In Harmony(102)

I set the phone down. I didn’t want a party. I wasn’t even certain I wanted my parents at the show. We were slowly rebuilding a tentative relationship though I suspected deep down, we’d never be the same. Bonnie told me that forgiveness is for the giver’s peace, not the receiver’s, but I wasn’t there yet.

And hearing Dad’s voice piled more painful memories on top of the mess in my heart, and made Isaac’s silence all the more deafening.

I sat on my small blue couch, opened my laptop and Googled his name. I scrolled past the articles about Long Way Down. Article after article raved about the breakout performance of Isaac Pearce—”an electrifying actor of raw intensity”—the Los Angeles Times raved. The text was broken up by photo stills. He was twenty-two now, and even more ruggedly handsome than before.

I checked articles on tabloid sites, because I had to know.

I found more shots of Isaac, caught at bars and clubs and events in Los Angeles. Always alone, a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth, a hard glint in his eyes. Comparisons to a dark-haired James Dean abounded, right down to the speculation that Isaac was gay. His lack of female companionship hadn’t gone unnoticed by Hollywood.

Or me.

It was insanity to think he abstained from women for me. I’d broken his heart. More likely, he was being careful with his privacy. Guarding it against outside threats.

Who could blame him?

Still, hope burned in me, small and fragile. With shaking hands, I picked up my phone again and scrolled through my contacts for Isaac’s phone number. It rang once before an electronic voice message played: We’re sorry, this phone is no longer in service.

Though it was silly and hopeless, my fingers typed a text.





A2, S2


“Never doubt I love,” I whispered, like a prayer.

I hit send.

The little red exclamation point in a bubble popped up immediately.

This message could not be sent.

The message was sent. It just couldn’t be received. Not for three years now.

Still, hope burned.

I kept calling for him, sending my plea into the void.

No answer.





Isaac



“Done deal, my friend,” Tyler Duncan said. As he hung up the phone in his office on Wilshire Boulevard, my manager looked extremely pleased with himself.

“You are now seven-point-one million dollars richer.” He ran a hand through his gold hair, his gold Rolex glinting in the bright gold Los Angeles sun pouring through the windows. Tyler reminded me of Matthew McConaughey—shiny, energetic, and always smiling. My polar opposite. Just being in his presence made me tired.

Then his words sank in.

“Seven million…?”

He grinned. “Less our fifteen percent, please and thank you.”

“Jesus.”

“Not bad, not bad, not bad,” Tyler said. “Especially for only your second big studio movie.” He pressed his palms together and bowed his head. “And let’s not forget you have some points coming in off the backend later. That should net you a nice little surprise in your bank account when you least expect it.”

“Seven-point-one million,” I said again. “I have seven million dollars in my account? Right now?”

Tyler laced his fingers behind his head and kicked up his Ferragamos on his desk. “Yes, indeed, my man.”

I nodded, thinking it was surreal. I’d made money on my first film, but not like this. When I came to Hollywood with the casting agent who saw Hamlet, he helped me land a small part in a high-profile movie, which netted me $1.5 million. A staggering amount to someone who’d never seen a bank statement with more than four figures in it.

But seven million?

It was even more astonishing, considering how much I fucking hated acting on camera.

I hated the constant retakes. The stops and starts. Telling the story out of order to an audience of camera crew and boom mic operators. During that first movie, I was sure my loathing of the process was evident on my face and captured in every frame. But the audiences loved me. Hollywood embraced me.

“And the women really like you,” Tyler said when we first met. “You’re a cross between James Dean and Henry Cavill. Hollywood handsome but with a bad boy, rough-around-the-edges danger. Pure catnip, my friend.”

I didn’t give a shit about the marketing plan, so long as I could make the money I needed to quit this fucking business.

Now I had.

I almost felt sorry for Tyler. He thought he had the Next Big Thing sitting across from him, but I was done. $7.1 million was more than enough to pay off my father’s debts to Wexx. I personally wasn’t on the hook for them but my father had died with those debts dragging him down, like Marley’s ghostly chains. I was determined to cut him free. It wouldn’t matter to Wexx. A drop in a bucket they forgot they were holding. But it fucking mattered to me.

“Holy shit,” I breathed. I’d already paid off Benny’s mom’s mortgage. Now I could put Benny through college. I could make sure Marty had everything he could ever want for the HCT. And Willow…

Seven million was a number I’d dreamed of when I’d told her I’d come back to Harmony.

My chest hurt. Tyler saw me rubbing the spot.

“What’s that, compadre? A little indigestion? Hard to swallow that you’re a bona fide millionaire? Get used to it.” He tapped his finger on a copy of Variety folded up on his mahogany and glass desk. “Have you read these reviews? My phone is ringing off the hook for you. Which brings me to the real reason for this little tête-à-tête today.” He leaned over his desk. “Are you ready for this? Quentin Tarantino wants a meeting. Quentin-fucking-Tarantino.”