star, as Alex talked about Samantha in a repeat pseudo-sermon on why she wasn’t right for him, as if she was why I’d resisted him.
He leaned over to kiss me again, this time less aggressively, his hands at bay. I kissed him back. His retreat made me want him more—he was so handsome, so confident. It frustrated me that I couldn’t just enjoy the kiss. Feelings of justification roared through my head: Grant and I are not exclusive. We haven’t had the “exclusive” talk. We’re both still technically on the market! But that wasn’t true. In my world, sleeping with someone silently established exclusivity. Tiff or no tiff, Grant trusted me as I trusted him.
It was after 1:00 a.m. when I finally got up to leave. I repositioned my blouse and started for the door. My little secret, I thought to myself, which felt odd, because I’d never been very good at keeping secrets.
“Hey, I think you’re really cool,” Alex said, leaning into my car window for a final goodnight kiss.
“Thanks,” I whispered in my sexiest voice and backed out the car-park to begin my 30-minute drive home.
Two weeks before we hit the airwaves, my first Fix Your Life field shoot was to take place in La Crescenta—a story about a woman whose husband had committed suicide a year ago. She was still grief stricken, immobilized by emotional pain. She wrote to the Ricky Dean website, begging for help to get her life back. Minutes before I was to leave, Corinne came to me with final directions.
“Just make sure you get her saying: ‘I hate my life. I wish I were dead, like him.’ Make sure she says that.” Corinne nodded as if she were asking me to sharpen pencils.
“Okay, I’ll try.” I looked at her sideways.
“Try?” She gave me a big smile. “You can do it. Don’t worry.”
“Okay, Corinne.”
“I should warn you.” Corinne, seemingly dead serious, grabbed my shoulder as I gathered up my things. “She looks a little trailer trash.”
“Trailer trash?”
“Poor thing. We just got her pictures. Maybe you can tidy her up a bit. Take away the. . . po-dunk.” She covered her mouth in a gesture of apology. “It’s awkward, but we can’t have our guests looking trashy. Orders from the top. Not right for the show’s image.”
“Okay,” I said, reminding myself, This is Hollywood, after all. “But I’m not sure I have the necessary supplies for that.”
“Just take a brush and make-up and, you know, fiddle with her.”
“All I have is lip gloss and a comb.”
“She’ll have stuff. And remember, she cries easily.” Corinne winked.
“Oh?”
My cell phone buzzed just as I settled into the passenger side of the crew van en route to the shoot. It was Grant. My heart raced. Finally! It had been awhile since our fight.
“Hey,” I heard from the other end of the line. He sounded rather subdued.
“Hey,” I said, wanting to apologize and to see him.
“How are you?” he said quietly.
“Good,” I said with uncertainty. “You?”
“Busy—away on a shoot for five days in Vegas.”
“Fun?”
“Not really,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get you. I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too.” I felt relieved and guilty at the same time. I wanted to tell him the truth: that I needed him. Even that night with Alex, when I was acting like Miss Queen Slutbag with My Big Fat Complex Life, had felt alien to me. I craved normal— Planet Earth, not Planet Hollywood.
I craved Grant.
The line went quiet.
“Are you working?” Grant said.
“Yeah, we just got super busy.”
“I’d love to see ya. You around tonight?”
“Yes,” I said excitedly. “I mean, I will be. I’m leaving now for a shoot in La Crescenta. I should be back in the office by seven.”
“How about we meet at your place around nine? I’ll bring dinner.”
“Sounds great.”
Tasha wore a sleeveless brown turtleneck with an elegant gold chain holding a glass angel on a ring. Her naturally curly red hair was pulled tight into a clip and her make-up was tasteful, restrained. She looked at me trustingly.
I thought of Corinne and the trailer trash comment and felt a sudden wave of shame. I wanted to apologize, but we hadn’t yet begun. It felt odd to waltz into someone’s house, bull-doze their furniture to make way for our lights and equipment, and prod them to reveal their deepest hurt for our viewing pleasure. The only thing that comforted me was him—Ricky Dean. If