Page 53 of Beyond the Bright Lights

What a tool.

Jensen and I grew up together. He’s a year older than me, and he was an actor before a director. We'd audition for the same movies and television shows, and I’d get cast as the hot lead while Jensen played the fat funny friend (not my wording, Hollywood’s. Like, it legit said that in the casting calls).

That 80s series I told Lana about was one of the shows we worked on together. We were teenagers at the time of filming, me sixteen, him seventeen. We were on set together for hours upon hours a day, six days a week, every week, eight months out of the year for three years before the series was canceled. During that time, Jensen became interested in directing. He bought a camera, and we’d film stuff between scenes. I’d write a short script, and it’d make no sense, but then I'd act it out and Jensen would direct it. We even got some of the other cast members to take part.

Jensen released those short films on YouTube after our careers took off. Then, when I got my first Oscar nomination, the short films received more attention. Enough that Jensen booked a directing job on an indie film that won all sorts of awards.

In the two years since my career began to tank, Jensen has directed two Oscar-nominated movies. He didn’t win for either one, but it was enough to garner him top picks on whatever project he wanted.

That used to be me.

Now here we are. Two Oscar-nominated pricks. One asshole director who drops friends when their addiction becomes an inconvenience and thinks he's better than everyone because he was once on Forbes list of thirty under thirty. The other, an asshole actor who had it all and fucked it up because of his disease.

I don’t know what to say to Jensen. This is the first time we’ve spoken since he abandoned me at some New York City club while I was downing bottle after bottle, sniffing line after line. I’d just gotten fired as the lead for an unnamed Ron Howard science-fiction action flick. I’d gone out to drown my sorrows, dragging Jensen with me. He left when I began singing and dancing on furniture, making an absolute fool out of myself.

He stuck with me for two years while I tanked my career but, in the end, he wanted no part of my downward spiral. Still, he could have at least dropped me a rope, so I could pull myself out.

That was months ago.

Jensen’s brows pinch together at my silence. Did he expect us to pick up where we left off?

He asks me about the script and learning my lines.

“Great,” I say. “I’ll be ready a week from Monday.”

Jensen latches a hand on my shoulder and shakes it. I grit my teeth and restrain from doing what flashed across my mind (tearing Jensen’s hand off my shoulder and breaking his wrist).

“You’re here early,” I manage to say.

“Yeah, gotta finalize the shot list and other pre-production bullshit. The production coordinator is flying in tonight and the first assistant director will be here tomorrow along with the production manager. You know how it goes.”

I do. The crew will start setting up this week and by next weekend, the rest of cast should arrive. Then after a month, we’ll pack up and do it all again in Jonesboro, the town where Lana and Tyler went to college.

“Oh, I want to do a final table read the Sunday before filming starts since you missed out on the original one.”

Jensen releases my shoulder, and I force a smile. “Sounds good, man.”

My ex-friend glances to my right and frowns. I follow his line of sight and notice Bruno is standing next to me, massive arms crossed, sneering at the man. He has murder in his eyes and it’s terrifying.

Jensen quickly ducks his sights away from Bruno’s scrutiny and gives me a nervous smile. He points over his shoulder at a group of men and women, some with familiar faces. “You’re welcome to come over there with me and meet some of the crew.”

“Thanks man, but I want to run through the script a few more times. Gotta make sure the accent is perfect too.”

Jensen nods, and I don’t miss the flash of surprise across his face. As if he’s stunned that I actually care about this project. “You’ve been working with that Lana chick, right? The real one?”

That Lana chick? I swallow the anger building in my throat. I must not have been holding it back enough because Bruno’s hand wraps around my elbow, pulling me back slightly.

“Yeah,” I bite out. “She’s great. I’ve learned quite a bit from her about the character.”

“Good,” Jensen says and turns around, only to pivot on his heel, holding up a finger. “I saw the pictures. At the lake?”

Is that a question? Where is he going with this? He pauses, waiting for me to respond. When I don’t say anything, because I’m not sure what he’s trying to ask, he shakes his head, disappointment pouring off him.

“Can I give you some advice?”

I absolutely do not want his advice, but that doesn’t stop him from offering it.

“Just . . . don’t. Not with her.”

---