Page 4 of Words I Couldn't Say
ASISTARED OUT THEwindow of my downtown Toronto hotel, I didn’t see the twinkling lights or hear the hustle and bustle of the city. Instead, I was focused on the reflection staring back at me, wondering how I’d gotten there.
Therewas Toronto. I was on location, filming an upcoming romantic made-for-television movie. You know, one of those sinister stories that’ll play on the Lifetime network for years to come. It wasn’t exactly a Hollywood blockbuster, but it was my first starring role after numerous bit parts and commercials. I should’ve been more excited about it. But, for some reason, now that I was there, I wasn’t.
Lately, I’d been wondering if this was my dream. If I was pursuing my dream or if I’d just thought I’d wanted to do it for so long that I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Don’t get me wrong. I loved acting, and I still had to pinch myself when I thought of how fortunate I had been to get the roles I’d landed thus far. It’s just… I was lonely.
Perpetually, incredibly lonely.
“When are you coming home?”
The question resounded loudly in my mind. It’s one I was asked every single time I phoned home. One I got in a text at least once a week from any given family member. It’s one I never answered.
For my own selfish reasons, of course. You see, my parents had always been incredible, and my three little brothers were awesome, even if they were pains most of the time. Our family was close. I missed them all the time, but it’d been four years since I’d set foot back in Cincinnati.
The reason I was lonely—and refused to go back to my hometown—was a boy. Isn’t there always a boy? Anyways, like most impetuous teenage girls with stars in her eyes, I’d left that boy behind to go to California and become the next big star. I mean, my name was Ava for a reason, and I wouldn’t have been doing my namesake justice if I hadn’t at least tried to make it on the silver screen.
But the truth was I’d been missing that boy ever since I’d driven off into the proverbial sunset. Missing was probably too weak of a term to describe how much my heart ached for the boy I’d left behind. I had thought time and distance would help me heal, but it’d been five years and the pain only multiplied with each passing day.
It’s a story I’d never wanted to tell.
You’re probably wondering who I am and why you care at all about my woe-is-me story. So, before some crazy tabloid can get ahold of the rumors and run with them, I may as well give you the down and dirty of how I got to where I am now.
Hello, world. It’s me, Ava Banks. I was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, to Jeremy and Sierra Banks, loving, crazy-ass, goofy parents. I have three younger brothers, whom I adore. I’m an avid Reds fan and, in high school, was the leader of the thespian club. I earned the lead role in every single play during my four years of school. At the young age of eighteen, I moved across the country to attend UCLA, where I majored in film and television. I worked as a waitress while going to countless auditions before eventually landing a supporting actress role on a sitcom that spawned other various small roles. I am now twenty-three and far from being considered a Hollywood sweetheart, but I could pay my bills and live comfortably. Okay, with a roommate, but still. I’m not a struggling or starving actress.
But I digress. You’ve probably already read all of that on my Wikipedia page. Thanks, tabloids! But here’s the real story.Mystory. After all, you can’t believe everything you read. Except this. Since, you know, this is an actual authorized story.
Okay, where were we? Oh, yes. The boy. And how I ended up there, in Toronto, without him.
I grew up believing in fairy tales. My aunt Lexi showed meThe Princess Bridewhen I was a little girl, and I knew I wanted to be Buttercup when I grew up. After seeingTitanicat the probably-too-young age of ten (Mom freaked out, but Dad shrugged it off, figuring a couple of bare breasts wouldn’t scar me for life), I wanted to be Rose, minus that whole letting-Jack-go thing—when she’d specifically said that she wouldn’t. Sure, maybe it was metaphorical, but still. She let him go. WTF, Rose? Dad was right. That’s what scarred me. Not the boobs.
No matter the film or the content, I’d been captivated while watching each and every love story play out before my very eyes. So much so that, after my eleventh time watching Olivia Newton-John find her happily ever after inGrease, I was desperate for my own.
On the silver screen, that is.
I wasn’t a romantic because of the love aspect. It was the acting that fascinated me. Getting lost in the role and the story and bringing the characters to life. I can’t count how many times I created an audience with my stuffed animals and acted out my own rendition ofTangled.Or that time when I was six and we were visiting the beach, I pretended I was on the set ofJaws.Heck, I was so good that I scared tourists and nearly got my parents banned from Navarre Beach. What could I say? I had talent. I hadn’t meant to induce panic.
I knew, from an early age, I wanted to be an actress. I didn’t just wantafairytale. I wanted them all.
The thing is that I had no idea that, by following my dreams, I’d risk missing out on the greatest fairy tale of them all.
My own.
And, as I continued to look at the lonely girl staring back at me, I remembered exactly how I’d lost it.
“I’m not your dad, Ava. I’m not chasing you until you realize we’re meant to be together. If you choose to leave, you’re doing so knowing exactly what you’re giving up.”
I’d had no idea just how much Tucker’s words would haunt me.
You see, Tucker wasn’t just some boyfriend. He was my best friend, first love, and so much more. Until I’d left for college, I couldn’t remember a single day passing without him in my life. Now, I’d somehow managed to exist for five years without seeing his warm, crooked smile. Five years without staring into those blue eyes that had danced with delight every time he’d stolen a kiss. Five years without feeling his precious, full lips on mine, his exploring hands on my skin, his arms holding me protectively, as if I were the most precious thing in the world.
Five years without him and it was all my fault. Five years of loneliness that were all my doing. And for what? I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t living my life the way I’d thought I wanted. Sure, I was going after what I’d thought were my dreams. I was completely miserable and lonely while doing it.
He had done nothing wrong. I think maybe that was the hardest part of all of this. Maybe, if he’d been the heartbreaker, I’d be okay. I’d be able to move on. But that wasn’t the case. I was the one who’d left him. I was the selfish cow who’d expected him to chase her when he had been completely honest with me about why he couldn’t.
He hadn’t let me go. He’d had no choice. He couldn’t chase me. And yet, I’d still expected him to.
So it couldn’t be any surprise to me that there I was, alone in Toronto, still heartbroken, still lonely, but still too stubborn to do anything about it.
“When are you coming home?”
Even though my heart ached—and if I were smart, I’d jump on a plane and be right back there, begging him to take me back—I knew I couldn’t do it. I didn’t deserve it, and if I was honest, I couldn’t take seeing him with someone else. So, instead, I’d continue to live my lonely, pathetic life and avoid Cincinnati.
Because, if I had my way, the answer to that question would be never.
