The Reunion by Kayla Olson(60)
I take a deep breath, watch as the seagull dives back toward the water for another catch.
The fish never saw it coming.
* * *
In the time it took us to drive to the studio, I practically could have walked. I’m over an hour late when I finally arrive, thanks to an extraordinarily bad wreck on the 101, and the mood on set is tense. It doesn’t help that my own mood is a bit volatile, between the traffic and my call with Mars and the six texts I’ve received from Attica asking me to post various things on social. I’ve been looking forward to today’s shoot all week—a scene with Ford, Ransom, and an actress named Cassidy, who’s playing Ford’s girlfriend, all taking place at a shabby little diner set made to look like it’s just off the beach of Aurora Cove—but it’s immediately apparent this is not going to be the chill, relaxing day I’ve been hoping for.
I’m barely inside reception when I see Bryan leaning against the back of the sitting room’s plush pink couch, arms crossed. It’s a bad sign: that he’s not mid-shoot means I’ve seriously disrupted the schedule.
I hold my head high as I shift my sunglasses to rest on top of my head and look him straight in the eye. “Morning,” I say with an easy smile, as if I can make Bryan forget it’s technically past noon.
“Your watch looks entirely too new to be broken,” he replies, giving my rose gold Cartier a glare.
“Thank you,” I say. “It was a gift.”
The barest hint of amusement crosses his lips before he catches himself.
“Maybe you can send a gift to my kid tonight when I miss dinner? It’s going to be a late one.”
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t be staying late anyway, Bryan.” I’m skirting the edge of a razor-thin line, knowing I’ll only get away with it because it’s true—and because I can always tell when he’s irked at the world at large and not just me specifically. Right now it’s mostly the world.
He runs a hand over his face, closing his eyes, making no effort to hide his exhaustion.
“You have no idea. Because you are hideously late.” He gives me a scolding look, but it’s toothless—I’m in the clear. “But between you and me? I needed the break.”
I grimace. “That bad?”
“Ransom’s head is in the clouds,” he says. “You know how he gets when his father’s on set.”
“Mr. Joel is here? Today?” My mind spins, grasping for any memory of Ransom mentioning it last night.
“His publicist, too, and don’t get me started on her,” he says. “She’s making even me lose focus.”
“Sounds like a winning combination.”
After a whirlwind trip to hair and makeup to make it look like I’ve just come off an afternoon at the beach—not hard, given the state I arrived in—I get to experience the strained vibe on set for myself. I slide onto the bench of a red vinyl diner booth, and Ransom settles in next to me. We begin as soon as I’m ready.
Our producers, Nathaniel and Gabe, are also here today, silently observing from the shadows, which always adds a layer of pressure. And then there’s Ransom’s dad and publicist, both breathing right down Bryan’s neck. The publicist, Andrea, looks chic in her black pantsuit and stilettos, sun-kissed and luminous and extremely confident. She’s so confident, in fact, that she’s not afraid to hover over Bryan’s shoulder during the shoot, reading the handwritten notes from his clipboard. When she’s not reading, she’s watching Ransom, appraising his every move.
Numerous takes later, we’re all on edge.
“Cut!” Bryan calls out again. I’ve lost track of how many times we’ve had to start over, how many fresh milkshakes the prop department has had to prepare because they keep melting under the lights. Bryan wasn’t exaggerating about Ransom’s head being in the clouds. “Everybody, take five.”
He bolts from his director’s chair, clipboard tucked tightly under his arm. Nathaniel and Gabe follow him out.
“Sorry, guys,” Ransom says under his breath, sliding out of the booth. “I need a minute.”
“Please,” Ford says, holding up his cookies ’n’ cream shake. “I’m living the dream, ten of these in one day!”
Cassidy laughs. “If I have to pluck one more maraschino cherry off the top, though, I might throw it at someone instead of popping it into my mouth.” She’s a welcome addition, at ease with all of us despite the generally uncomfortable mood in the room.
I slide out of the booth, too, ready to follow Ransom, but before I get too far, Andrea intercepts him. His dad approaches his other side, putting an arm around his shoulders in that subtly patronizing way that’s always gotten under Ransom’s skin. Moves like that embarrassed him enough at sixteen; I can only imagine what he’s feeling now.
Instead, I head over to my bag, pull out my phone. I’ve missed three more texts from Attica—two additional requests, along with one I know you’re shooting right now, but it would be ideal for those behind-the-scenes stories to post in the next hour or so!
I take a deep breath. Busy day on set, I write back. I’ll do my best. I have to make a conscious effort to unclench my jaw.
Switching into my message thread with Bre, I scroll back through our history to remind myself what she’s up to today. Any chance you want a behind-the-scenes look at the show? I type out. Ransom’s dad and publicist are wrecking the shoot, and I need help keeping my chill. I hit send, then add, Also, I’d love you forever if you could post some stuff to my stories so Attica will stop texting every five minutes