Any news on scheduling?” Natalia asks from the kitchen. “We’ve put a deposit down on that cabin in Yellowstone, but I don’t want to take Stevie if you’re going to have a window of free time then.”
Next to me, dressed in her new Wonderland tee and crowned with a pink tiara, the child in question searches through dozens of tiny grayish-taupe puzzle pieces, intent on finding the corners of an elephant’s ear and the tip of a lion’s tail in our African Wild After the Rains jigsaw puzzle. I wonder about the chances that an elephant and a grown lion would stand this close to each other, but it seems a minor quibble.
“Unfortunately, no,” I say. It’s already June; our holidays would normally be parsed out and set in stone by now, but with my filming schedule still up in the air, summer plans are as well. “And I’m sorry, Nat, I know it’s a pain. I’ve been going back and forth with Felicity’s agents for weeks. Just make your plans and I’ll work around them.”
Nat crosses the room and sets down lunch for each of us before taking a seat on the floor across from me. Normally my daughter and I would be at my place for the weekend, but Stevie’s social circle seems to be ever expanding, with a birthday party tonight and another in the morning. Co-parenting means compromise, and I’m happy to hang out here if it means time together.
The food doesn’t hurt, either. It smells amazing; for the two years Nat and I were married I was deeply spoiled by her cooking. When we split, I had to get my shit together—I couldn’t feed my toddler ramen and Happy Meals every weekend. Now I appreciate nothing more than food I don’t have to prepare myself.
“How’s everything going with her?” she asks, pulling my attention up from the steaming bowl of pozole.
I haven’t shared much with Nat because there isn’t much to tell. Felicity has been communicating with me through her intermediaries—attorney and agents. She has me by the balls and knows it.
I swallow a too-hot bite, wincing. “She’s tentatively accepted.”
“What are the conditions?”
“Her agent is supposed to be sending them over.”
“You sound thrilled.”
I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Let me ask you something. Weeks ago, I asked her to do this thing. I offered—she could have turned it down but didn’t. Isn’t it weird that she still seems to be… sort of… questioning my commitment a bit?”
With a little laugh, Nat takes a bite and pokes at her bowl with a spoon. “I don’t know that much about her in real life—I mean, she shows us what she wants us to see. She seems playful and funny and adventurous, but a reality show doesn’t seem like something she’d do. There must be a reason she’s considering it, and if she called you out for seeming less than enthusiastic, you’d better get your attitude squared away.” Natalia looks at me straight on. “You’re a wonderful guy, Conn, but you’ve been acting a little snobby, like this is beneath you.”
I turn back to the puzzle. “How is it snobby if it’s accurate? I would never do this if Blaine wasn’t forcing me to.”
I know it’s a mistake as soon as the last word is out of my mouth. Even Stevie pushes a somber whistle through her teeth.
Natalia stares at me. “Connor, do you think I’m dumb?”
“What?” I say, horrified. “Of course not. You’re the smartest person I know.”
“Well, I watch reality TV. I read romance. And when you say stuff like that, it’s belittling.” She tilts her head toward Stevie, and the unspoken Especially when you do it in front of our daughter lands like a mallet.
“I just meant that it’s not my bag. Of course it’s cool if it’s yours.”
Her eyes go round. “Wow. Thank you.”
“That is not at all—”
She waves this off. “Have you watched any dating shows or read any of her books since you agreed to take this project on?”
“I ordered them.”
She looks unimpressed.
“And,” I continue proudly, “I had Brenna do write-ups on Felicity’s five top sellers.”
Stevie shakes her head again. Natalia gives me a disappointed frown.
“Okay, I hear how that sounded,” I say. “I’m the arsehole executive pawning my work off onto my assistant, that was shitty. But, Nat, the show isn’t even about Felicity’s books. It’s about her. About how charismatic she is, how good she is in front of people. It’s about the audience rooting for her.”
“Are you really so thick not to see that her audience roots for her because of what she gives us in her books?”
Before I can answer, she continues. “If you told me you didn’t like Wonderland’s music, I’d say, ‘Fine, to each their own.’ You’ve heard all their songs at least a hundred times, so you would be making an informed opinion. But you’ve never even read a romance novel or watched a reality show and have formed this opinion based on what you think they are.”
I slip another piece into place, bridging a large elephant ear to its head. “C’mon, Nat, you’ve got to admit romance novels are a touch predictable.”
“Why? Because the couple ends up together?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s a rule of the genre, Connor,” she says. “Which you would know if you’d bothered to even google it.”
I wave her on, hearing the way she’s frothing up over this. “Go on. Get it all out.”
“You describe them as my ‘guilty pleasure.’ Do you have any idea how condescending that is?”
“Well, don’t they bring you pleasure?” I ask, confused. “How is that condescending?”
“Yes, but why should I feel guilty for reading something that makes me happy?”
I open my mouth to respond, and she pins me with a look so clear in its meaning it might as well be a warning shot fired overhead.
“You treat the things I love as if they’re silly or something to be indulged,” she says. “My point, Conn, is this: You asked me if it was weird that she’s questioning your attitude. But if I see your condescension—and I’m someone who knows what a good man you are in a million other ways—what do you think she saw, when she doesn’t know you at all and her entire career is centered around something you believe is beneath you?”
I close my eyes as this one settles in. I worked on a project once where an expert said intolerance is a failure of curiosity, and it’s always stuck with me. Am I being quick to judge things I know next to nothing about? “Okay. Yeah.”
“Read one of her books.” Nat picks up her spoon again. “Keep an open mind and you might even like it.”
I know that she’s right, and I’m about to tell her so when my phone buzzes on the table with an incoming email. I open it, and immediately my brain locks up. “What the fuck?”
“Dad.” Stevie glares at me.
“Sorry, but—” I gesture to the phone. “It’s the list of Felicity’s conditions.” I do a quick scan of the text. “She wants to keep shooting to four days a week.” I look up. “I thought it was standard to keep people sequestered or something on these shows. To keep the results hidden.”
“They are on The Bachelor,” Stevie offers.
Nat reaches to adjust Stevie’s tiara. “It’s almost like knowing how these shows work would make his job easier.”
Stevie giggles.
“Okay, you,” I say, and continue scrolling through the email. Looking at all this I immediately know it’d be easier to cast someone who’s only concerned with fame and exposure. But if I’m stuck doing this, I’d rather do it with someone who has something to say.
I realize I expected her terms to read like a rider—requests for time away from the cameras, a list of dietary demands, marketing money, or specific stylists, as much promo of her books as possible—but there’s none of that. Her list of conditions reads strangely like a dare. “She’s given me a very specific casting list.” I look up at Nat. “What the hell does ‘cinnamon roll’ have to do with casting?”
“Oh,” Natalia says with quiet thrill. “Oh, Fizzy Chen, you are my goddamn hero.”
“Mom. Language.”
I frown down at my phone. “Himbo? Is that a typo?”
Nat doubles over, absolutely howling in laughter.
“And it’s going to take forever to get clarification. I’m supposed to go through her ag—” I break off when I reach the end of the scanned PDF and spot a handwritten note from Felicity near the bottom:
Text me if you have questions. Good luck! I suspect you’ll need it.
