The Uber driver slams the breaks on, throwing me against the seat. “Jesus Christ! Are you sure you have a license?” I’ve been in the car with him for over an hour, and I’ve thought I was going to die at least ten times so far.
“Atlanta traffic is terrible thing. Hard to drive in. Yes.”
He jerks the wheel and flies across two lanes of traffic to get to the exit ramp. I should be at the airport right now, but instead, I bought a ticket to watch a filming of Disaster, the show Jemma’s on and this crazy-ass man is driving me to the studio. The breaks and tires scream when he slams to a stop.
“Dis da studio. I take you no farther. You must go alone from here on, me amigo.”
What the fuck is this, a secret mission? This dude is weird as fuck and smells like a can of tuna. I grab my bag, dig through my pocket and hand him the fare.
“Bless you, mi amigo. Godspeed.”
“Uh, yeah…” I climb out of the car and haven’t even shut the door when he swerves off, laying on his horn as he weaves in and out of traffic.
I stare at the name on the side of the building: Treewood Studios. I’m still not even sure what the fuck I’m doing here. The thing is, for the past two months all I’ve done is think about her, then last week that fucking TV show aired and of course I watched it. She said the thing that bothered her most when we split up four years ago was that I didn’t fight for us, well, fuck, she can’t say that this time. Am I expecting anything? No, but damn it, at least this time I can say I tried. Nothing like beating a dead horse.
There’s a line wrapping around the side of the building, and I stand at the back of it for thirty minutes before they let us in.
There’s an androgynous security guard standing by the turnstile. As I start through the gate, it stops me.
“You can’t take that bag in, sweetheart.” The voice is a little husky, but I think it’s a woman. My gaze drifts down, trying to make out if that’s a pair of tits or not. “Eyes up here, hot stuff.”
I clear my throat and lift my gaze to the guard’s face. “I’m catching a flight afterwards,” I say.
“Sorry.” He-she shrugs. “I can hold it for you.”
Pulling the strap over my head, I hand it the bag. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
A wide grin spreads across the she-beast’s face. “Anything for you, Mr. Depth.” I think it’s a woman. I think. It takes my hand, stamps my wrist, and then winks which causes my skin to crawl a little. I make my way inside and find my seat in the third row of bleachers. I’m impressed with how large this fucking studio is. There're several different sets arranged within the room and monitors in front of the bleachers every few feet.
The auditorium slowly fills up, the hum of the audience echoing from the tall ceilings. There’s a small round of applause, and I turn my attention toward the set. Some dopey looking guy struts across the stage and clears his throat.
“Good afternoon. First and foremost, thank you for coming to watch a live filming of Disaster. What we want to do now is introduce you to the cast.”
He steps to the side and holds out an arm. “Greyson Williams,” he says and the women in the crowd go fucking ape shit. I glare at that little fucker. It’s been all over the tabloids that they may be a couple, but there is no way in hell Jemma would go for a douche canoe like that. “Please welcome the lovely Jemma Morgan.”
I watch as she walks across the stage with a huge smile spread across her face. She’s wearing a pale blue linen dress and her dark hair’s falling down her back in loose curls. Another cast member walks out, but I don’t even hear her name because I’m too busy staring at Jemma. The girl says something to her, and Jemma throws her head back laughing. Fuck me, she is perfect. I shout along with the rest of the audience. I’m busting at the fucking seams. I’m so proud of my titch.
I sit there for the few hours it takes to film the episode, watching her, wanting her, fucking hating that shit has turned out the way it has. When the show is over, the coordinator lines the cast up right in front of where I am sitting. Jemma’s eyes lock on mine for a brief second. Her face washes white. I’m afraid she’s going to hit the floor any minute. After the cast has been led off stage, everyone in the auditorium stands and begins filing out—except me. I just stay right here. I don’t know what the fuck to do. I texted her after she left—only twice—but she never responded so I don’t even know if she has the same number. Sighing, I pull my phone from my pocket, pull her number up in the directory, and send her a text.