Page 8 of Make The Cut

“You don’t have to talk about Ryder. I was just curious.”

Curious to know how it feels to betray others instead of being betrayed, for once.

Chapter Three: Naoya Sugawa

“Lights, cameras, action!” The director calls out, as Rose and I film the promotional teaser forMake The Cut.

“So, Rose,” I say as the blonde crosses her legs, adjusting her bluish-green dress. She sits in a director’s chair across from mine. “I heard something pretty exciting is happening in October…”

She tucks a sleek strand of golden hair behind one ear. “Well, Naoya, the rumours are true. We’re collaborating on a special project, and we can’t wait for all our fans to hear about it. Want to drop a hint?”

“I’d be honoured to.” I wink at her. “Our upcoming project is calledMake The Cut, and it’s going to be a brand new talent show.”

Rose nods, a smile curving her red lips—a smile that’s made millions of dollars in perfume ads and magazine photoshoots before she retired from modelling to become a fashion designer. “I’mgoing to be mentoring and judging six contestants over twelve weeks while they design the perfect wardrobe for six up-and-coming singers and songwriters…”

“WhoIwill be in charge of,” I say. “This show is premiering on October fourteenth, so don’t miss it!”

“And, cut!” Andy, our director, clears his throat. “Naoya, Rose, that was great. I think we’ll go with this one for the teaser.”

I don’t miss the hint of desperation in his tone. He’s been here all morning and is probably waiting to get to lunch. We’ve shot eight different takes and each one has resulted in him telling either of us to stop looking like we hate each other or reminding us—especially Rose—not to look directly into the camera, therefore stunning viewers with her astounding beauty or something.

To be fair, it’s hard to shoot and direct people who antagonize each other in real life when neither of them is an actor by profession. Rose McCartney and I had a brief fling a year ago, but I contacted her when I was coming up with the show idea, needing a fashion judge. She agreed so she could promote her new clothing line, but it seems like both of us forgot how much we actively dislike each other.

“I can’t believe I have to wearteal.” Rose pouts as she removes the microphone clipped to her wrap dress. “Everyone knows I look awful in cool colours. I’m anautumn.”

I have no idea what that means. “Blue and purple are the colours of the show, Rose, and I thought you agreed to do this show to promote your fashion line.”

She rolls her eyes and I remember why we broke up after only three months. “You wouldn’t get it.”

I hop off my chair and fiddle with my turquoise and purple tie, which probably looks a lot worse on me than Rose’s dress does on her. It takes a lot to make a supermodel look bad, after all. “No, and I don’t want to.”

“I can’t believe I agreed to do this show with you,” she mutters.

“You signed a contract for the first season,” I remind her. This showhasto go perfectly. I’ve poured a sizable chunk of my savings into it, and the numerous comparisons to my father, a celebrity chef in Japan who had a wildly successful cooking show for years, do not sit well with me. “You can’t back out now without a lawsuit.”

“I’ll behave for the cameras,” she snaps. “That’s all that matters.”

I retreat from the set, eager to change out of my suit into a pair of jeans and get some work doneawayfrom my ex-girlfriend. Just as I’ve reached the sanctuary of my dressing room, my phone rings. I pick it up without seeing the caller ID, which is my first mistake. “Hello?”

“Hi, Naoya,” says an absolute scumbag and the worst human being to walk the earth. “How have you been?”

“Iwasdoing great.”

“You don’t have to be so hostile to me. Iamyour father.” Daisuke Sugawa sighs.

“Regrettably, I’m sure.”

“Naoya, I have some news to tell you.”

I undo the buttons of my shirt and put him on speakerphone. “When wereyougoing to tell me that you cheated on my mom and had a mistress?”

“Listen—“

“Who you gotpregnant, by the way.”

“When are you going to get past the past?”

Our conversations always go this way, which is why I usually never pick up. I used to idolize my father before I realized he was the reason my parents divorced. He had his face on countless bottles of soy sauce from his brand and had a cooking show that made it to Food Network. When I visited him every summer in Japan, I always thought he was the coolest guy in the world. We would go to fancy restaurants and tourists would ask for his autograph or pictures with him. Meanwhile, back in L.A., my mom and I shared a small apartment in Chinatown, and she made me do my homework and stopped me from skateboarding indoors or going out with my friends after curfew.

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