Adulation (15 page)

We all have a choice in how much of our lives we want made public. The world of Facebook andforums and phones that take photographs often makes that difficult, but we can choose not to be on Facebook, not to post on a public forum, not to appear on Letterman.

I can tell you which films won the Best Screenplay Oscar for the last five years, Adapted and Original, and I can give you the names of those well-deserving scribes for at least three out of the ten. Of those three, I couldn’t tell you what they look like, couldn’t pick them out of a lineup, wouldn’tknow them if they bumped into me on the street. Ditto for my favorite TV shows, books, and songs (ifthey weren’t written by the singer/band who recorded them). I know what Nora Ephron looks like. Iknow what David E. Kelley looks like. You, sir, I see everywhere. The covers of magazines. Themetaphorical “Page Six” of gossip-trash rags and TV shows. Strutting down the red carpet. I know ofno other screenwriter or director who goes on prime-time television,  public and corporately ownedradio, and the top periodicals in the country to promote his/her films (they usually leave it up to theactors to do that).

I am no more a fan of voyeurism than you are, but celebrity-ism is self-inflicted. It can beavoided to some degree. Look at Paul Newman or Robert Redford. But you can’t have it both ways. You can’t walk into a room saying “Look at me!” and then complain that everyone is looking at you. You can just walk into a room.

Some of your fans’ stories are astounding. Some of them became historians and evenpoliticians because they were inspired by Winters in Hyannis. Some of them became lawyers becauseyou created characters that were blissfully in love with the law. Some of them entered schools to bewriters and directors and actors and filmmakers and television producers because of a play or a filmor an episode that you wrote. Some of them got sober because if you could do it, then so could they. Not everyone wants a piece of you. They just want you to say hello to them and shake their hand, andthen they’ll be on their way. For some, that’s enough.

He read slowly, and this time, when he saw the words “You, sir,” it hit him: My God, could Sunnyside be
her
? For some reason he’d believed she didn’t spend her time on such forums. For some reason he sawher sitting in coffee shops on days off with a book in one hand and a latte in the other, a pair of horn-rimmed, retro fifties-style glasses perched on the tip of her nose. He pictured her poised, yet laid back,laughing easily and not taking herself too seriously. Although she had taken
 
this
 
seriously. She had taken itpersonally. And perhaps he was so pissed off at  this commenter because she’d been right all along. Washe remorseful for having made the wannabe remark or was he remorseful for having offended
 
her
? Yes, ithad been a stupid thing for him to say. He knew that. Yes, he was wrong. But he’d made way biggermistakes than this, and he’d been atoning for them ever since.

There was only one person who deserved his eternal remorse, but no amount of it would evermake up for the trauma he’d inflicted upon her fifteen years ago, the night he’d quit drinking for good.

But he’d keep trying, because it was all he could do.

Or was this part of his atonement—that he’d have to apologize for
 
everything
 
for the rest of his

life?

Sunnyside was
 
her
—every fiber of his being inexplicably knew it.

He called Robbie Marsh.

“Is there a way to get someone to contact me via the Internet without a thousand other people contacting me as well?” asked Danny.

“Excuse me?” said Robbie.

“I want someone’s e-mail address, someone on a public forum, and I can’t ask her for it without giving her my own or asking her to post hers publicly. So I was wondering if there was a way I could do it without actually doing it, or something.”

“Why are you asking me?” asked Robbie.

“I thought you were the computer genius,” said Danny.

“I have a mild Twitter addiction and I play a few online video games, but that’s about it.”

“A ‘mild addiction’ is the equivalent of ‘a touch of pregnancy,’” said Danny.

“Sorry, dude,” said Robbie. He paused for a beat before continuing. “Why don’t you use the direct message function?”

“The what?”

“This is about the video thing and Masterminds, right? I was on it earlier.”

“You know about Masterminds?” asked Danny.

“I post something there every now and then. They’re mostly a cool bunch of people. Anyway, right under the username of whoever posts a comment, there’s a link that says ‘Message.’ That means you can send a message and she’ll receive a private e-mail rather than it being posted publicly. Course you have to be an official member of the site to send and receive direct messages.”

Danny felt like someone had just punked him. “For fuck’s sake, why didn’t you tell me that before?” he yelled.

“What am I, psychic? How did I know you didn’t want all that stuff on there? Although, dude, you should really delete those posts before it starts trending on Twitter. On the other hand, I think it’s starting to work in your favor. Friend of mine told me the theaters are packed for
 
Exposed
.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, not listening to him. “Thanks, Robbie. I’ll talk to you later.” He put the phone down, set up a new e-mail account, officially subscribed to Masterminds as D. Masters, and sent a direct message to Sunnyside:

If you’re the woman from the street outside the theater, the one who called me a jackass—then I wantto get to know you. Not just to make amends, but because I think you’re someone worth knowing. Even

if you’re not her, then that’s OK too. And had I known I could, I would’ve made this all private. Not

the apology,  but everything that followed. Tell me *your* story, starting with your name.

Best, Danny.

And that was that.

For the first time in over twenty-four hours, he felt relief. And suddenly he was hungry. He wasready to go to the LA premiere, ready to deal with the press, ready to take on the world.

He only hoped she would be there when he got back.

And sure enough, when he got home and checked his e-mails, she was waiting for him: Messagefrom Sunnyside.

Danny’s heart stopped for a nanosecond before speeding up. He read her reply:

My name is Sunny. But you don’t want to get to know me. I’m not who you think I am.

He stared at the words at first, seeing them more than reading them. But what did they mean?

He stood up and looked around the empty room, brushing his hair back with his hands as he did so. After turning out the light, he went to the bed, fully clothed once again, sat up and leaned against hispillow, and stared into darkness, silent.

Jackass. Failure.

CHAPTER TEN

Sunny Smith

“I
 
CANNOT BELIEVE
 
you are having an online argument with Danny Masters,” said Theo as we bit into cheeseburgers at the pub equidistant from Whitford’s and her chiropractic practice. Two days had passed since Danny had thrown down the gauntlet in a direct message, and I had responded with
 
You don’t want to get to know me—I’m not who you think I am
, unsubscribed from Masterminds, and not returned since.

When I had first received the notification—Direct Message from Danny Masters—my heart leaped into my throat. Me—he was messaging
 
me
 
! But his invitation terrified me. What little confidence or hope I had acquired that day in the city had washed off with the makeup. Every time I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection—flawless face and runway-ready hair and trendy outfit long gone—I grew more convinced that Danny had become temporarily infatuated with someone who didn’t exist, and now all he wanted was what he couldn’t have. He wanted me to like him again, nothing more. And although he’d revealed his humanity for a split second in and outside the theater, it had been overshadowed by ego and arrogance, I’d decided.

Moreover, I didn’t tell Theo or Georgie about the direct message. They would yell at me, tell me I’d just made a huge mistake, make me message him back and tell him I was hacked. I didn’t want to hear it.

“It was just that one day,” I said in reference to our online volleys. “And for all I know, I was having an argument with a guy who directs porn movies.”

Theo laughed, dipped one of her fries in barbecue sauce, and popped it in her mouth. “You know what I think? I think you’re afraid to admit to yourself that you really truly believe that this is the guy you are meant to be with.”

“Really truly?” I asked. She ignored my mockery of her adverb indulgence and cocked her eyebrow at me. “Georgie’s got you drinking the Kool-Aid now, huh,” I said.

“Well, maybe Georgie’s right this time. I can actually see you two together. Why can’t he be the one for you? I mean, how do you know it wasn’t destiny bringing the two of you together?”

“In fantasy land, maybe. Anyway, this whole thing has gotten out of hand. I’m off Masterminds for good and am going back to normal life.”

“Well, isn’t
 
that
 
fun,” she said as she dipped another fry. “You need some excitement and adventure, Sunny. Get out into the world: go whitewater rafting, hike the Appalachian Trail, backpack across Europe—anything to get you out of that dank stockroom.”

“Hey, I like my job,” I said in defense.

“I mean, my God, you’re
forty
!”

“You make it sound like a death sentence.”

“That’s a
 
good
 
thing. You’re forty and single and childless.”

Her pep talk was depressing me more by the second.

“So are you,” I pointed out.

“Precisely. We’ve got no one to answer to,” she said, “but at least I’ve got a career and I go out on

dates.”

“I’ve got a
job
, Theo.”

“Which you can leave at any time.”

“It’s not like I’ve got stockpiles of money in a vault somewhere. I just about make ends meet.”

“Then make a plan.”

“I already have that Forty for Forty list.”

“And how’s it coming along?” she asked.

I shrugged. “It’s only been what, a week?”

She looked at me, exasperated. “So? Pick one thing, the one you want to do the most. Like writing. You used to
 
love
 
to write. The words couldn’t get on the page fast enough. And you couldn’t wait to show us your novels when they were finished. What happened to that love? I can’t believe it just vanished one day.”

Her words conjured memories of the days when I got so lost in the worlds I’d created, when Theo and Georgie and I would sit in a triangle on the floor, legs crossed, taking turns reading the pages out loud. Even Teddy used to be so supportive. Suddenly I was filled with longing for those pages and those places. They felt like lost children to me.

I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone. “I don’t know, Theo. I guess I stopped finding things to write about.”

She looked at me skeptically. “So then publish the ones you’ve already written. What about all those independent author, e-book success stories you told me about?”

“Do you know how many e-books are listed on Amazon now?” I said, cowering at the thought. “At least a million.”

“You know what your problem is? You have an excuse for everything. Stop making excuses and just do it! Write a book, take a trip, go to LA and find Danny Masters—you can do and have anything you want. You’ve squandered your life away, all because Teddy cheated on you and told the world about it on TV.”

I looked at her with daggers in my eyes.

“Thank you for reminding me,” I said, my voice cold. “And thank you for making it sound socasual.”

She took my hand. “Of course it was a shitty thing. But how much longer are you going to let itvictimize you? It’s been way too long already. It’s bad enough he cheated on you and didn’t stand by youwhen you found out you couldn’t have children. But why should you throw your life away just because Teddy was a tool?”