Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“Hey, guys!” Maddie says loudly. “What’s got six arms and is like nothing else in the whole world?”
“A snowflake,” Jonathan says.
“That’s me!” Maddie throws her arms out at her sides and spins. That’s not in the script. Improvising. “I’m falling and falling and falling. Where am I going?”
“Down,” Jonathan says, “to the ground.”
Maddie trips over her own feet as she spins, falling, but Jonathan catches her as she giggles, plopping down in his lap.
That’s it. That’s all the lines she has until the very end when she says, Snowflakes aren’t the only special things—you’re all special! She’s spent all day memorizing them at school.
“Again!” she says, springing back to her feet.
“Later,” he says. “Right now, we should do something about dinner.”
“I can make something,” I say, starting to stand up, but he stops me.
“I can take care of it,” he says. “You just relax.”
Relax. It’s the first time I’ve not worked on a weekday in a while. I’ve spent all day doing nothing, sitting around. I even napped while Maddie was in school. I’m not used to having nothing to do. It’s weird.
He heads off to the kitchen.
Maddie goes to her bedroom.
I flip through more channels.
I make it almost a complete cycle, back to where I started, when I flip to something that makes me stall. One of those evening entertainment shows, the equivalent of a TV tabloid. Jonathan’s face is plastered on the screen from an old set photo.
“Breezeo is a-go! After being derailed when star Johnny Cunning sustained injuries in an accident, filming for the highly anticipated third Breezeo movie is scheduled to resume next week. Sources tell us Cunning will return to set on Monday, while his co-star and on-again off-again girlfriend Serena Markson is slated to join him when production moves to Europe.”
“I, uh…” Jonathan’s voice cuts through the living room, his eyes going straight to the screen. “I ordered pizza.”
I flip the channel, a sinking feeling rocking the pit of my stomach. “Okay.”
He slips his phone into his pocket before running a hand through his hair. I know he saw it. Heard it, too. Not that it matters, because he would’ve already known.
They would’ve told him.
I stop on another channel, some pointless sitcom rerun, as Jonathan lets out a deep sigh. “I was gonna talk to you about that.”
“When? As you were walking out the door?”
“I would’ve done it before this weekend,” he says. “I didn’t know until last night. The doctor cleared me, and the studio wants to get a jump on it so they don’t have to push back the dates.”
I nod, so he knows I heard him, and pull my legs up, tucking them beneath me as I lay against the arm of the couch, staring at the television.
“You’re mad,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“Annoyed.”
“No.”
“Then, what? Indifferent? Because you’re sure not happy.”
I look over at him as he stands there, watching me, brow furrowed like he’s expecting some sort of reaction that I’m not giving him.
“I’m not mad,” I tell him again. “I guess I’m just... sad. I knew it would happen sooner or later. I knew this couldn’t last, that you’d have to go, but I thought we’d have a little more time.”
He frowns, coming closer. “It’s only a month. After that, filming should be over and…”
“And what?” I ask when he trails off. “What happens then?”
“Then I’ll come back.”
“Then you’ll come back,” I mumble. “For how long? A couple days? Another six weeks, maybe? But then you’ll be off again—shooting, promoting, doing interviews… meetings, auditions, classes… not to mention the red carpets, the studio parties, the networking.”
He makes a face when I say that last one, reacting as if it’s an accusation. And maybe it is, I don’t know. Other than sad, I don’t know how I’m feeling. I’m a twisted up mess, a broken once-hopeful romantic, holding my heart in a clenched fist and begging him to take it, yet I’m afraid to let go and give him that kind of control.
Because the last time I gave my heart to him, he crushed it.
“For however long I’m wanted,” he says, “so that depends on you.”
I shake my head. That’s a cop-out answer. “You don’t mean that. You might think you do, but you don’t. We don’t live in a box, Jonathan. The world still exists outside of these walls. And that world, it’s never going away.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” I ask, genuinely wondering if he understands what he’s getting himself into. “When was the last time you stayed in one place for more than a week? When was the last time you slept in the same bed, night after night? Because I’m not sure you remember what that’s like.”
“Is that not what I’ve been doing? I’ve been here, haven’t I?”
“This doesn’t count.”
“Why doesn’t it?”
“Because it just doesn’t.”
He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he says, “This is ridiculous.”