Page 14 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
6. Anders Gets a Snack
I'm counting down the days until I get to punch my co-star in the face.
The character I'm playing is morally gray bordering on charcoal, and I get to, I meanhave to, punch Micah Watson when we shoot our fight scene. I wonder what day that’s happening, but I don't have our filming schedule memorized—that's Oliver’s job. My jaw clenches.
"It's fine. I don't mind. Let's go again," he says. There's no mistaking the complaint in his tone, like we aren't all exhausted after a long day of shooting. Not to point fingers, but he’s the one who isn’t getting it done today. He’s ignoring Christopher’s input half the time, and the other half, he’s giving me direction.
Micah is a gifted actor, but he’s arrogant. He’s been in the business long enough to know things, but he’s cocky enough to think his opinions and thoughts outweigh the rest of the crew’s. This is the sixth movie we’ve co-starred in together. The media and our PR teams paint the picture that we’re old friends, but the reality is, we’re co-workers. We’ve accumulated weeks and months filming together. We attend premieres. But when we go home, that’s the end of our interaction. We’re just too different to be close friends.
And there's no mistaking the irritation on the face of our director, Christopher Marchant. Chris decides when we shoot again and when we're good. You'd think with his reputation and backlist of films grossing an average of a billion dollars—no big deal—Micah would trust his judgment. Secondhand embarrassment washes over me on his behalf.
He stands on his mark with a long exhale. “Get it right this time, Beck,” he says under his breath. Then before I can hit him, his black eyebrows furrow and suddenly he’s his character, Kota. His personality may be like nails on a chalkboard, but I'm impressed by the transformation on his face. He just went from diva actor to misunderstood adult orphan in two seconds flat.
I bite my tongue and stand on my mark. The cameras roll, we say our lines, and I know when the scene lands. I can feel it. Chris says we're good. The muscles in my shoulders relax.Finally.I can go back to my suite and eat my Snack.
I've been thinking about my Snack all evening. My nutritionist prepares my food with every macro tracked and accounted for, and serves it all in labeled plastic tubs: Breakfast. Snack. Lunch. Snack. Dinner. Snack. Not a calorie over or under what my body needs to maintain the physique this role requires. When I accept jobs like this I am basically hungry for months. All I want is a slice of stuffed-crust pizza, but I probably have a chia protein shake waiting for me.
When I tell you I earn every penny of the millions I make on these projects, believe it. Maybe that's dramatic, buthello—actor.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Watson.”
He doesn’t respond, just nods, gathers his things, and gives whiny orders to his assistant. He’s been cold like that since our first table read for this project, but I don’t have time to care. I have my Snack waiting for me.
“Are you ready to go, Mr. Beck?”
I startle and whip around to see a guy in a golf cart bearing the name of the resort. Where did he come from?
“Are you my ride today? Where’s Oliver?” I ask, climbing aboard the cart. He’ll miss the daily meeting-slash-lecture he runs on the golf cart ride back to my suite. What a pity.
“I don’t know, but he asked me to drive you. I’m Eric. I work for the resort, in case the nametag and golf cart didn’t make it obvious. I’m usually a hiking guide, but for the next few months I’m a little bit of everything,” he says with a laugh.
“Cool.” I’m so mentally done. I just want this guy to drive me to my suite so I can enjoy my pre-packaged health food in peace. This guy’s a talker, though.
“I’d be happy to take you on a hike when you have time. We have some of the best scenery in the country. Let me know when you want to go.” He pauses barely long enough to take a breath. “I hear our Sunny is babysitting for you. I’ve missed seeing her around the last few days.”
Something in his tone gives the impression that he’s marking his territory like a dog. I don’t like it at all. “I get that. I’m enjoying her… having her around my place, I mean.” Yeah, it’s a butthead thing to say. I don’t care. I’m grouchy. “You know her well?” I want him to say no, but I also want to grill him for information. It's a conundrum.
“Yeah, I’ve known her since high school, and I’ve worked for her family since then. We go way back. I like Sunny a lot.” If we were in the animal kingdom, he’d be aggressively strutting in my face with his feathers plumed around him. In the human kingdom, he seems to settle for taking corners a touch too fast for this top-heavy golf cart.
I eyeball the twerp. He doesn’t scare me. “Me too.”
Eric is silent. He peels around the last turn to my suite and the tires actually squeal. I didn’t know that was possible in a golf cart. I lean back in my seat, like I find his maniacal driving relaxing. He jams on the brakes and I slide forward, almost off the seat.
“Thanks for the ride.”You psychopath.
I climb down from the cart without a backwards glance and double time it across the sandstone path to the suite.
It’s late. The sun is long gone and the lights inside are out, so I assume Immy is asleep. The silent darkness in the entry makes me think Sunny might have crashed, too. I toe off my shoes and step quietly toward the back of the suite and the refrigerator.Snack time.
I round the corner into the mostly dark kitchen and catch Sunny with her rear end poking out of the refrigerator, the light from the open appliance spilling around her. I don’t know how she hasn’t heard me, but then I realize she’s wearing wireless earbuds and she’s totally focused on the task at hand. She’s rooting through the contents of the fridge on a mission. Unfortunately, she’s not going to find anything but my lame pre-portioned food and Immy’s eggs and chicken nuggets. I make a mental note to have Oliver get some better food delivered for her.
Leaning against the door jamb, I fold my arms across my chest to watch her, feeling my lips tilt into a half smile. I don’t hate coming home to this view. My foul mood slips away at the sight of her.
“Dinner? Snack? Lunch? What kind of control freak eats like this?” she wonders aloud. Judging by her volume and tone, she doesn’t know how loud she's talking, and she's probably hangry. She’s also angrily organizing my food into Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, and Snack stacks.
I feel kind of creepy watching her from behind, hearing her thoughts out loud. It’s entertaining, but still. I should probably let her know I’m here, spying on her.
I step toward her, then three things happen at once: Sunny whips around, screams—really screams—and throws the container she’s holding straight at my face. Overhand.
