“Nashy, come on. Think about this. If you two can find common ground, this will go faster and be less of a pain in the ass for you,” Mom explains.
“Finding common ground with Tenley is like finding a needle in a haystack. And if I do find it, the needle will likely stab me and I’ll bleed to death.” Yes. I’m being dramatic and my mother’s expression says it. I sigh. “Fine. I’ll try.”
I won’t. Not hard anyway. Because it’s a colossal waste of time. Tenley is the oil to my water. The cloud to my blue sky. The piss in my cereal. Nothing can change that.
Chapter 8
Tenley
I look through the peephole on my apartment’s front door, see Fisher’s face, and walk away. He knocks again and then his face appears in the plate glass window directly next to my front door.
“Tenley you can’t give me the cold shoulder forever!”
“Fuck you!”
“Ten! I didn’t steal your job and I didn’t rat you out,” Fisher pleads for the millionth time. “I saved our show.”
“Fuck you!” I yell through the window.
“Okay fine. Fuck me, but this show is filming, whether you like it or not. You’re involved on camera and off, and I have to talk to you about the fucking show so open up,” Fisher barks. “Or resign as producer and I won’t consult you on anything going forward.”
It's still my baby. I still invented the concept and I can still have a say in how it goes. I take a deep breath, turn, and open the door. I've been spiraling a little if I'm honest. Since we got back from Seattle, I've been laying low. A lot of my family is in town but I haven't been meeting up with them, or going to family dinners. I've stayed tucked away in this apartment Door Dashing Chipotle and playing my Angst Playlist like a grieving dumped girlfriend. Because I'm just as heartbroken as one losing control of this documentary.
“Why aren’t you living with your husband?” I glare at him as soon as he asks it. “I know, but, like no one else knows and they’re going to figure out something is off if you’re in this shithole and not his fancy house.”
I make my way back to the couch, where I’ve been rotting under a black and red plaid fleece NHLPA throw blanket, a pile of empty candy wrappers and chip bags, and a crusty avocado dip container. I crawl back under the blanket and curl up. “Nash-Hole doesn’t have a home.”
“He’s… homeless? What? Does he live in a hotel or something, like Howard Hughes?” Fisher asks.
“He has a big concrete box he calls an apartment,” I mutter, snuggling deeper under the covers. “He hosted a Christmas party once, for the team. I think because he lost a bet. It was like trying to be festive in an abandoned garage. I had to keep my coat on the entire party, it was so cold, both emotionally and physically.”
Fisher laughs. Jerk. He drops down on the chair beside me. “You like to act like you’re this strong independent woman, but one thing doesn’t go your way and you’re a pouty little princess.”
“Oh go fuck yourself,” I snarl and sit up. My hair is half in and half out of a top knot. The same top knot I shoved it into two days ago when I got home from Seattle. It’s a mess and needs a good wash. “I’ve disappointed my parents for the first time in my life and it’s a lot, okay? You never seemed very close to your parents but I’m very close to mine, and this sucks. On top of which I lost the director title on my first documentary so I’m pissed. And if you aren’t lying and you didn’t sell me out, I’m walking around with an enemy, a traitor, in my inner circle. That’s upsetting. I’m not a princess.”
Fisher sighs like he's over my distress. "Ten. Babe. If I turned into a Chipotle Couch Rat every time life kicked me in the nuts, I would have never met you. Did you know I got rejected from UCLA the first time I applied? And that I had to drop out the second time when they finally let me in? I ran out of money for the second year so I took a semester off until I could save up half the money and get my long-lost rich aunt to pay the other half. Then I had to spend the summer as her own personal gardener to pay it back. And she has a big-ass lawn in the valley. It was, like, a hundred degrees every day that summer."
I ignore him and curl up on the couch again. He always makes this about me being a “have” and him being a “have not”. He’s not wrong, but he’s also not right. I worked my ass off. My name did not get me into the film program at UCLA, but I haven’t had a financial struggle. He always makes me feel like I don’t deserve anything.
“You need to move in with your husband because we’re filming his daily routine all day tomorrow,” Fisher announces, shocking me.
“What? Since when? You’re supposed to be in Nova Scotia filming his mom at her work,” I say and sit up.
“We got a bigger budget. We’re doing both. A crew is on their way to Nova Scotia right now,” Fisher explains. “I fly out to join them tonight. I’m directing that segment.”
“Who’s directing the one at Nash’s?” I ask.
He smiles. "I was hoping you. If you could wash the stench of depression off you and get your ass over there."
"I don't have to move in," I argue and start cleaning the table, shoving wrappers into take-out bags. "I'll just get there extra early and bring a couple things to make it look like I live there."
“Ten, someone’s gonna talk if you don’t live with him.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “Is that a threat?”
He lifts both hands up and stands like I’m a cop with a gun pointed at him. “Killer, I’ve told you a hundred times, I am not your enemy. But TMZ and all the other nosy sports fans and WAG stalkers might be.”
"Oh shit. I'm a WAG," I gasp because I never thought about that before. Yeah, the marriage is fake but no one knows that which makes me a WAG, the nickname for wives and girlfriends of professional athletes. He's right. There are whole blogs dedicated to WAGs and so many people who sell info or secrets on them.