Page 47 of Anyone But the Superstar

‘My brothers’ middle school’s headmaster collectedStar Warsmemorabilia.’ She rinses her plate in the sink before opening the dishwasher.

My hair, no doubt smashed awkwardly from wearing a cowboy hat earlier, flops to the side as I tilt my head toward Anne. ‘A what now?’

‘AStar Warscollector.’ Anne, having mistaken my interest for the headmaster’s hobby rather than the fact that her brothershada headmaster and not a principal, takes my plate from me and rinses it. ‘He made Stephen the concierge’s meltdown look downright stoic compared to his reaction when, years ago, he found my brother Chase playing with his previously mint-in box Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker action figures in his office.’

I watch her awkwardly loading the dishwasher from the front and wonder if it’s simply East Coast vernacular to call a principalheadmaster, or if I’m right in thinking a headmaster is the title for those who runprivateschools.

But before I can press my luck and push Anne for answers, tonight’s man-meltdown instigator pipes up.

‘Meow.’

Anne and I lift our eyes to the living area where Mike is sitting curled around the decapitated collector’s item, looking very much like the cat who got the cream.

Or, in his case, an expensive humping doll.

13

FELIX

Too much happened this past week for someone who is supposed to be lying low. Too many ways that things could’ve gone horribly wrong or caused my career more problems.

However, as I rest my head on the back of an oversized armchair and wait for my mother to call while listening to the distant sound of Anne’s shower running, I can’t find it in me to regret a damn thing.

Even when I’m not under strict do-not-be-seen orders from Jack, I’m usually quick to covet my downtime. Probably because moments of solitude are rare when you’re at the top of your game in Hollywood.

The constant need to pretend to be other people – both in front of the camera and in public – is exhausting enough to want to be left alone.

But tonight, as I have over the past few nights, even after filming started, I was perfectly content to share my precious alone time with a funny, beautiful woman who all but ignored me while sketching just a few feet away from where I stood cooking.

And instead of eating in silence, I voluntarily asked about feline sunscreen and the surprisingly detailed grooming requirements for sphinxes.

The sphinx in question snores softly from his perch on the back of the couch opposite me. His collector’s item ladylove, which cost me a mint just a few days ago, left forgotten on the cushion below him.

Heartless bastard.

My phone, lying screen up on the coffee table, illuminates with a picture of my mother and me back when I was in high school, standing in the sand on the coast of California.

I pick it up, a surge of relief hitting me when the call opens to my mother’s smiling face.

‘Mãe.’ My heart swells at my mother’s smoothed updo, red lips and wrinkle-free blouse under the blush-colored cashmere cardigan I bought her last Mother’s Day. Sofia Maria Santos-Jones looks like her usual self as opposed to the gaunt, unkept version of herself I held in my arms as I checked her in to the state-of-the-art rehab facility in Rancho Mirage. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,coração.’ She must be using the iPad I got her, the wide screen giving me a view of her plain, but high-end room. ‘Jack came by.’ Her happy smile makes me feel guilty for not being the one to visit. ‘He said you finally stopped those cardboard meals.’

I chuckle at her description of the costly nutritionist-designed, pre-planned meal delivery that has been my usual for the past few years. ‘Yes, I’ve been cooking.’

Her smile grows, making me feel prouder than when I was offered a multi-million-dollar brand ambassador contract on the heels of my first successful movie.

Earlier this year, when I had been out enjoying the life of a celebrity, dating socialites and having my picture taken, mymother had been suffering from an opioid addiction stemming from a recent shoulder surgery.

She’d torn her rotator cuff when she fell after tripping over a parking lot median. Jack and I mobilized a renowned surgeon, an at-home post-surgery aid, and a top-tier physical therapist that would make house calls.

All the best that my money could afford.

But none of that mattered when I failed to notice the tell-tale signs of addiction.

I came to visit after wrapping my biggest budget film to date to find my mother, a woman who prides herself on her well-kept appearance and house-cleaning skills, disheveled and staring vacantly in her recliner, her house cluttered and dirty.

Apparently, she’d been able to hide her addiction long enough to get through the aid’s help and physical therapy, but for some reason – for which I initially hired my pack of lawyers – the doctor’s office kept signing off on prescription painkillers well after the recovery period.

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