The Backslide
Emma
It’s been three weeks since Damian broke up with me, and as funny as it might sound, I’m still not sure where I stand with him.
The breakup itself was a clear enough signal, but let’s just say there have been a few peculiarities to the situation that have kept the question alive.
“Good morning,” Damian says, and gives me a kiss on the forehead.
Yeah, like him being naked in my bed after spending the night.
“You know,” I tell him, “one of these days, you’re going to have to make an honest woman out of me.”
“I think it might be a little soon to talk about marriage,” he says.
“I’m not talking about marriage. I’m just saying that we’re technically still broken up,” I tell him. “Really, I don’t think I’m so much a dishonest woman as I am a confused woman.”
I reach under the covers and slide my hand down his body, between his legs.
“See?” I ask. “This sort of thing doesn’t usually happen with exes, so are we fuck buddies, are we in a relationship, what?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“You know,” I tell him. “I could be pretty pissed off that you broke up with me.”
“I didn’t break up with you,” he says. “Wait—yeah, I did. I really need that coffee.”
“Yeah,” I tell him, “you do.”
He’s still looking at me, though.
“You don’t expect me to make it for you, do you?” I ask.
“It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” he says.
“So, what,” I laugh, “every time you want me to do something, you’re not going to bother asking, you’re just going to give me the puppy dog eyes?”
“If it works,” he says. “If not, I’ve got backup plans.”
“Get your own coffee,” I tell him, and throw the covers over my head.
He’s still not moving.
I don’t really care whether or not he has coffee, but having been presented with the expectation of hot coffee in a pot, I’m starting to crave a cup myself.
I pull the covers back down and he’s just lying there, staring at me.
“What?” I ask. “I already told you I’m not making you coffee right now.”
“I just think you’re pretty, that’s all,” he says.
Pretty’s not a bad thing to be called, but it is a strange option considering all the alternatives.
“Thanks?” I ask.
“Seriously,” he says. “You could be a movie star or something.”
“You haven’t seen Battle for the Nexus, have you?” I ask.
He laughs. “I can’t say that I have,” he answers.
“I played Morgan Salazar, the sexy former Marine commander who succumbs to greed, lust for power, and the sheer temptations that come with wearing silk overcoats with nothing recognizable as a top underneath,” I tell him. “If that didn’t make me a movie star, I don’t know what possibly could.”
“It actually wasn’t that bad,” he says.
I turn my head to look at him.
“You actually saw that?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I’ve seen all your movies.”
“I’m sorry,” I answer. “I don’t know why that’s my go-to response when someone tells me they’ve seen all my movies.”
“Yeah, that’s a bit of a strange one,” he says. “Anyway, I really liked that speech you gave when you went from being Morgan Salazar to the Mistress of Temptation. It was very moving.”
“Yeah, I remember that scene. I believe I was talking to a group of half-man, half-assorted-sea-creatures at the time,” I tell him. “How inspiring could that possibly have been for you?”
“It was pretty good,” he says. “Solid inflection, didn’t overact on the more dramatic lines. I was really impressed.”
“Why would you even watch a movie like that?” I ask. “I haven’t even seen the completed version, and I was at the premiere. Of course, the premiere was held at a Bennigan’s off of I-5, and I spent most of my time hiding out in the bathroom.”
“You’re really that ashamed of your films?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I think I was at the time, but now that I’m starting to claw my way out of the absurdity of the low-budget scene, it doesn’t really seem that bad. They were terrible movies, but they got me here.”
“That’s what led you to my bed, huh?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him, and give him a playful punch in the chest. “That’s what led me to the world of legitimate film.”
“Where’s that?” Damian asks. “From what I’ve seen, legitimate films are like static on a radio: they’re always there, but nobody’s quite sure where they come from.”
“You tried really hard there, didn’t you?” I ask, and in a mocking voice, I add, “‘Legitimate films are like static, myeh.”
He opens his palms and looks up to the ceiling, saying, “She wonders why I broke up with her. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, fuck off and make me some coffee, will you?” I ask.
“Actually,” he says, “I’ve got a better idea.”
He smiles at me and turns his body toward me. I look into his eyes and say, “That’s your hand on my tit.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It seems like a better idea than coffee to me.”
“Your hand on my tit?” I ask.
“Why do you call them that?” he asks. “I thought most women hated that term?”
“What’s the difference?” I ask. “Am I talking about different things when I call it a boob instead of a breast or a tit instead of a mammary or a love pillow instead of a quivering alabaster orb?”
“Dude,” he says, “you just blew my mind.”
“Dude?” I ask. “So, are you going to just keep your hand there awhile or—”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Yeah?” I ask. “You’re just going to leave it sitting there motionless like a dried-up octopus with three limbs missing?”
“That paints a bit of a picture,” he says, “but I was thinking about starting with the hand on your alabaster orb and maybe, you know, seeing where things go from there.”
“Are you starting to think that maybe we should just stop talking?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers, and he leans over me to kiss my lips.
With one arm under my pillow and his other hand massaging my “tit,” Damian kisses my mouth and my jaw on his way to nibble on my ear.
His hand moves from my breast down between my legs and he parts my legs with his fingers, his hand moving over my core. I’m running my hands down his back as he gets me so wet, his fingers soft, but commanding.
I move my hands across his body and in between his legs to find him already hard and throbbing in my hand, and as I tug softly, he moves one, then two, fingers inside me.
My body’s churning with lust, and I’m not going to lie, a bit of confusion. This beautiful man massaging my G-spot still hasn’t reversed the breakup.
In practical terms, that doesn’t mean much, but it’s a level of uncertainty that I’d just as soon do without.
“What are we, Damian?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” he asks before kissing my breasts.
I’m a bit distracted at the moment, and I don’t really feel like explaining. “What are we?” I repeat.
He looks up at me, his fingers still inside, but still now. “You’re really into the labels, aren’t you?” he asks.
“It’s not so much that I care for labels,” I tell him. “I just want to know if this is going to end any day now, or if you’re looking to make it a more permanent thing.”
“Can’t we just,” he says and his fingers are moving again, “enjoy each other and worry about the rest of it later?”
I can certainly think of better times to have this conversation, but it’s getting in the way of my “enjoyment,” so I persist. “Someone asks me if I have a boyfriend, what do I say?” I ask. “I think we can make it that simple.”
“It’s not really my place to answer that question for you,” he says.
“Clumsy,” I tell him. “If someone asks you if you have a girlfriend, what do you say?” I ask.
His fingers stop again and he slides them out of me. “Nobody’s really asked,” he says.
“Hey, Damian, do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
“Now that was clumsy,” he says.
“If you don’t want to be in a relationship,” I tell him, “that’s fine. Really, I’m enjoying myself and if sex is all we’re going to have, I’m okay with that. But it would be good to know where I stand, or at least a general idea.”
He sighs and rolls onto his back.
“It’s complicated,” he says.
“Why’s it complicated?” I ask. “It’s a pretty simple question.”
“It’s not just about what I want,” he says. “It’s about whether or not my life is currently suited to accommodate a serious relationship.”
“You’ve had a little time to think about it, though,” I tell him. “Seriously, there’s no wrong answer here.”
Who am I kidding? Of course there’s a wrong answer.
“Danna has relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis,” he says. “I’ve been taking care of her for the last few years, even before she moved in and she just had an episode. Apart from my professional concerns, like finding a temporary agent that’s not going to screw me over and trying to keep my mind in the moment at work rather than worrying about her, she’s my sister and she’s not doing so well. I think that has to come first, doesn’t it?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “That should definitely come first. But does taking care of her mean that you can’t have a life of your own, too? I’m not trying to take you away from her at all. I’m just asking where you see me in your life.”
I’m starting to feel like I’m nagging him, and I don’t like that feeling.
Maybe it would be simpler if I just shut up and went with it. Sooner or later, it’ll be clear exactly what we’re doing, and in the meantime, I am enjoying myself.
Still, I wouldn’t be this persistent—it wouldn’t even be this strong on my mind if I weren’t already emotionally involved to the point where I really do need an answer if we’re going to keep going.
Maybe it would just be simpler if we just called the whole thing off.
“I’m going to go make some coffee,” he says.
“All right,” I tell him. “Make a full pot, will you?”
“Always do,” he says.
That seems a bit wasteful.
He’s out of bed and out of the room.
Well, that didn’t go the way I hoped it would.
I know what I’m doing right now. I’m pushing a wedge between us because I’m freaked out about actually getting close to him.
I think I would have been happy if he’d said we’re in a relationship, but with the uncertainty having gone on for weeks now, if he’s going to keep hedging his bets, I’m going to keep pushing him away.
That’s only fair, I think.
I get up and cocoon myself in my bathrobe. Damian is in the kitchen pouring water into the coffeemaker, and for a moment, it almost looks like a traditional, domestic scene.
I shudder.
“What are you doing today?” I ask.
“I’m working,” he says. “What are you doing today?”
“I’ve only got a couple of scenes today, so I’ve got a radio interview scheduled for later,” I tell him.
“Fun,” he says. “Fuck it up.”
“Why would you think I would I fuck it up?” I ask, ready to turn a bit of tension into a full-blown argument.
“Whoa,” he says, turning around with his hands up. “It’s the same thing as telling someone to break a leg before they go onstage. I forgot that I haven’t said that to you before.”
He’s suitably penitent that I let it go.
I actually kind of like that, telling a person to fuck it up before they have some kind of performance to give, and make no mistake: radio interviews are performances.
“All right,” I tell him. “You’re forgiven—but watch it.”
“All right,” he says, laughing, “all right.”
Things aren’t perfect. His mind is elsewhere a lot of the time, though his reasoning for that is sound enough. I don’t know if we’re friends or fuck buddies or lovers or on our way to a big wedding one day, but all in all, I’m happy with the way things are, and so I ask, “How’s the coffee coming?”
* * *
On the set, I’m starting to notice something odd.
When I come around a corner or out of a room, everyone seems to be staring at me, and as much as I’d love to chalk it up to the world-class performances I’ve been giving, day after day, almost without rest and yet always with perfect poise and all that, but I’m not that ego-blinded.
Despite the increase in attention, nobody’s coming up to me or talking to me. They’re just staring.
Staring.
I manage to ignore it long enough to go through most of the day—wardrobe, hair, and makeup followed by the scene where my character finds Damian’s character cooking naked in her kitchen with the exception of a single oven mitt. He actually did the scene totally nude even though they’re never going to show anything between his knees and his navel in the final cut of the film, bless him—before someone finally walks up to me, and as soon as she opens her mouth, I know what’s been going on all day.
“So, I don’t mean to pry or anything, but you just seem really nice and I don’t like knowing that something’s going on when it’s about you and you don’t know…” Tammy from wardrobe asks.
Yeah, she kind of trails off and doesn’t actually come to a single clear point, but judging by how uncomfortable she is talking to me, I’d say there’s really only one possible explanation, and she gives it.
“There’s a rumor,” she says. “It’s about you and, uh,” she looks around and then leans in close, “it’s about you and Damian,” she says.
“Really?” I ask, not sure whether to play it like I’m surprised or like I don’t have time for idle rumors, and so am using the word and its inflection in order to chastise her for paying mind to such childish games, so I end up about somewhere in the middle, and even I’m confused.
“Yeah,” she says. “They’re saying that the two of you have been arriving to work at the same time even though you’re driving in two separate cars. They say that’s because you’re spending the night together and, um,” she leans in close again, whispering, “They say that the two of you are having sex.”
I may be a little frustrated and more than a bit confused, but I know better than to confirm an on-set rumor about Damian and me. Even with Damian’s unwillingness to come to a decision aside, I’m not going to say anything.
I’d really rather not start looking like the chick that’s only here because she’s getting nailed by the lead.
“They say we’re having sex?” I ask.
“I thought you should know,” she says.
“If Damian and I arrive at the same time every once in a while, which, for the record, I don’t know that we do,” I tell her, “it’s because we’re both supposed to show up at the same time. I’ve shown up at the same time as you and we’re not having a torrid love affair, are we, Tammy?”
“Well, no…” she starts.
“So why is it that when you and I show up at the same time, it’s a coincidence, and yet when Damian and I show up at the same time, it’s got to be sex?” I ask.
That should do it.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t create the rumor. I just thought you should know what was being passed around and everything.”
“And I appreciate that,” I tell her, and take her by the arm. “Now, why don’t we both go to work and focus on things that actually have some bearing in reality? You know,” I tell her, “like acting.”
“Okay,” she says. “Thank you, and again, I’m sorry.”
She thanked me. That was weird.
“All right, you have a good day, Tammy,” I tell her, and release her arm.
She says something back that I couldn’t possibly care to hear, and I walk away.
I’m glad I got that nipped in the bud.
If there was going to be one big moment where Damian and I faced exposure, that was it, and I actually got her to thank me and apologize for even bringing it up.
Yeah, I’m good.
I’m in my trailer waiting for my next scene when Mick, one of the assistants to the director, knocks and lets himself in without waiting for me to answer.
Mick has boundary issues.
“Hey,” he says. “Dutch wanted me to let you know that Jones is running long on his scene and they don’t think they’re going to be able to get to you, so you can go home or whatever.”
Mick, along with having boundary issues, is a moron.
“Thanks, Mick,” I answer. “I’ll see myself out then.”
“It’s just for today,” he says. “I’m sure Dutch will do your scene tomorrow.”
“I’m not worried about it, Mi—”
“—or another scene,” he interrupts. “You know, I know sometimes they like to shoot scenes for a movie out of order and I didn’t want you to be concerned if the scene you did tomorrow was the one you were supposed to do today.”
I just look at him.
Someone pays this man money to do things. It’s incredible.
“Thanks, Mick,” I tell him. “You’ve put my mind at ease. I think I’ll be able to muddle through without undergoing too much psychological damage.”
One more thing about Mick is that he doesn’t understand sarcasm.
“Well, I certainly hope not,” he says. “Do you think that’s a possibility? I’m sure we could talk to Dutch and he could—”
“Mick,” I interrupt. “You’ve got to learn when people are joking. It’s becoming a problem.”
“Right,” he says. “So you’re going to be all right if your scene gets pushed to another day and you do a different scene tomorrow—not that that’s necessarily going to happen, but it is a possibility, and—”
“Bye, Mick,” I interrupt, and start gathering my things. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”
Again with the thanks.
“You’re welcome,” I answer, not knowing what else to say.
“So, I’ll go ahead and tell Dutch that you’re all good to go and that we don’t need to worry about a thing,” he says as he slowly makes his way out of my trailer.
“You probably don’t have to tell him anything,” I tell Mick. “I think he probably assumes that everything’s going to be okay.”
“All right,” Mick says. “Should I even tell him that we talked or—”
“It’s really simple,” I interrupt. “Go back to doing whatever you were doing before you were doing this, and if Dutch asks you if he talked to me, tell him you talked to me. If, for some reason that would absolutely baffle me and anyone else within earshot, he asks if I’m going to be all right not doing today’s scene today, you can tell him that I am perfectly fine and that it is no trouble whatsoever. Got it?”
“…no trouble whatsoever,” he repeats. The jackass is actually writing this down.
“Good boy,” I tell him, and send him on his way.
Looking at the time, it’s probably a good thing they’re not going to try to squeeze my scene in today. I still have my radio interview to do and I’ve got just enough time to get there a little early and chat with the DJ before the show.
Talking to the DJs can do a great many things for your performance during the interview. You learn little things that are on the interviewer’s mind, so you can often prepare your response a little, or if you come across as friendly, an otherwise hostile interviewer—and you’d never believe how many of those a person gets—might soften a little and ease up during the interview itself.
It’s just a good idea.
I get to the radio station and walk up to the front desk. The woman sitting on the other side is chewing gum and tapping the eraser end of a pencil against her forehead as she looks over a half-complete crossword puzzle.
I clear my throat and she doesn’t look up.
“Excuse me,” I start.
“Hold on,” she says. “I’ve almost got it.”
“Almost got what?” I ask.
“Hold on,” she repeats.
“Maybe I could help,” I start again.
“No,” she answers. “I don’t cheat at crossword puzzles. How insecure do you really think me to be?”
As she’s talking, I use her general indifference toward me to look over her shoulder at the puzzle.
“If you’re looking for four down,” I tell her, “it’s Cerberus.”
“See?” she asks, slamming the crossword book on her desk and the pencil after it, “I tell you to hold on, I tell you that I want to do this thing on my own, and now I can’t even look at that puzzle until I’ve forgotten that I’ve met you.” She looks me up and down. “And that might take me all day.”
Cheeky.
“I’m Emma Roxy,” I tell her. “I’ve got an interview in about 20 minutes.”
“So, you’re one of those punctual, anal types, huh?” she asks. “I bet you love being dominated. People like you always want to be dominated in a sexual situation.”
“Because I show up for an interview early?” I ask.
“Because you blabbed the answer I was looking for and ruined my whole afternoon crossword break,” she says.
“I don’t understand,” I tell her.
She looks me up and down again and says, “Yeah, you don’t.”
Is there something particularly offensive or threatening about my general appearance right now, or is this woman just a snotty bitch?
“So, are you that chick who knitted seat covers for all the firehouses or what?” the snotty bitch asks.
“I’m an actor,” I tell her.
“I didn’t know we were having a waitress on the show today,” she says.
“No,” I tell her. “I’m a real actor. It’s my job. I go to work at a movie set and have cameras filming me.”
“Well, isn’t that just splendid for you,” she says. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a porn star.”
“Look, I really don’t have the time to stand here and argue—” I start.
“Yeah you do,” she snorts. “You got here 20 minutes early.”
I might just have to smack the shit out of this chick.
“Could you just let him know that I’m here?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll tell him.” She picks up the phone and dials a number. “Yeah, Denise, when he goes on commercial, could you do him a favor and tell him that his porn chick interview is here and she’s chomping at the bit?”
What the hell is her problem?
“Yeah, thanks,” she says into the phone and shakes her mouse, turning on her computer screen to show yet another crossword puzzle. She hangs up the phone. “Yeah,” she says, staring at the screen, “someone will send you in in a little bit.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, but I don’t think she fully appreciates the level of sarcasm in my tone.
I try to get a closer look at her computer screen so I can ruin another answer or two for her, but she manages to turn off the screen before I can see anything clearly enough to read.
“Have a seat,” she says in a less than pleasant tone. “You’ll be on in a few minutes.”
I’d love to continue to focus on my annoyance at this rude human being, but my phone starts to ring.
“Hello?” I answer, again making the rookie mistake of not looking at who’s calling.
“Hey, I’m going to need 50,000,” Ben says. “I’m going to need it by tomorrow.”
I may have switched my focus, but annoyance may have played a fair part in my immediate response. “You’re out of your goddamned mind,” I tell him. “First off, you said you were going to stop calling me, and now you’re telling me that you need fucking 50,000 by tomorrow? You can go fuck yourself, you little piece of shit!”
“If that’s the way it’s going to be,” Ben starts.
“You said you weren’t going to raise the payments anymore,” I tell him, switching from antagonism as a tactic to guilt. “I don’t know when you’re going to call and you say you need it by tomorrow; things are pretty crazy around here, you know.”
“Yeah,” he says, “you see, the problem is that absolutely none of that is my problem. So, you figure out whatever you need to figure out, but I want that money in my account before midnight tomorrow night.”
I take a deep breath.
It was never the nudity that I had the problem with, really. I mean, I would certainly like to have control over how much of my body is available for the public viewing consumption, but I’m sure I’m going to have at least a couple of nude scenes during my career. It’s not the same thing, I know, but that part wouldn’t be the end of the world.
The problem I have is apparent because I’m naked, but it’s not the nakedness itself.
“Fine,” I tell him. “But you’ve got to promise me this is the last time we do this.”
“Whatever,” he says. “Just make sure it’s in my account by midnight tomorrow night or those pictures of yours are going to be the only thing trending anywhere.”
“I’ll get it done,” I tell him. “Just back off a little now, will you?”
“Bye, sweetie,” he says condescendingly. “Have a good day at work.”
He hangs up.
“Fucking stupid bitch bastard piece of fucking garbage…” I realize that woman’s still sitting there at her desk, only now she’s looking at me with her chin reaching for her knees. “Sorry,” I tell her. “You can call that the bad side of this business.”
“I guess,” she says. “What was that about? Is everything all right?”
Yeah, now she gives a shit.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Hey, I was wondering if there was any chance I might be able to pop in there a little early and maybe chat with Tag Strawman—” yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s a pseudonym, “—during the commercial break.”
“Yeah,” she says, picking up her phone quickly. “That’s not a problem at all.”
I would have imagined that hearing only one side of that conversation would have shown me to be the victim just about as well as hearing the whole conversation would have, but the way she’s acting, it almost seems like she thinks I’m the aggressor.
That nice dose of fear really got her moving, though.
“You can head on back,” she says. “Here, let me walk you there.”
While I ponder how she could have heard any of what I was saying and find me suddenly intimidating, I follow the woman back to the studio. She doesn’t even wait for the on air light to be off before she opens the door to the studio.
“…and hey, look who just came into the studio. It’s the star of what promises to be the hottest summer movie of the year, Emma Roxy. It’s good to have you in the studio,” he says. “How are you doing?”
Shit, I think I just talked my way into starting the interview early. There goes my prep.
“I’m doing great,” I tell him. “I’m glad to be here.”
“I was just talking about how actors in the movie industry genuinely do have things pretty rough in some ways,” he says. “You can’t go out of your house without someone stopping you for an autograph—I mean, that’s never happened to me, but I’ve heard that it’s just irritating.”
“It’s not so bad,” I tell him.
“Then you’re not that famous,” he says. “I’m tellin’ ya.”
Funny guy.
“So, have you had that experience yet where you’re out on the town and someone just really starts to bug you—like what’s your thing, what’s the craziest thing that’s happened to you because so many people know who you are now. I mean, you’re still just starting out, have you had that—or there’s something personal about your life you never thought would get out, or…?” He leaves off with the word “or,” so it takes me a couple of seconds to realize that he’s done asking his question.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “There hasn’t been a whole lot of that sort of thing for me yet. Most of the people that I meet are just really nice people who think it’s cool to meet someone they’ve been hearing about, you know. It’s really, very flattering, very humbling.”
“Didn’t you just kind of contradict yourself there?” he asks. “Flattering builds you up, being humble means to recognize your lowness.”
“Well, it’s kind of both,” I tell him. “It’s flattering that people see me and want to talk to me or wave to me when they pass me on the street or whatever, but it’s also humbling because I’m just a redheaded chick from the Midwest, you know. If anything,” I tell him, “I guess it’s been kind of surreal.”
“Well, that’s good,” he says. “Hang onto that. A lot of the people I talk to come in here and they’re talking about fans that are showing up on their doorstep or doing all these crazy things—I talked to Aaron Wills a while ago and he said there was a huge fallout on his social media when he announced that he preferred Chinese food to American food. It’s so crazy. People were talking about boycotting his work and all this.”
“It’s weird what people choose to care about,” I tell him. “If anything, that’s what I’ve noticed. Things that wouldn’t even be a big deal if it was just someone you knew, but if it’s happening to this celebrity or that, it seems like that can sometimes get a little out of hand.”
“It sounds like you’re talking from experience there,” he says.
“Not really,” I tell him. “Like I said, most of the people I’ve met have been—”
“Notice how she says most of the people there?” Tag asks the unseen masses.
“—they’ve been really great,” I finish.
“I see,” he says. “So what’s it like working on this film? I know you’re no stranger to the busy side of film, but this really is kind of a breakthrough role, isn’t it?”
“Well, I think I’m going to wait until the movie’s out and people see it to decide whether it’s my breakout role or not,” I tell him. “But yeah, it is a different ballgame. There are some similarities, but a lot of differences.”
“Has it been difficult to adjust?” Tag asks.
“Not really,” I tell him. “Damian kind of found me the first day and he offered to be my mentor, so that was pretty cool.”
“That’s Damian Jones?” he asks. “He offered to be your mentor, huh?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “To be honest, I thought he was a bit full of himself at the time, but getting to know him, he’s a really great guy.”
“So you’d say you have a good relationship with Damian Jones on and off the screen,” he says.
“That’s a great question,” I tell Tag. “You should ask him, because I have no idea what kind of relationship we…”
With absolutely no illusion that the on air light is off, I still look up at it.
When I look back, Tag is sitting there looking like he just won the lottery.
“So maybe it’s a little more than just an offscreen friendship?” Tag asks.
Oh shit. I didn’t want this to get out, and I know this isn’t going to help Damian decide anything positive about our relationship.
Maybe I can walk it back.
“No, just,” I start, “we tease each other a lot on set and so it’s hard to know if he’s going to be serious Damian or funny Damian or…”
“Yeah, but that’s not what you said,” Tag responds.
I’m really starting to hate this guy.
“I said that I don’t know what kind of relationship we have,” I try again, “because you never know which Damian you’re going to get on a given day. Sometimes he’s himself and he’s playing around, other times, he’s in character mode, you know.”
“How long has this been going on?” he asks, “your relationship with Damian Jones.”
“Our relationship—our friendship started not too long after we started filming. The whole cast, really are great—”
He interrupts, “So you’re going to deny that there’s any kind of sexual relationship between you and Damian Jones, right here in front of thousands of listeners.”
It really doesn’t sound like a question.
“We’re coworkers,” I tell Tag. “We get along; that’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, hopefully we can get Damian Jones in here one day to see if he’ll tell us a little more about this relationship the two of you have. Until then, we’ve got to take a quick commercial break. I’m talking with Emma Roxy, star of the new film with her possible lover, Damian Jones. When we get back, we’ll see if we can get Emma to open up a little bit more about her relationship with Damian Jones. This is KTNA,” he says.
The interview was supposed to go from 4 o’clock to 4:15, but I got in this room at 3:50 and it looks like he’s going to keep me for the whole fucking set. Being early has just bought me 10 more minutes dodging questions about my relationship with Damian.
I don’t want people to think that I’m only in this movie because I’m sleeping with Damian, but even more than that, I don’t want to feel like that’s the only reason I am where I am, and it’s really starting to get harder and harder to avoid.
“Well, that was a segment for the archives,” he says. “I’m sorry I pestered you so much there, but you’ve got to understand what that kind of insight is when you do what I do. I couldn’t just let it slide.”
“I didn’t even say anything,” I tell him. “I didn’t even get to finish my sentence and then you saw whatever you wanted to see in what little you didn’t interrupt.”
I’m hoping that’s going to work.
“Yeah, well, either way,” he says, “we’ve already brought up the topic, and I don’t know if you can see these flashing lights from where you are, but that is every line to the radio station in use, and I’m willing to bet that every single one of them is calling to ask you about your relationship with Damian Jones.”
“I’m done talking about it,” I tell him. “If you ask me any more about it, I’m not going to answer.”
Maybe I should have threatened to walk out, but I’m still hoping to do a little damage control and I can’t do that if I make the threat too much to follow through with.
“I won’t ask about it again,” he says.
I should know that’s not the end of it, but stupid me, I just say, “Thank you.”
The commercial ends and Tag gets back on the microphone. “And we’re back with Emma Roxy. Now we’re going to go to the phones and get some of your questions for our guest.”
I really should have seen that coming.
“It looks like we’ve got Marley from Las Cruces on the phone. Hi, Marley. What’s your question for Emma Roxy?” he asks.
What an asshole.
“Yeah,” Marley from Las Cruces says, “I was calling about that thing you said about you and Damian. Like, is he a good kisser?”
This is going to suck.
I get through the interview all right, I guess, but every single question is about Damian. It wasn’t even that bad a slip of the tongue, but when people are already looking for something, they have a tendency to find it pretty quick.
Once the interview’s over and we’re back at commercial, Tag claps his hands and says, “That was great. I bet that’s the best ratings we get all month.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I tell him, and walk out of the room.
Maybe I should be a little less obvious in regard to how pissed I am at this fuckhead right now because there’s a good chance he tells his listeners if I’m not, but I really just want to get the hell out of here and it needs to happen right now.
When I finally get home, I gather my courage and look at my phone.
Forty-seven missed calls.
For a period lasting no longer than an hour, that’s a personal record for me.
I look through the missed calls for one name in particular, but it’s heartwarming to know that so many people I know were listening in. Really, that’s what I’m taking out of this.
I’m not being sarcastic.
Seriously.
Right, well, bullshit aside, I find the name that I was looking for and I press the screen to call him back.
“Hey, so we’re coming out of the relationship closet, huh?” Damian asks as he answers the phone.
“I’m sorry about that,” I tell him. “I said one stupid thing and then the DJ wouldn’t let go of it and the callers just made it worse. I really am sorry, I didn’t mean for it to go that way.”
“It had to happen sooner or later,” he says. “I bungled the fuck out of a scene today, and afterward, Tammy came up to me to inform me there’s a rumor going around about us.”
“Yeah, she told me about that too,” I say.
“Yeah, so all things considered, I guess it was inevitable. Still, it would have been nice if we’d actually gotten to make that decision ourselves, but I can think of worse things than being in a relationship with you,” he says.
There’s a knock on my door.
“I’m actually kind of surprised to hear that,” I tell him as I get up from my chair and walk toward the entryway. “This morning, it didn’t seem like you were open to any kind of discussion, much less a solid decision.”
“I guess I just needed a little push,” he says. “But you know about Danna and you know that there are going to be times when I’m going to have to be with her and help her and stuff, so really, we may as well have come out with this already.”
Okay, that’s a little irritating.
“I really wish we could have gotten this far this morning,” I tell him, and unlock the deadbolt. “If we’d come to some sort of understanding, Tammy’s gossip thing probably wouldn’t have been on my mind so much and I wouldn’t have been so irritated with the girl at the desk and… I would… Damian, I’m going to have to call you back,” I tell him, and hang up the phone.
“Want me to come over?” he asks. “You’re probably in for a shitstorm.”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I think you’re right about that.”
I’ve opened the door, and standing on the other side waiting for me to answer is the last person in the world that I want to see.
No, it’s not Ben.
It’s my father.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I told you that I didn’t want to see you again.”
“Now is that any way to greet your old man,” he says, stinking of the same cheap whiskey he used to drink when I was growing up.
“You didn’t drive, did you?” I ask.
“No,” he says, “took a cab. People around here drive like they’re taking acid or promethazine or something.”
“Promethazine?” I ask. “I think that’s an allergy pill.”
“Whatever,” he says. “Whatever they’re on, they’re on something.”
“Well, that’s great and it’s been a lovely chat, but I think it’s time you got back on the road now,” I tell him. “You don’t want to run into traffic.”
I wouldn’t mind it if traffic were to run over him, but that wish doesn’t get answered.
I’ve tried.
“Listen,” he says, “I know you and I’ve had our bad times, and I know I had somethin’ to do with that, but I always taught you that family comes first, now didn’t I?”
“What do you want, Dad?” I ask.
“See, that’s the thing,” he says. “I’ve been doin’ real well at the factory lately—even got a promotion. Thing is, Jandi–” that would be the evil stepmother if we’re going to use such terms, “—needed this new car for work, and I didn’t know she was going to go for the shorter financing period and we just got into this new place and the mortgage payment’s been out of control, and well, things are gettin’ a little tight.”
“You came all the way out here to ask me for money because you and your wife can’t budget?” I ask. “Get the hell off my property,” I tell him.
“Look, now we ain’t always gonna have each other,” he says. “A dad and a daughter have a special kind of bond, and I want you to know that I’ve been seeing a therapist, and he’s really helped me see where I’ve gone wrong in the past—”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I interrupt. “Now, get the hell off of my property and do not come back.”
“I’ll go,” he chuckles. “I just figured that maybe after all these years, you’d’ve learned that family still means somethin’ to some people. With that rich boyfriend ya got, I bet you’re just cleanin’—”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “You heard that thing on the radio?”
“Nah,” he says. “I heard that on the cab ride from the airport. Handsome fella, ain’t he. Don’t seem too bright, though.”
“You know,” I sigh, “for someone who says things like ‘don’t seem too bright,’ you’d think your gauge of another person’s intelligence would be a bit more modest.”
“I’ll be at the Steam Hills Motel if ya wanna get in touch,” he says. “I got the room all week.”
“Funny how you have the money to travel across the country to beg me for more money, but you don’t have enough to take care of your own bills,” I scoff.
“Just missed it by a hair,” he says, and he walks off into the night.
I go back inside and lock the door.
This has got to be the most fucked up, surreal day of my life.
When Damian shows up, I’ve already forgotten that he was coming over.
“Hey,” I mutter, answering the door.
“Hey,” he says. “Are you all right? You sounded a bit wound up over the phone.”
“You could say that,” I tell him.
I go on to tell him how my dad showed up asking for money and how he’s staying at the Steam Hills Motel.
“You know,” he says, “I don’t know about the money and all that, but it might be a nice gesture to have him stay at your place while he’s in town.”
“That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” I snap.
“Easy there,” he says. “I’m just saying, you know, he came all this way. It might be nice to have family stay with you for a little bit.”
“That’s not an option,” I tell him. “No way am I going to let that happen.”
“I take it you and your dad don’t get along so well, huh?” he asks.
“Brilliant deduction, Inspector Jones,” I answer.
“Well, there’s always time to fix that,” he says.
“I don’t want to fix it,” I tell him. “It’s been broken for a very long time and that is exactly how I like it.”
“You know, I’ve been seeing my ex-former-almost-father-in-law,” he says. “Ever since I met the guy, he has hated me. Well, it’s not perfect or anything, but we’re actually making some progress. I mean, we’re in the same room and we’re making small talk. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.”
“Could you let this drop?” I ask. “I’m not looking for a happy reunion with my father. That’s the end of the story.”
“Okay,” he says. “Why?”
“It’s not really any of your business,” I tell him.
“Haven’t you been listening to the radio?” he asks. “Apparently, I’m your boyfriend.”
“Oh, will you just stop it with that?” I snap. “I know that I screwed up and I know you wanted to spend however long avoiding that particular decision, but it happened, I can’t change it, and let’s talk about something else. Clear?”
“What is with you today?” he asks. “I know you’re stressed, but jeez—”
“I shouldn’t have had you come over,” I tell him. “I’m really not in the mood to see anybody and it’s not your fault, but I think you should probably just go.”
He crosses his arms.
“So you’re kicking me out, huh?” he asks.
“If that’s how you need to take it then yes, I guess I am kicking you out,” I tell him.
“You know,” he says, “I came over here because I thought you might like to talk about what happened today. I’ve seen this kind of thing happen before, and I wanted you to know that I’d stand with you over the next few weeks while the story goes through the papers and all that.”
“That is very sweet of you to come to me in my time of tabloid nightmare, but I really think I’ve got this handled for tonight, so I’ll talk to you later,” I tell him.
“What did he do to you?” Damian asks.
I cross my own arms.
“I thought we were changing the subject to me kicking you out,” I tell him.
“Seriously,” Damian says, “what happened that made you hate the guy so much? I’m sure he deserves it, but what could he have done to bring out this anger in you?”
“Could I possibly make it any clearer that I don’t want to talk about this?” I ask.
“I just think it might help if you get it off your chest,” he says. “I know that when something’s really bothering me—”
“My dad was a fucking child abuser!” I yell.
Damian’s quiet a moment.
“You mean like—” he starts.
“No,” I tell him, “nothing sexual, nothing like that. He never even touched me. It was my brothers that got the beatings. Me, he’d just lock me in my room all day and any time he would let me out, he would constantly tell me what a useless little girl I was. My brothers, though…”
“I’m sorry,” Damian says in a solemn tone.
“Yeah,” I tell him, “so am I. Maybe you understand, maybe you don’t, but I don’t want him anywhere near my home. And with Ben today and the picture and those bruises…” I trail off, sucked into the numbing vortex that is my personal hell.
“Bruises?” Damian asks.
I come out of it quick enough.
“We’ve both had a long day and I think we’ve talked enough,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, but I really don’t want to talk about any of that right now. You’re welcome to stay if you can live with that.”
“Well, as your boyfriend—” he starts.
“Get out,” I interrupt.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can absolutely live with that.”
I give him a good once-over, looking for any tells, but I’m not seeing any.
My dad doesn’t want money; he wants to reassert his dominance now that it’s starting to look like I might not be such a failure. Damian’s making progress with his ex-not-quite-or-almost-father-in-law or whatever, and that’s great.
Good for him.
I just don’t need someone like Shane Roxy—surprised that’s my real name? —anywhere near my life.