Page 26 of My Unscripted Life

I apologize, then pack my plate full from today’s selection of pastas. Everything from marinara to alfredo to puttanesca to some kind of roasted vegetable situation is steaming from the chafing dishes, and I decide to take a tour of Italy and sample them all.

After adding a lump of crispy, buttery garlic bread to my plate, it’s time. Because I’m so jittery, I pause to steady myself so I don’t have an unfortunate marinara incident on the way over, then I head toward him. I force my pace to be slow and casual, so that when I finally reach him it might actually look like I was heading for the door and stopped to have lunch with him as an afterthought. Set is a closed world, and everyone’s discreet. They’re contractually obligated to be. But gossip still spreads like a turn-of-the-century epidemic within these four walls, and I don’t know what the rules are when it comes to dating the star.

I put my plate down on the table and climb over the bench. Milo looks from the plate to me, a smile breaking across his face, though he quickly dials it back. Clearly he’s of the same mind as me, and I’m glad I exercised control instead of beelining straight for him like my legs wanted me to.

“Hey there,” he says, and it’s a good thing I’m already sitting down, or my legs would give out beneath me.

“Nice lunch,” I say. I eye the obscenely healthy collection of vegetables decorating his plate, including a scoop of what is probably lean, fat-free tuna salad in the middle. I make a big show out of swirling a heaping helping of creamy fettuccini alfredo onto my fork, then taking a bite with a loud “Mmmmmm.”

“You’re evil,” Milo says. He stabs at a piece of raw cauliflower and sticks it right in his mouth, no ranch dressing or onion dip or anything. I have to suppress a gag. “Saturday was my cheat day, which I’m allowed since I spend the other six days eating like an Olympic gymnast and bench-pressing my body weight under the watchful eye of a trainer who I think studied at the Fascist Dictator School of Motivation.”

He barely gets a forkful of tuna in his mouth before Carly appears behind him.

“Milo, Rob is calling for you in the office,” she says, and picks up his plate. “Want me to box this up for you?”

Milo flashes me a smile. “Gotta go. Sorry for the short lunch,” he says, nodding at Carly, who disappears in search of a box. I nod and shrug to mask my supreme disappointment that our lunch lasted all of three minutes, partially for his benefit, and partially for Carly, who is back with a white to-go box in hand. But apparently I’m not as good an actor as Milo.

“Making friends, I see?” Carly’s left eyebrow rises just enough to let me know that she knows, and that she wants me toknowthat she knows. “When you need a big-sisterly lecture, just say the word. In the meantime, take this to him, ’kay?”

I make my way back into the office part of the building and down the beige-carpeted hallway toward the conference room. Outside the door, I stop and check my shirt again for any stray pasta sauce, then breathe into my cupped hand to be sure I don’t have the kind of garlic breath that would clear a room.

Rob is sitting at the head of the conference table in the white, windowless room. To his right is Leigh. Between the two of them, there are four cell phones, a pager, two tablets, and two walkie-talkies resting on the table, along with a clipboard and a stack of papers.

Also at the table are Paul and Gillian, along with a younger blond guy I recognize from that TV show about Chicago police, who I think plays Milo’s best friend in the movie but who hasn’t been on set yet for any scenes.

When I step into the room, all six heads snap in my direction. Rob and Leigh take one look at me and go back to the array of devices in front of them. When everyone else realizes I’m not who Rob and Leigh were expecting, they go back to chatting or flipping through papers. Only Milo smiles at me.

I hold up the box by way of explanation, and he waves me over. I squeeze around the edge of the room, sucking in until Gillian Forsyth realizes what I’m doing and scoots her chair in.

“Thank you,” I whisper. She smiles at me and tosses her long red hair, the freckles on her cheeks squinching together. It always seemed like she was a nice person when I’d see her on awards shows or in interviews, and I’m glad to see I wasn’t wrong.

When I get to Milo, I place the box on the table in front of him and pull the silverware out of my back pocket. “Carly asked me to bring this to you,” I say, working hard to keep my voice low.

“Thanks,” he replies. He takes the silverware and puts it on top of the box. He glances over at Rob, who’s deep in hushed conversation with Leigh. Then he turns back to me. “Looks like we’ve got our new Kass. She’s on her way.”

“Who is it?” I ask, then realize too late that this is probably not the time and also probably not my job to ask.

“Dunno,” he says. “They haven’t said yet.”

“ ’Scuse me, is there tuna in that box?” Paul looks up from the script he’s been reading.

“Yeah, man,” Milo says. He flips the box open to reveal the scoop of tuna salad on a bed of spinach. Paul recoils.

“I’m sorry, tuna makes me, well, I had a bad experience, so, um…” He leans back in his seat and covers his nose with his hand. I can see the color start to drain from his face. Any second he’ll be the same color as the wall behind him. Milo notices and quickly closes the box, shoving it into my hands.

“Yeah, totally, no problem,” Milo replies, giving me ayikeslook. I take the box and turn, squeezing past Gillian again. I get to the door and shove it open, noticing that it swings a lot easier than it did when I came in.That’s weird.

And then all of a sudden the box bursts open, sending tuna salad, spinach, and the serving of pickled beets that were also in there cascading down the front of the tall, thin body that I’m now smashing into.

“OhmyGod!” I shout. I step back, the box falling to the floor between our feet.

“Holy shit!” the girl screeches, shaking her hands hard to release the spinach that’s clinging to her fingers. She looks down at the blossoming red stain that’s growing on her gauzy white tank top, then looks up at me. She gives her impossibly long red hair a shake to keep it from mingling with the tuna that’s clinging to her chest.

“Holy shit,” I mutter.

“Holy shit,” I hear Milo say behind me.

“I’m going to be sick,” says Paul, rushing past us and the whole mess while the blond guy doubles over with laughter. (Aiden! Aiden Lloyd.That’shis name. Of course it occurrs to me at this moment.)

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