Love Unscripted (69 page)

“
And what are your thoughts about
Bottle of Red
?” I removed the script from the stack. It was the first one that I had read.

“
Lame,” he answered dryly.

“
I agree. O – U – T out.”

“
Sacred Mountain
?” I continued, panning through the pile.

“
What was that one about again?” he asked in between taste-testing dinner on the stove.

“
Secret UFO base in the mountains.”

“
Oh, yeah. That one was heavy sci-fi. What did you think of it?” he asked, almost sounding hopeful.

I pursed my lips and sneered.

“
What’s that reaction about?” he countered.

“
Aliens?” I think I rolled my eyes. “That would be a huge diversion from the roles you have been taking. Is that something that interests you?”

He shrugged. He seemed unsure of his direction.

“
Ryan, what’s your goal here? I mean when you dreamt of being an actor, what kind of actor did you want to be?”

“
Brando!” he stated with admiration. “I wanted to be Marlon Brando. The Godfather, you know! I can’t tell you how many times I looked at myself in the mirror while trying to imitate him. He was the reason I wanted to get up on stage and act.”

Ryan sat down at the table with me. “When I did the first
Seaside,
I was thinking about Gary Cooper – how he would have delivered it. I can only hope to be in that league as an actor one day. That would be the ultimate!”

“
Well then, there’s your direction. If that’s the perception you want people to have when they think of you as an actor, then you need to position yourself correctly in the right roles. Isn’t that something your agent and manager should be helping you with? I mean some of these scripts… well, they aren’t going to get you there.”

“
They’re just trying to get me jobs so I make a name for myself. It’s tough. You’ve got to take what you can get sometimes,” he responded.

“
I don’t know about that. By the looks of it I think you could afford to be a little more choosey.” I patted the nine scripts under my hand. “Perhaps if you needed a paycheck you could consider some of these, but I think that if you want your dreams to come true then you need to point yourself in their direction.” I held up the script for
The Isletin Solution
.

He smirked. “Yeah, you’re right. Hey, after dinner we need to run lines for
Slipknot
again.”

I smiled from the thought. I really enjoyed helping and watching him get into character.

I tried to “act” when I read the lines instead of just reading from the script, to the point that Ryan started coaching me when we rehearsed together. We rehearsed so often that I was starting to memorize the lines of dialogue of the other characters and the feelings they were intending to portray in each scene.

Ryan did have a cool job. It was oddly liberating “pretending” and feeling permitted to have different emotions and reactions from your own. I could see why he loves what he does for a living.

The lead female role had a lot of dialogue. She was a medical student and avid rock climber who rescues Ryan’s character out on a mountain. What I liked most about her was that she didn’t take a lot of crap from anyone.

It was very eye opening, making me acutely aware of my own personality.

“
You two wait in here. Give me a minute. Let me get your bags out first, then I’ll get you
into the terminal,” Mike said, leaning over the front seat to speak to us.

There must have been almost fifty photographers, fans, and people gawking out on the sidewalk by the doors for departing flights.

“
This is fucking crazy,” Ryan muttered. He had his back turned to the car door but the photographers ran to the other side of the car trying to get shots of him. It was hard to see in through the dark tinted windows.

“
I hate airports,” he whispered. “Are you ready for this?”

I nodded, despite the fact that I was feeling like a nervous wreck.

Airport security was waiting outside now; they were trying to move people away from the doors to the terminal. Mike opened the car door and Ryan slipped out. His foot wasn’t even on the ground yet when the frenzy began.

“
Ryan! Ryan! Can you sign this?” People were yelling at him repeatedly.

“
Ryan, over here.” The cameras flashed non-stop.

“
Can I take my picture with you?” some young girl asked sweetly.

My poor Ryan didn’t know which way to turn. Mike and our driver flanked Ryan on both sides while he signed a few autographs. Some of these people had glossy photos of his movie character in hand and it amazed me that they were so prepared for our arrival.

Ryan scribbled his signature quickly with a borrowed pen while Mike used his arm and hands to block people from getting too close. I noticed he avoided the men with professional prints and signed his autograph for the fans instead. He posed and smiled for almost twenty photos.

I removed my backpack from the trunk of the car, slung it over my shoulder, and readied my small carry-on suitcase. The paparazzi swarmed like angry bees, fighting amongst themselves for better position to take pictures. Mike finally handed Ryan his messenger bag and duffel bag and then asked the crowd to back up.

I felt so helpless. These ‘people’ for lack of a better term had us surrounded. I grabbed the back of Ryan’s jacket, fearing I might get left behind in the mayhem.

Ryan felt his jacket tug and glanced back at me to confirm I was the one doing the tugging. I tried not to look at the photographers, even though I knew my picture was being taken over and over again.

Ryan grabbed my hand and we hurried into the terminal. Mike was by his side; Ryan had me in tow. Airport security had us surrounded now. Never in my life had such a simple task like getting on a plane been so frightening!

“
Ryan! So is it official? Are you and Ms. Mitchell an exclusive item?” some paparazzo asked. Ryan didn’t answer.

“
Is it true that you and Taryn are living together?” another photographer asked while running along side of us.

Ryan still didn’t answer. He had that familiar look on his face; the one he wore when he was sick of all this shit but tried to look indifferent.

“
Come on guys. That’s enough,” Mike said to the paparazzi who were walking backwards, taking our picture and filming us.

“
Mr. Christensen, this way,” an airport security officer called out. We followed him through a separate opening in the barriers so we could get in line to go through the airport security scanners. We were ushered to a small counter where Ryan showed our boarding passes to the waiting TSA agent who verified that we had seats on an outbound flight.

“
Go first, Honey,” Ryan whispered and nudged me ahead. He was looking down at the ground most of the time. I glanced briefly over his shoulder and noticed that the paparazzi were filming us removing our coats and shoes. Fortunately Mike was blocking them from getting too much footage of Ryan.

I grabbed a gray plastic tray and tossed my coat and shoes into the bin. I pushed my backpack and small suitcase down the rollers until it met the rubber belt that fed into the scanner. Ryan was still checking his pockets for loose change. I smiled at him; he always had random amounts of money stuffed in his pockets.

I waited for Ryan and Mike to clear through the metal detector. Airport security escorted us, and instead of leading us towards the gate, we were ushered through a plain white security door.

“
Where are we going?” I whispered to Ryan.

“
We’re early. We’re going to the VIP lounge.”

I had never been in a VIP lounge before. It was beautiful! The large room had a high ceiling and was segregated into smaller sections, divided by walls and full length semi-sheer curtains. The walls were tiled in dark gray slate with stainless steel accents. Each wall had four flat screen TVs mounted across it, all broadcasting a different news channel.

In front of every TV was a cozy decorative chair and table for travelers to sit and relax. There was even a side room with free beverages and a small food buffet.

Ryan pulled out his phone and turned it on, scanning through his messages and calendar. I, however, was still in a slight daze from getting into the airport. This chaos was obviously old-hat for Ryan.

I can’t tell you how many times I flew in and out of this airport and never knew that such a room existed. I stood by the large glass window, watching the planes take off and land, trying to get my heart rate to stabilize.

Ryan came over and stood behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “How are you doing?” he whispered.

I looked up at him and nodded. “I’m doing fine.” I tried to sound convincing, but deep down I was still rattled.

“
Ten more minutes and we’ll head out for our flight,” Ryan said, opening his bag to retrieve my Mitchell’s Pub baseball hat. It made me smile when he winked and put the cap on his head.

“
I’ve noticed you’ve been avoiding those Autographers lately,” I said, questioning him.

Ryan nodded. “They make money off of my signature. I’m sick of it.”

A man in a suit, wearing a TSA security ID badge, came into the lounge for us. We were escorted down a long hallway and through another plain white door that dumped us near our gate.

All the other passengers on our flight to Newark were already boarded onto the plane. Ryan, Mike, and I took our seats up in first class. I made Ryan sit in the window seat. People were already stretching their necks to see.

The flight to Newark airport was quick and after we landed the airline staff assisted us in exiting the plane.

Airport security had us surrounded as we walked to our next gate. Mike escorted us to our gate, then turned to say goodbye. He was headed to South Carolina to see family.

“
Have a good holiday, Mike!” Ryan patted him on the arm and shook his hand.

“
You too, Ryan. Taryn.” Mike gave me a hug.

“
Happy Thanksgiving, Mike! Thank you for everything!” I hugged him warmly.

“
I’ll see you in a week.” Mike tapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Don’t eat too much turkey!”

TSA agents and airport security walked us to our departing flight bound for Pittsburgh. Three young girls ran after us begging for Ryan’s attention. Ryan graciously stopped to take a picture with them... forever smiling… forever pleasing his fans.

When we landed, we were again escorted by airport security who walked us towards the exit. As we hurried through the terminal, people were pulling out cameras and cell phones to capture the sight of Ryan Christensen walking through the airport.

I felt Ryan’s hand squeeze mine tighter when we caught sight of his mom and dad standing there waiting for us. All four of us were smiling, happy to see each other again. Sure enough, a few paparazzi were waiting outside the airport doors.

The afternoon sun was starting to dip in the sky as we approached Ryan’s hometown. He pointed out 12
^th
Street, showing me the infamous hill where he took the maiden voyage in the laundry basket.

Ryan edged closer to the car door; his hand was reaching for the door handle. I could see the excitement in his eyes and the overwhelming anticipation he was feeling for being home.

I tried to visualize the neighborhood Ryan grew up in when he talked about it, but no verbal description could compare to seeing it with my own eyes. The tree-lined street was beautifully tinted with autumn’s different colored leaves, many of which were already in piles on the ground.

The houses on his parents’ street were situated fairly far apart. Each home was set back from the street and had large front yards with plenty of grass to mow.

We turned onto a long driveway which was lined with trees and simple but tasteful landscaping. Ryan let out a sigh.

His childhood home was beautiful; a two story brick and vinyl home with a large flagstone porch leading up to the front door. The porch eaves had decorative wooden accents formed to look like archways, and from the center of each arch hung a basket with the remains of green ferns wilted from the cold.

We parked in front of the two car garage that entered into the side of the house. His father pressed the garage door opener that hung from his visor. It was apparent that they were used to entering their house through the garage.

Ryan didn’t even make it to the kitchen door – he had to pull the gray car cover up off the front end of his Shelby. The car was a beautiful shade of sapphire blue with two silver racing stripes from bumper to bumper. It surely was impressive.

“
I’ve been running it every once and a while. She should start right up,” his father informed.

Ryan pulled the entire cover off of his car and bunched it up in a pile in the corner of the garage.

“
Don’t just leave it lay there! Fold it up!” Bill reprimanded him.

“
I will, Dad. Just give me a minute to say hello.” Ryan beamed at his car. “Hello, baby!” He touched the car fender lovingly. “Did you miss me?”