Falling into Forever (Falling into You) - By Lauren Abrams Page 0,51
alcoholic, which means that you’re going to spend the next three months trying to get into the head of someone whose whole life is dominated by alcohol. You have some history with that. We never talk about your dad.”
“Why would we want to talk about my dad?”
“Because he died.”
“I’m well aware of the fact that he died, Hals.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not so sure about that. There are times when I lose you, when you stare out the window or play in the garden or you’re reading, times that you just drift away, and I wonder where you’ve gone. The movie worries me. That’s all. Danny Martin is notorious for making his actors fall into the characters, for making them live the lives of the people that they play. I just don’t want you to…”
I tense. “What? You don’t want me to become an alcoholic? I can assure you that it’s not going to happen.”
She stands up and backs away from the bed. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that I want you to take care of yourself. You get so wrapped up in the characters. Remember? When we were in Prague, your nickname for me was ‘Boss,’ because James Ross went around calling everyone that. I’m not saying that you’re like some crazy method actor that only talks in tongues because he’s playing some psycho killer who thinks he’s an ancient Egyptian or something, but you just get so absorbed in the characters you play. That scares me a little bit. It’s like you can’t step out of the movie world.”
I bristle at the presumption. “So, what you’re telling me is that you think I can’t handle myself without you. That you think I’m some kind of baby who needs protection. That playing a character who drinks a little too much is going to turn me into an alcoholic. Alcoholics are born, not made.”
She gives me a long, measured look. “I never said that, and I don’t think you’re going to turn into an alcoholic. But playing Garrett in this movie isn’t like playing James Ross. It’s fraught with history for you, and it’s going to be personal.”
“History. Always with the history. Why can’t you understand that being in a movie is a job? I swear, people, even you, think that the movie business is some kind of magical place where people become trapped in Neverland. Such a ridiculous notion. You’re being ridiculous.”
I’m angry, and the words were harsher than I intended, maybe because somewhere, deep inside, there’s a tiny piece of me that thinks that maybe she’s right, that maybe taking this role isn’t such a good idea after all.
“I’m sorry, Chris. I couldn’t let you leave without at least trying to say something. It’s not you that I’m worried about. It’s the character. And the industry.”
She doesn’t sound sorry. She sounds terrified, which, for some reason, makes me angry.
“That’s all a part of me, too, you know. The me who makes movies is part of the same person who’s been sitting with you in this house for the past four months. Maybe you think that it can just be the two of us, playing house, while I watch you troop off to school every day. That just ain’t going to happen. It couldn’t last forever.”
“I never said that. You’re being completely unfair.”
“Maybe I am.”
“I’m the one who’s been trying to talk you into getting back to work. I want you to make movies. It’s what you were born to do, and I would never try to come in the middle of that. Never. I love you. I love you so much that I worry about you, and maybe it’s not even you that I’m worried about. Maybe I’m worried about me. Maybe I’m worried that you’ll be off in Hollywood, dancing all night and making friends with your costars, and you’ll forget about me. And maybe that’s the way it should be.”
“Stop.”
I stand up and take her into my arms, putting my finger across her lips.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Hals.”
“And I don’t want to fight with you.”
I take her chin in my hand and watch her face as the light dances across her skin.
“You’re beautiful. Did I ever tell you that?”
“About eight million times a day.”
I feel her relax in my arms.
“I should tell you eighty million times a day, then.”
“That might be overkill.”
“I don’t have to go.”
“Yes, you do. It’s just three months. I really don’t want to hear anything else about it. You’re