Page 12 of In Love with Lewis Prescott
I drive him back to the motel to collect his things, ignoring the somersaults happening in my stomach. For the next three months, I’ll be sharing a house with Lewis Prescott.
My stomach dips. Are those nerves? Butterflies? A mix of both?
I guess we’ll find out.
Chapter Four
Lewis
I pound the pavement as hard as I can, my lungs on fire.
It’s a half hour before sunrise as I finish the last mile of my predawn jog, and judging by the zero cars along the road, not a single soul is awake other than me. Just as I’d hoped.
The sound of waves crashing echoes in the distance. I knew coming to Half Moon Bay was the right call. I’ve only ever driven through this sleepy coastal town, but I always wanted to stay and visit. I just never had the time with my schedule. Now I do, though.
As I pick up the pace the final half mile back down the quiet, darkened street to where Harper’s family house is, I start to smile. Even though my chest is about to explode, sweat’s dripping in my eyes, and my legs are aching, I’m happy.
This is the first time I’ve felt happy in weeks—pretty much ever since the day I got shitcanned fromThe Best of It.
Just the thought of what happened that morning has my stomach churning. I pick up speed, full-out sprinting just to drown out that sickening feeling.
No way do I want to let that god-awful moment occupy another millimeter of space in my brain. I’ve spent enough time obsessing over that day.
I gasp for air as I cover the last stretch of my run. But despite how hard I focus on the fire in my chest and legs, unwanted memories creep in. I blink and see the rage on Darren’s face when I confronted him. I blink again and see his eyes widen when I call him a predatory piece of shit. I see the bulging vein in his neck when he yelled that I was fired and demanded that I get the hell off his set before he called security. I see the stricken faces of half the crew standing outside my dressing room, having overheard the whole argument.
I see the look of disgust on my ex-girlfriend Natalia’s face that evening when I told her at Chateau Marmont that I had gotten fired after I confronted Darren for sexually harassing half of the crew on the show. I see her roll her eyes before berating me for blowing her chance of a guest appearance, not at all concerned that the showrunner was a sorry-ass excuse for a man.
I see the horde of paparazzi crowding our table as she broke up with me right then and there, taking photo after photo, aiming their cameras at my face so they could document one of the lowest moments of my life.
And then I see the exact moment when I lost my shit on all of them, calling them every cussword in the book while flipping them off.
Sure, I’ve cursed at scumbag paparazzi and disrespectful reporters before, but never like that. I was rabid that night. I had just lost my job and my girlfriend, and every tabloid photographer in the vicinity wanted to document my humiliation and sell it—they wanted to profit off my misery, and I couldn’t take it anymore.
I slow to a walk and stumble forward before catching myself, every muscle and limb in my body shaking and aching. Lungs burning, I rest my hands on my head and walk up and down Harper’s block, chest heaving as I gasp for air.
The happiness I felt moments ago is gone. Instead that knot of anxiety is back, lodged right at the center of my chest. But when I stop at the end of Harper’s driveway and fix my gaze on her house, a sense of calm moves through me. My breathing begins to even out; my heartbeat slows from frantic to just speedy.
What happened all those weeks ago doesn’t matter, not now. There’s nothing I can do about that piece of shit Darren, about my selfish ex, about being blacklisted from Hollywood. I’m thankfully hundreds of miles away from that shit show because of the kindness of a stranger—and for that I’m grateful and relieved.
I press my eyes shut. Instantly, Harper’s angelic face fills the darkness behind my eyelids. I feel my lips curving up. As sweet as she looks, she’s feisty. I barely know her, but I like her. She’s no-nonsense and blunt while at the same time genuine and sincere—a killer combination of qualities that I haven’t observed often. Such a far cry from the Hollywood types I’ve been surrounded by the past ten years. As much as I love acting and performing, the industry attracts a certain type of personality. Shallow. Superficial. Self-serving. Fake.
Even though I’ve only known Harper for a couple of days, already I can tell she’s not any of those things. Just the fact that she quit her job to remodel her grandparents’ old home in their memory shows what a thoughtful and true person she is. She’s on a completely different level than so many of the people I’ve met and worked with.
My phone buzzes, and I see a text from Katie, one of the makeup artists fromThe Best of It, who’s also one of my closest friends.
You better not be jogging this morning. Please tell me you’re using your time away to sleep in at least.
I chuckle.
Me: Of course I’m jogging, sorry to disappoint.
Katie: JFC you’re too fit for your own good.
Katie: But seriously, hope you’re doing okay.
Me: I’m good, just laying low. How are you holding up?
When she doesn’t answer right away, dread creeps in. Katie was one of the people that asshole Darren was sexually harassing. When she confided in me about it, she also told me he’d been doing this to multiple female crew members ever since filming started. I instantly saw red. With their permission, I confronted him, hoping it would make him stop...but instead everything went to hell.
