Landon & Shay: Part Two (L&S Duet #2)(33)

Well, about my made-up existence, at least.

They cared about my acting persona—Landon Pace, Hollywood’s golden boy.

They couldn’t have cared less about the real Landon Harrison.

Still, I was thankful.

I’d had fans stand out in the most extreme weather conditions throughout the years just to snap a quick photograph with me. If that wasn’t humbling, I didn’t know what was. It didn’t change the fact that I had to work up the nerve to get out of the vehicle every fucking time because once I stepped outside, the show was on. I’d smile, I’d be charming, and I’d be everything they dreamed me to be and more. I’d give my fans my all, and then I’d go home and crash with my dog.

I took a deep breath, closing my notebook. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a cherry Jolly Rancher and popped it into my mouth. “Ready.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure to snap some photographs of you interacting with the fans.” Willow inched her body closer to the door and grabbed the handle. “Let’s go.”

The second she pushed it open, I released my breath and turned on the charm. I stepped out of the SUV to the sound of shrieking and cheers—all for me. It wasn’t that my smile was fake. It was genuine through and through, but I was tired. I’d been tired for so long that I wasn’t certain I’d ever feel awake.

My career both healed me and drained me in so many ways.

Then I looked to my left and saw a little boy wearing a superhero costume, dressed up as one of my characters, and I couldn’t help but feel happy. That was why I kept doing what I did. That was why I showed up day in and day out—for the fans, both old and young, who kept showing up for me.

I snapped as many photographs and signed as many autographs as I could before Willow told everyone I had to leave. She pulled me away into the building, and the moment the door closed behind me, I relaxed my face.

“I don’t get why they’re so obsessed with you,” Willow commented, tapping away on her phone. “It’s like they don’t know you take massive dumps after eating Chinese food.”

I chuckled. “I think they believe I poop out gold.”

“Based on the smells, it’s more likely you’re shitting out manure.” One thing I liked about my assistant was the fact that she never blew smoke up my ass. She was as real as could be, and being in the career I was in, finding genuine people was a gift.

After being led to my dressing room, I found my stylist waiting with my clothing options for the interview that afternoon.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Mom said, looking up from the cart of clothes she was rummaging through. She walked over to me and pulled at my cheeks, examining my exhaustion. “We can cancel the show tonight if you’re too exhausted.”

I laughed. “We aren’t canceling on Jimmy Fallon, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll sleep tonight.”

“You said that last night,” she argued.

I loved having my mother work for me, truly. Being able to make both of our dreams blend together was beyond a blessing. She was so good at her job, too, so it wasn’t as if I was hiring her solely because she was my mother. I believed in her skills and eye for details.

But sometimes, the overbearing mother in her had a heavier hand than the stylist.

“I just worry you’ve been pushing yourself too hard, Land. It’s been months of nonstop travel doing promotions overseas, and then you start filming so soon. I can’t help but worry that you’re going to burn yourself out.”

I was well into my thirties, and my mother was still babying me. I doubted that was going to change any time soon. Plus, she was right. I felt myself coming up to my limit with being overwhelmed. I was at my tipping point and needed to talk to my manager sooner than later about getting a break.

When I went too long without breaks, my mind creeped back into its old habits. My therapist, Dr. Smith, said a key to learning to live with my anxiety and depression, was to pick up on my triggers. If I knew the mechanics of my head, I’d become more able to steer the ship to calmer seas. If I ignored my triggers, I’d end up shipwrecked.

After years of trial and error, I was beginning to learn how to sail, but still, my boat rocked back and forth due to harsh weather conditions every now and again. I was in need of a break, and perhaps soon, I’d be able to get one.

I shrugged off her comments and nodded toward the racks. “What are we thinking for today?” I asked, shifting the conversation.

Mom frowned at me, worry lingering in her eyes, but she allowed me to redirect the focus. “I was thinking these velvet pants with a plain, fitted black top.”

“Velvet? It itches,” I commented.

“It makes the girls cheer,” she corrected. “And since you are promoting a romantic comedy this time around, we are all about making the girls cheer for you. You’re a heartthrob to them, Landon. You need to play up that role. Plus, the pants will make your booty pop.”

“Oh God. Please, never talk about my booty, Mother.”

“Why not?” She grinned cheek to cheek. “You did get your best assets from me, after all.”

“I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened.”

She took the hangers off the rack and handed them to me. “Just do as your mother says. Velvet pants.”

I did as she said because mother knows best.