loaded. Marco reaches up, pulling on his ear—his sign that I need to relax. I look at Dad and give him a goofy smile. “It was only an hour but I fell asleep and am pretty sure I drooled the entire flight.”
Dad roars with laughter at this, and the press gobbles it up. My heart is a tiny, anxious bird in my chest.
You don’t have to prove anything to him.
“Here we go,” Lou says, and a tweet appears in the column.
This is your first project as co-stars. What aspect of the process are you most looking forward to? #AskButlers
Ducking, Dad immediately begins typing. He’s so good at this; he’s been doing all kinds of press tours for so long that he doesn’t even question anymore whether he’ll come off as natural. Everything he says is adored. Without referring to notes, he hunts and pecks enthusiastically at the keyboard. Surreptitiously, hoping that the press doesn’t realize I’m not writing this from the gut, I peek at the answer Marco has crafted, typing the words and double-checking for typos before hitting send. My tweet pops up only a second before Dad’s does.
TateButler: Milkweed is the project we were always meant to do together. It may sound silly, but I just can’t wait to be on set with my dad.
IanButler: Working with my daughter is the biggest item remaining on my bucket list. It’s all going to be a joy! Tate is the best actress of her generation, and a true gift to me as a father. #AskButlers
My heart is a beast with claws that extend, wrapping around the compliment. I gobble it down.
“Tate,” Lou says gently, “if you could use the hashtag . . .”
Oh, shit. “Sorry, sorry.”
Beside me, Dad beams in my direction. “I thought I was supposed to be the technologically impaired one.”
I toss my head back and laugh. Ha, ha, ha. Inside, I am mortified.
When it’s just me—Tate Butler, actress—I’m not intimidated by flashing cameras, by probing interviews, by the heated press of fans. I’m not the wide-eyed, wobbly-chinned girl anymore, sitting on the couch between Dad and Mom, giving my well-rehearsed answers in front of a camera crew. But when I’m near Dad, the entirety of who he is seems to dwarf me. I feel a little like a computer with a glitch.
The second question comes in, and I find myself holding my breath, even though I know it won’t be personal. It’s asking for a short summary of the movie. And the one after that asks what films or shows we’ve seen lately and loved. Two more softball questions, and we’ll be done.
I type Marco’s answers, add the hashtag, and try to keep my heart rate as even and slow as possible. It isn’t the official Twitter questions that bother me—those are all standard—it’s the others I notice, the ones I know see right through me.
Why would you do a movie with that piece of shit womanizer? #AskButlers
I want to have Ian’s babies and don’t even care that he could be my grandpa. #AskButlers
Wait, I thought they hated each other? #AskButlers
If Tate hates him so much, she can get the fuck out of the way. #AskButlers
This is such an act. They look like strangers. #AskButlers
IAN BUTLER I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES! #AskButlers
The feed scrolls continuously on the enormous screen above our heads, and I can see the press reacting to every single one of them—pointing at some, laughing and nodding at others. Dad remains oblivious, seeing only what he wants to see and happily typing out his perfect, off-the-cuff answers. He’s used to living inside the heat of the sun, the pressure of the public opinion. Fourteen years later, I’m still figuring out how to navigate the good and let go of the bad.
When the chat finishes, Marco is up front, apologizing immediately, and explaining that we need to get rolling. But Dad stalls us, managing to give me a tiny look that communicates, This is your job, give them what they want. What they want is us embracing, his lips pressed to my cheek, and—just before Marco hauls me out of there—Dad picking me up around the waist in a hug, swinging me around as I laugh in delight.
Finally, we push through the doors and into the suffocating September heat. It’s so warm the concrete weaves in front of us.
“Okay, let’s hustle,” Marco mutters, and waves as our car pulls around the front of the building. We’re leaving straight from here to go to