Forever, Jack (18 page)

The problem is, I love what I do. Today really reminded me of that. I hate the shit, the fakeness, the shallowness, the games you have to play. The little dances you do to stroke egos and keep people happy and show the precise amount of gratitude and humility. But today, we were shooting a particularly emotional scene where my character leaves the love of his life and hurts her … crudely and deliberately. It was, or could have been, a brilliant scene, but we’ve been taking swings at it for days and still haven’t nailed it. I’ve been giving it everything. The scene … it was just … written wrong. I could see it so clearly. I finally got the balls to say something to the director, Dan, and he let me do it my own way while Alistair, the tool, was doing whatever the fuck it is he does when he disappears off for hours. Why is he even on the set? His consulting period is not supposed to be ongoing.

Ok, rant over.

I miss her. How can you miss someone you haven’t really spent much time with? I think it must be my soul that misses her then. It’s the only explanation.

I’m really getting into the head of my character, this artist, and I keep wondering what she would say about this. What advice she’d give.

Now that we’ve mostly gotten “Alistair Molester” removed from the set, things are going brilliantly. I’m really involved, it’s been a pretty awesome experience. Dan, the director, is talking about giving me a writing and directing credit. Word’s been getting out and we’ve had some press asking to get past our closed set policy. I’ve pushed back. I need to keep my contrived off-camera persona separate from what I’m doing here. I’ve had a few more photo ops with Suzy and some friends of hers. They’re cool girls and good for a laugh. And mostly blonde, thank God. It’s bad enough when I’m feeling bloody lonely and half a bottle in, that sometimes I think if I met someone with her exact hair color, like burned caramel, it would be easy to just pretend. For a moment. I’m not sure why I don’t actually. I mean at this stage she’s got to have moved on. Maybe it didn’t even take her this long. Or maybe she’s seen the pictures and assumed the worst.

Maybe I should move on, too. I just … can’t.

Maybe, what we had wasn’t “all that.” Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe she never gave a fucking shit, and I’m the only one who read more into it. I wanted her to see past that ridiculous coat of confidence I wear, but what if she never did? Or what if she did see me, and I wasn’t enough for her?

Conference call about Dread Pirate Roberts’ movie today. It was good to hear Devon’s voice on the phone. Some guys from Peak were on the call too, and a money guy from right down the road here in London. I’ve been pushing for them to set the movie in Savannah. I knew Devon would be on board since he has a place near there that he doesn’t get to enjoy enough. I went on about the history of the city and the riverfront docks, etc. We’ll see. I just need a way to spend a LOT of time there. No guesses as to why. I called Duane back again after everyone else hung up and practically begged. We’ll see what the price is down the line if he goes for it.

Fuck, I’m depressed. It’s good for my role. The part I’m playing is as morose as they come.

It doesn’t even fucking rain here, it’s just wet. Like a constant bone-deep chill with the incessant grey drizzle. I keep remembering the rainstorm I trudged through to get to her house, before I … shit, I can’t write about that right now.

Now that’s what you call a raindrop. Just one of those things’ll drench you all by itself. They don’t mess around with rain there. This shit is just taking the piss.

I found a tiny old copper sea turtle on a leather cord while I was on Portobello Road last week. I seem to be carrying it around in my pocket all the time. Apparently a tattoo on my foot isn’t enough. Who knew I was this sentimental? Not me …

Oh and it’s my birthday. I was given a case of Bushmills. I wonder how long it will take me to get through it? Perhaps I should give it away rather than take a bet on that.

Great news. Turns out Savannah has a new studio being built, and a huge film grant ever since Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil increased tourism to the city by over forty percent. Also, the money guy in London is obsessed with the “deep south” and was all over the idea. And … I’m getting a writing and directing credit on this! Alistair is pissed (pissed off and pissed drunk). Still.

I want to tell her. I want to call her and tell her. I even pulled up her number on my phone and stared at it between takes today.

I told my mother about Keri Ann today. It was time we had a really good talk. I’ve been working on dealing with some of the shit about my father, too. Asking her stuff I just never wanted to know before. She was happy I was talking, said I always bottled stuff up and found it hard to express my own emotions. “You’re really good at it when you are being someone else,” she said. “Why can’t you just do it for yourself?”

She called me a man-sized “message in a bottle.” A love story waiting to happen if the right person found me, and if I would only open up and embrace who I am.

She always was a bit cliché.

The movie’s wrapping soon. It’s been an amazing experience professionally. Personally, not so much. I’m trying not to think of what’s next. I’ve been drinking a lot, more than usual. When we all go out, I just want to get hammered. My few photo opportunities may have led to a bit of a “party guy” image. In a way, I don’t care because it’s probably pissing Audrey off, and that satisfies me in a small way. Although why anyone would want to poke at a snake, I have no idea. And of course underneath it all, I’m worried I’ve probably really killed the last chance I had with Keri Ann because of it. The end of the contract is coming up which means I have no reasons not to go back to Butler Cove. And then there’s the movie in Savannah. I’m definitely headed back there either way. And I’ve done everything I can to ensure she’ll never want to see me again.