A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (30 page)

“And that’s a wrap!” the director crows. “Done on time, ready for editing, and no overtime.”

Everyone on set cheers. We’ve still got more than a day before the episode is due, but I know the editors are going to be pulling some long hours. Someone hands me the script for the next episode and I glance at the first page.

Jess and Garrett begin this episode in bed, and it looks like there will be several days when I have to go commando into work.

Kevin looks up from his copy with an expression like he’s just sucked a lemon. “We can’t do this,” he says.

“Millions of dollars of studio money says we have to,” I reply.

“So do you have principles, or do you just care about the money?”

“I care about not screwing over everyone else.” I gesture around the set.

He lifts an eyebrow, and I might be imagining it, but I think I see a glint of comprehension and respect in his eyes.

The next morning, when I arrive at work, the network execs are there in the warehouse with scowls on their faces. Kevin is already there, standing with one of the producers. I jog in and try not to bounce too much. I
hate
not having a bra on. I feel so naked.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” the network exec announces. “We’ve got numbers. Less than half a million viewers for the last episode.”

I can’t say I blame the viewers, and given the look Kevin exchanges with me, he can’t either.

“So we’re done,” he continues. “We’re pulling the show.”

And there goes my career,
I think. Everyone will know
not
to invest millions in me. I’m not good for it.

A gentle punch in the shoulder startles me, and I turn to see that it’s Kevin. “Kid,” he says, “no one coulda asked for more from you.”

“I thought you said I couldn’t act,” I retort. Okay, so I’m a little sore.

“Acting wasn’t what they were after from you, and…I learned a few things. Television—it’s more intimate. Everything they said in school about it drawing the viewer in rather than the actor projecting out? You know how to do that better than I gave you credit for.”

I blink in surprise at this unexpected compliment. I’ve felt so raw, exposed, and unfocused during this entire show that I know my performance wasn’t all it could have been. Having said that, my years of experience must have counted for something. Few people have spent as much time acting on television as I have.

“Well,” I say. “For a first kiss, you weren’t too bad yourself.”

“Oh, you’re kidding?”

“You could probably tell.”

“Kid, I mean this in the nicest possible way. Go get a life already. Consider this the best thing that ever happened to you.” He raises his sides in a mock salute and saunters on out of the warehouse.

My makeup artist pats me on the arm. “It’s been great working with you,” she says. “I mean that.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Everyone’s putting things away and making their escape. We aren’t a cohesive team anymore. People scatter like a jar of marbles hitting a concrete floor. The catering crew is loading up their truck. The grips all pack away their equipment. The DP is on the phone, likely with another job offer, and wardrobe are rolling racks of clothing out of the warehouse.

The show is well and truly over.

“Y
OU DID LAND
that record deal, remember?” says Julian the next day at that greenhouse/restaurant he loves so much. “That’s what you’ll work on next. Finish your album and launch it. The timing works out well, actually.”

“I understand if you want to drop me,” I say. “There are other stars with more potential.”

He furrows his brow and is silent for a long moment. Then, with one hand, he reaches up and takes off his mirrored shades to reveal milky-brown eyes that squint in the light.

“Listen to me. I’m the one who judges potential. That’s how I pick my clients.”

“Right.”

“And, girl, I am not giving up on you yet.”

“Well…thanks.”

He replaces his sunglasses. “We’re going to finish your album and send you on tour. Not a big arena tour like you’re used to as Veronica Pryce. You’ll be playing at some casinos on reservations, some small clubs, that sort of thing.”

“Fine by me.”

“But you’re going to move forward on this. We’ll release your first single in a few weeks, and you will support it.”

“Yes, I will. Tell me where to go and what to do.”

He chuckles. “See? You know why I put my money on you?”

“Why?”

“Because you can survive anything and keep on working. Never seen resilience like yours.”

Resilience
, I think,
or just me having no life?

Less than a month later, I perform
Waiting to Get Over You
on
Good Morning America,
which is a coup. My publicist literally pulled off a miracle…two weeks before the album is ready for release. Julian and Delia are
furious
with my record label, who with this delay might have tanked any chance this album will ever have. I’ve decided to let my people feel all the rage for me. I have a chance to sing on a national stage and I’m gonna make the best of it.

While I felt the melancholy sense of longing when I recorded the lyrics in the first place, how things have changed. I stand on the stage and stare straight forward, doing my darndest to get through this song that reminds me of lying in the arms of a guy I still love while he says that he doesn’t know what to do with me. My voice takes on a husky quality, and I feel the gathered crowd respond. There is absolute silence even though I’m in New York City in an outdoor amphitheater. People get this song. They know what it feels like to hurt this bad.

I guess that means it’s only human, but then again, it also means that it’s not uncommon. I do
not
know how I’m going to get through the rest of my life if this kind of thing happens over and over again.

As I finish the chorus and the band fades out, a tear rolls down my cheek and I let it. The crowd erupts with applause, and I wonder if Devon is watching this. I don’t feel the usual cocoon of safety I’ve always felt performing on stage. This stage is an altar and my heart is the sacrifice. I’m completely exposed, people love it, and I guess that’s something I need to accept. Perhaps part of growing up is giving up the belief that there are any safe spaces in the world anymore.

“Hel-
lo
!” I call out as Cleo and I march into the pediatrics ward at Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital later on that day.

Little bald heads turn and nurses in scrubs wave as I take a seat. All the patients have been assembled in the common area, and the familiar smell of iodine and disinfectant saturates the air.

“I’m Lizzie,” I say. “Now I’m gonna try to remember your names. Like Paula, I remember you.” I point to a slender girl with a healthy glow in her rosy cheeks. “You and I talked on Skype.”

She presses herself against the nurse seated beside her, all shyness in person.

Being able to make all these little faces smile invigorates me. I need this. I don’t know what I’d do without it, and I can’t help but scan the group for good-looking men who are devoted caregivers. Hope springs eternal.

My gaze stops on one woman who wears scrubs, and who looks back at me with raised eyebrows. Her hair is dark and her face narrow with an aquiline nose.

“I know you,” I say.

“No way,” she replies.

I turn to Cleo who just shakes her head. “I was gonna spring the surprise on you after.”

“What’s your name?” I ask the woman.

“Bethany.”

I round on Cleo.
“That
Bethany?”

“You saw her for two seconds,” says my personal assistant. “You have the most freakish memory ever, you know that?”

I turn back around. “How are you feeling?” I ask. “You’re a nurse now? Here?”

“I’m an orderly,” she says. “Not working full days yet. I got this job with a little help from my new best friend.” She nods at Cleo.

“I was going to tell you it was her,” says Cleo defensively. “I swear. I wouldn’t have let you leave without knowing.”

Everyone else is watching this exchange with bemused expressions.

“Bethany saved her sister’s life by donating a lobe of her liver,” I say. “Why don’t you tell us about that, Bethany?”

“Well,” she begins, “it was amazing. Best thing I’ve done in my whole life.”

I glance at Cleo who smiles back at me. As long as she wants a job, I am keeping her.