Page 3 of You and Me, For Real
Why doIhave to be on camera? There’s got to be another way…
The news reporter leans in. “I’d love to chat with you about this. The animal community in California could certainly use additional resources?—”
The perky voice of the reporter fades. A ringing vibrates in my ears as my hands shake. All I see are flashes of light, blurs of shadows, bodies pressing closer. People shouting my name. Not Ashton Reid, but Ashton Blake.
Ms. Blake, do you have a comment? Ms. Blake, what do you have to say for yourself?
I stumble back.
Face my fears—I cannot.
I don’t think. I just do.
And I run in the opposite direction.
2
GRIFFIN
Ifeel like I’m dressed for an audition for the Chippendales rather than a talk show interview promoting the final season ofMalibu Shores. My shirt is too tight and unbuttoned almost to my navel.
“My pants are so snug, I’m afraid I’m going to rip them when I sit down.” I rotate in the backstage dressing room, observing my reflection in the mirror.
Luke, my cousin-turned-temporary-PA, is standing behind me in the corner, snickering.
I whirl toward him. “Don’t you dare say a single word.”
He raises his hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He bites his lips, trying—and failing—to withhold his laughter.
“No one is going to care about my skills as an actor if I’m some stuffed peacock in a woman’s shirt.”
Thomas Ford, my dad and agent, is looking at his phone despite standing right in front of me. “Son, don’t be silly. It’s a man’s shirt. And you’re playing a role—the young stud fromMalibu Shores.” He glances up. Opens his mouth, blinks, and closes it.
“See! Even you think I look ridiculous. I’m not wearing this.” I’d be better off wearing my red swim trunks from the show. At least then I’d feel more in character. I start unbuttoning the measly three remaining buttons.
Dad steps forward. “You are. It’s all part of what you signed up for.”
This is supposed to be me—the real me, not my character on the show. “I agreed to fake-date Scarlet to help her image and promote the show. I didn’t agree to be paraded on stage like some piece of meat to be ogled.” At one point in my career, after years of being too scrawny, I would have loved to have women look at me the way they do now, but I’m ready for something less superficial.
Dad rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. You love the attention.”
What I’dloveis to have recognition for my skills as an actor and to have my father actually appreciate them. He’s been my agent for almost two decades, and I can count on a single hand the number of times he’s given me positive input.
“You have an image to sell. And that image is of a young, hot, happy Hollywood couple.” He slips his phone into his pocket. “Need I remind you, you have a lot hinging on this contract.”
Yes, a guaranteed role in Wesley Rhodes’s—Scarlet, my co-star’s father’s—next film. It’s my chance to finally cross over into film rather than another mediocre TV series. I’m fully aware of the benefit of this arrangement every single time I’m with Scarlet. I just wish my personal life felt like my own.
A knock comes on the dressing room door. “Five minutes, Griffin.”
Despite feeling unprepared to lie to everyone in America, I holler back, “Got it. Thanks.”
My father comes beside me and claps me on the back, pushing me toward the door. “This’ll pay off when it’s all over. You’ll see.”
Ten minutes into the interview, I’m already questioning the validity of my father’s promise.
“How about you take your shirt off and give us a little teaser?” Gwen nestles deeper into her plush hostess chair and raises aMornings with Gwenlogoed mug.
She’s referring to the slow-motion intro toMalibu Shoreswhere characters run into the water to save lives. I stand slowly, smiling toward the audience. My eyes catch on my father’s.
