Page 69 of The Unfinished Line

But I was going to.

I wanted this job, and I knew exactly what a complaint about the insinuation of a shared ride home was going to get me—atrivianote on IMDb: Kameryn Kingsbury was the original actress cast as Addison Riley before a scheduling conflict with the studio didn’t allow her to proceed. She is now known mostly for her bit part inMean Girls III.

“I’ll think about it,” I assured her before we hung up. And I did think about it—the full seven steps from my dining room table to my living room couch, where I promptly filed it away in the category ofthings just not going to happen. In less than two weeks I was scheduled to be on a flight to the southwestern coast of Greenland, where we would begin principal photography.

I wanted to be on that plane.

I spent the remainder of the day poring over the script for the two-hundredth time in between googling the conversion of -15°C into Fahrenheit. I could appreciate L.R.’s dedication to utilizing as little chroma keying as possible—I’d never met a single actor who enjoyed working on green screen—but I was also a little nervous about frostbite. Weeks on end in sub-freezing temperatures definitely had me browsing Amazon for the highest-rated thermal underwear.

By the time evening rolled around, the city sounded like a warzone outside my apartment. I’d drawn my curtains and flipped on the radio, trying to drown out the gunshots and fireworks blasting in tandem with the wail of sirens, but there was no escaping the chaos reverberating through the usually quiet streets of my neighborhood. I gave up on my backstory analysis and opened a new browser on my Macbook. I was halfway through a twelve-step article onHow to Get Someone Off Your Mindwhen my phone rang.

It was a private number.

“Hello?”

“Duuude!” There was a hushed whisper followed by a peal of laughter from a handful of high-pitched male voices. “She picked up! What do I say?”

I hung up. My number was unpublished, but over the last few days, I’d received at least a dozen of these phone calls. Mostly teenagers, I imagined, based on the imbecility of their stuttered dialogue every time I answered. I needed to change my number—it had been leaked somewhere—but I couldn’t bring myself to do it yet.

Tomorrow, Monday—New Year’s Day—it would be a week. If she hadn’t called by Tuesday, I’d give in and change it.

The blast of an air horn on the sidewalk outside my window made me jump, sending my iPhone clattering to the hardwood floor.

Son of a bitch.

I snatched it up, examining it for damage.

On second thought, maybe I’d just go ahead and change it. First, maybe I’d shoot her a text message of my own, telling her what I really thought—and then cut off the line before she could respond.

Because, well—fuck her. Fuck her for all her charm and her windswept hair and her bullshit about not turning lies into truths. Fuck her for making me think she wanted something more than just a casual screw. She could have been upfront. I wouldn’t have turned her down. But at least then I wouldn’t be sitting here googling how to forget someone I barely knew.

Yeah, forget Tuesday. First thing in the morning I was calling Verizon and requesting a new unlisted number. A fresh start to the New Year. A cleansing of the old me.

As was fitting of the drama of my Hollywood lifestyle, my phone rang in my lap before I could return my attention to my computer screen. There was no doubt Momus—the god of Satire and Mockery—had been peering down through the LA haze, biding his time to make a fool out of me.

Rolling. Speed. Action.

It was Dillon’s face lighting up my caller ID. Oh, the pathetic, well-timed irony.

Chill pill, Kam.

I counted five beats, certain not to answer on the first ring. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I’d been sitting around waiting for her call all week.

I didn’t, however, go with my initial plan to pretend I didn’t know who she was.I’m sorry, who? Oh—yeah, sorry, it’s been quite a week. Yeah, yeah—Dillon—of course. How are you?

Instead, I promptly blurted out, “Wow! Just over three hours to spare. Nice.”

Perfect.So much for playing it cool.

“I’m sorry, Kam.”

I at least had the benefit of knowing I had stung her. Her voice was quiet and sounded like she was stuck in an echo chamber. The Tube, I realized. It was four in the morning in London. She’d be on her way to Kensington Gardens for an early run.

On our drive up north, we’d chatted about our holiday rituals. She told me she loved to ring in the New Year with a 10k through her favorite park. I doubted she remembered what I’d told her. I liked to sleep in before starting my day with two cups of coffee—not mentioning a third was usually needed to combat my hangover—and then sit in bed and read a book cover-to-cover before making a trip to the local AMC to watch my first film of the year.

This year, I’d planned to spend it a little differently—swapping out reading for other extracurricular activities—but obviously that had been before Dillon disappeared to the UK.

“Okay.” I returned my attention to the phone call.So whatwas what I wanted to say. Instead, I went with a surefire classic. The polite rebuff. “What can I do for you?”

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