Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I turn to him. “If you want to get it, I can help you.” The breeze comes through, and I grab the sides of my sweater and wrap them around me. He smiles and shakes his head. “What?”
“You’re cold,” he says, shrugging his blue jacket off and putting it around my shoulders, just leaving him in a short-sleeved shirt. His musky smell now surrounds me.
“I’m not cold,” I tell him, and he rolls his eyes. “Rolling your eyes is rude. Don’t let them get stuck in your sockets,” I say, shoving him with my hand.
“I’m going to grab a sweater because I’m freezing.” He laughs when I gasp. “Kidding, but I am going to grab one and the script.”
“I’ll be right here,” I tell him, going to the huge couch.
“We should go and sit over there,” he says, pointing at a huge rock fireplace on the right side. I look over and see that two round couches are positioned in front of the fireplace.
“Okay,” I tell him, walking away. “I’ll be over there.” I walk toward the fireplace where a stack of wood is on the side. Upon closer inspection, I find a couple of pieces already piled inside the fireplace, so I look around until I spot a box of matches beside the wood. Lighting one, I toss it inside. I grab a cast-iron pick, squat down in front, and make sure the fire continues to burn.
“You started the fire.” I hear from behind me, turning and looking over my shoulder at him as he walks back down to me. He’s removed his baseball hat, but his glasses are on now.
“I did,” I tell him, getting up and putting back the pick and walking over to the couch with his jacket.
“I brought you some water,” he says, holding out a water bottle. I sit on the couch, crossing my legs under me, and grab it.
“Thank you.” I smile up at him and see he has the script folded under his arm. “So tell me, how is tomorrow going to work?”
“We have a call at six a.m., which means I usually have to be on set two hours earlier.” I open my eyes wide. “Good times, right?”
“Until what time?”
“Until the director thinks it’s all good. I haven’t worked with Ivan before, but from what I heard, he doesn’t like to dillydally. He wants shit done,” Carter says, sitting on the couch next to me. “Besides, I have a trailer you can hang out in and get some work done in private.” Great, I think to myself, that sounds like a great plan. He grabs his phone. “The car is picking us up tomorrow at four a.m.”
I nod my head, and for the next three hours, we run through his lines. He gets into his head, and his whole demeanor changes. He paces in front of me, back and forth, saying his lines over and over again. When he finally collapses on the couch next to me on his back, looking up at the sky, I laugh. “Did you always want to be an actor?” I ask him, and he looks over at me. He took off his glasses when we started running lines.
“No,” he says. “I wanted to be a cop or a fireman.” I laugh, and he chuckles. “But then Mickey Mouse had other plans for me.” His tone changes.
“Were your parents supportive?” I know right away it’s the wrong question when he sits up. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that,” I say softly and start to get up.
“No, it’s okay,” he says, and I look at him. He sits crouched over with his elbows on his knees and his hands together. “I was their walking-talking ATM.” The words make me stop. “When I was fifteen, I begged them to take a year off. I wanted to go to real school with real friends and join the basketball team,” he says and then tries to make a joke to take away from the way his voice changed. “I mean, not that I was any good, but you know.” I want to ask him what happened, but I don’t know if he will answer me. “I was told that school was for losers, and that everyone in that school would die to be me.” He shrugs. “So I never brought it up again. My parents actually bought a house and gutted it to make it into a school. The basement was the gym, the kitchen the cafeteria, and there were lockers across the living room, and the bedrooms were classrooms.”
“That is kind of cool,” I tell him, trying to focus on the positive efforts his parents made to make him feel somewhat normal.
“I guess, if that made them feel better because they took off for about four months, leaving me to fend for myself,” he says, and his eyes just stare at the fire. “I mean, at that point, I was kind of used to it. I think the producers of the show suspected it, but I always got myself to the set on time.” He shakes his head. “So I guess as long as the money was coming in, and I was well kept, they let it slide.” The burning in my stomach starts to build. “I think someone asked for my parents once or twice, and I made an excuse for them. Meanwhile, they were in fucking Fiji spending my money.” Oh. My. Fucking. God. I have no idea what to say, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I cross my legs and hold my chin in my hand.