Page 22 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
“Why do you eat this? What’s the point of eating out if you’re ordering this way?” I ask between bites. I’m already eyeballing the dilapidated menu board in search of something else to scratch my junk food itch. If I’m falling off the diet wagon, I’m going to dive headfirst into a cookie dough milkshake with something fried on the side.
"First of all, no one made you copy my order, Sexy Dimple," she snarks, her cheeks full of lettuce. That nickname coming out of her mouth has an entirely different effect than it did when her sister said it. It's a good thing Immy is here. "Second of all, aren't you on some bonkers diet anyway?"
"Yeah, I am. Just until we get a few scenes shot. But this is no biggie."
"What kind of scenes?" she asks, munching on her Blah Burger. "Wait, I'm not supposed to ask that. Nevermind."
“No, it’s fine. Just the usual shirtless stuff. I’m supposed to look a certain way.” I puff up my chest and curl my arm into an obnoxious flex, sneaking a peek at Sunny. “Look at you blushing.”
“I am not! It’s warm in here.” She pushes the button for the air conditioner until her hair flutters away from her face. “You’re so full of yourself,” she says with a pink-cheeked smirk.
“Don’t think I don’t see you looking.” I flex again.
“If I’m looking it’s because you have fry sauce on your lip, Charlie Granger.”
Charlie Granger was a character I played whose main personality trait was being a womanizer, because like I’ve said, I’ve been pigeonholed by Hollywood. But the fact that Sunny remembers a character from a movie that came out six years ago and was an embarrassing box office flop? Noteworthy.
Immy’s phone vibrates in the back row and Sunny is saved by the buzz. My daughter ignores her phone, cramming another nugget into her mouth. She’s a child on a mission. Her phone continues buzzing against the fabric seat.
“Im, that’s yours.”
Only three people have Immy’s phone number: Myself, Oliver, and her mother, Cassidy. I recognize that it is ridiculous for a five-year-old to have a phone, but it’s a safety thing. Our lives are too crazy for me to not be able to reach her. Plus, Cassidy goes ballistic if she can’t talk to Immy the one time a year when the mood strikes. I send up a prayer that it’s Oliver calling because every time her mother calls, Immy’s world turns upside down. No one has time for that on the first week of filming. Immy wipes her fingers on her nightgown and swipes the phone open.
“Hi, Ollie,” she says around a mouthful of chicken nugget. She’s the only person who gets away with calling him that.
I can’t hear the other end of the conversation, but I know what’s coming. Immy passes her phone to me and goes back to her dinner.
“Hey, man.” My mind is racing for an explanation that won’t get Sunny in trouble with Oliver. Maybe it’s time for his daily reminder that he's my manager and not my mother. “What’s up?”
“I hate when I have to track you down on Imogen’s phone. Where are you?” Right down to business. That’s been Oliver’s modus operandi since we were in high school and he was voted Most Likely to Be the Resident Stick in the Mud for the Rest of Anders Beck’s Life.Not really, but now I’m thinking about having a plaque made for him.
Sunny shifts in the seat next to me. Something about the movement lets me know that she’s as uncomfortable as I am.
“Just grabbing a hamburger with Immy.”
“Just Immy?”
“Sunny came, too. Hey, listen, did you get the thing I asked you about?”
“Thing?” he snarls. Now he’s annoyedanddistracted. Two birds, one stone.
“You know, thething.” I draw out the word like that will help. I can’t say what the thing is because it’s a surprise for Immy. Harry Styles is on tour and he has a show in Minneapolis on her actual birthday, which conveniently lands two weeks after we’re scheduled to wrap shooting. We can visit my parents and knock out a concert all in one trip and I’ll be father and son of the year. I asked Oliver to track down passes, but it’s a huge request, given the show has been sold out since the day tickets went on sale.
“Be a little less cryptic, man.” When his voice gets distant I know he’s swiping through the calendar and notes on his phone looking for clues. “Oh, the tickets. Working on it. I’ll let you know when I get them. The reason I’m calling is because there’s been a minor schedule change for tomorrow.”
While he fills me in on information that definitely could’ve been a text message—which only confirms the fact that he actually called to check in on me—Goldie rolls up to Sunny’s window.
“Do you two lovebirds need anything else?” she asks with the volume and subtlety of a Piccolo Pete firework.
I panic and smash the “end” button, throwing the phone into the back seat. I’ll be hearing about this tomorrow.
9. Sunny the Willing Prisoner
Ismoosh a blob of yellow paint onto my rock and swirl it until it’s a circle that I can turn into a big sun. I peek at Immy’s rock. There are gobs of yellow, blue, and pink, with smears of every color in between where the paints have combined. It almost looks like the watercolor sunset happening outside the window. We got back to the suite with our supplies with just enough time to paint before Immy will beg for bedtime. Despite all of Anders’ efforts she is still on Copenhagen Standard Time.
We got an oversized button-down shirt at the thrift store to use as a smock and a plastic tablecloth to keep the mess contained. Painting and the associated messes aren’t my thing, but there’s an easy out-and-back hike close to town that I think Immy will like. Hikers paint rocks with inspirational phrases or pictures and leave them all over the path. It’s called Aspiration Trail. It’s cute, and annoyingly Instagrammable. My social media feed is overrun with friends from high school and their kids on the hike, posing with their rocks. We’ll let our rocks dry overnight and tomorrow it will be our turn. This weekend will be emotionally tricky for me—turning another year older isn’t always fun—so I’m grateful for the distraction, even if the distraction is tricky in her own way.
“What are you working on, kiddo?” From the looks of it, it could be the sunset, an octopus, or Jupiter. I’m not about to guess wrong and hurt her feelings.
