yep,” she says.

“What made you switch?”

“I didn’t want Mommy to be sad, ‘cuz you’re gone, so she got to have my Breezeo for now. He’s in her bed, taking a nap!”

“Wow,” I say, trying not to laugh at the fact that she’s sleeping with a tiny doll version of me in my absence. “That was nice of you.”

Kennedy yells again in the background, asking Madison if she’s seen her phone.

“Uh-oh. Gotta go!”

She hangs up.

I shake my head, realizing Kennedy probably doesn’t even know she called me.

Getting up to go to wardrobe, I see Cliff still lurking.

He glances at his watch. “You’re due on set in fifteen minutes.”

Shit. I'm going to be late.