Cade
My phone pings with a notification, and I glance up from my sandwich prep. Tim has surprisingly been off my back, although he did leave a message the day before stating that I was due in Vancouver for the first read-through in one week, with filming to begin shortly after.
Joy.
There hasn’t been word on who they casted for the part of Jess, my love interest, but at this point, I figure they’re keeping that quiet so that I won’t back out. I just know that it isn’t Tatum.
I’d done a basic search on the girl and, based on her audition reel, wasn’t at all surprised at the number of hits her named yielded. She may not have been a person I recognized, but the woman was an actress. She knew what she was doing.
All the search hits said the same thing: she was MIA.
There were paparazzi images of her with her last co-star, Grant Maxwell, as well as some not-so-nice headlines—eluding to her having tried to ruin Grant’s marriage—but those headlines were a dime a dozen; it was part of the business. Surely, these ten-words-or-less statements weren’t the reason she’d gone in hiding.
Her IMDB—Internet Movie Data Base—account showed she’d been in the acting business since she was twelve; she’d have to have a thick skin, after six, seven years on the small and big screens.
So, basically, I was giving up on casting finding her and getting her to sign on to the movie. Without anything solid to work from, and with just the knowledge her agent was not sending Tatum messages…
I had to give up the idea of her.
But then the question was, who? Who on that list of nine, was going to show up in Vancouver?
Sure, I’d prefer to work opposite a woman that I can at least pretend to like. It’s not just the movie that I’ll have to been seen with her—there are the PR tours, and the carpet, and sightings around L.A. that would all have to be accomplished. And if I was walking next to a woman I didn’t like…
I mean, I’m an actor.
I can act.
The Oscar nods can attest to that.
But you can’t fake chemistry.
However…
It wasn’t like I have anything to fall back on if this production were to be cancelled.
No movies in the works.
I’m not allowed on my dirt bike yet.
So, nothing.
I have to get back to work. Sitting in this big, high-rise condo isn’t doing anything for me.
Resigned by my thoughts, I cap the mayo and lick the butter knife, walking toward the counter my phone rests on. Swiping against the screen, I wake up the phone and punch in my keylock to see what caused the device to ping.
An Instagram notification.
Picking my phone up, I walk to the sink to deposit the used knife and open the notification.
It’s a tag; a picture of Charleigh and me, back in elementary school.
#tbt to that time this kid started kindergarten. Back when it wasn’t called 5k. You’re old @mx_caj
I can’t help but smile at the image. We were really young; five and six. Where Charleigh has always had the same shade of dirty blonde hair, my now brown hair was once super light—nearly white. In the still shot, Charleigh and I are standing in front of the White’s house and hugging one another, big smiles on our faces. Because we went to a private school, we both wore similar uniforms—navy blue slacks with button-down shirts; mine that day was light blue and hers was white.
The picture feels like ages ago.
One never truly feels like they’re getting old until a picture like this pops up and makes you realize—it’s been over fifteen years.
That’s a long time.
Curious what other pictures Charleigh has on her public profile, I back out to the grid view and slowly scroll through the images, my sandwich long forgotten. For as not-girly as Charleigh can be, she is a social media genius. Where my Instagram is a hodge-podge of colors and styles, hers is done in a clear pattern:
Black and white. Bright colors. Black and white. Quote on a white background.
Black and white. Bright colors. Black and white. Quote on a white background.
Very few pictures are selfies or solo shots of Charleigh; most are her with friends, or the family lab, Black. As I scroll, I come across a couple images from Coachella a few months ago—and it’s there that I stop; tap a picture so it opens in full-screen.
And stare at the black and white picture of a pretty blonde with sad eyes.
Oh, her face is morphed in laughter and she has an oversized floppy hat atop her head, her hair otherwise down in big curls.
But her eyes betray her laughter.
I’m also ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure this girl is Tatum O’Malley.
I look at the caption.
Having a blast with this cutie, popping her #Coachella cherry. LYH @tatum0502
Tatum.
Yes.
I click the girl’s handle but groan when I’m taken to an ‘unavailable’ page.
I click back to Charleigh’s page and try to find other pictures of Tatum; try to see if I can figure out her current handle.
But the only one Charleigh uses on her account, is the no longer live tatum0502.
I try to search for a verified Tatum O’Malley user, but come up empty. The girl has plenty of tags and poser profiles, though.
Maybe on Charleigh’s personal profile, the one only family and friends have access to…
I type her private name in even though I’m convinced I’ll get nowhere. Charleigh social medias in spurts, and because she’s been fairly active on her public profile, I’m doubtful I’ll find anything on her personal account.
This account is Charleigh’s hodge-podge. This one, looks more like mine.
The very first post is a quote in black, over a black and white image. It’s a quote about pain and using it to become better, and it’s written by the Instagram sensation, Atticus. I frown as I read it, because the words are more depressing than I know Charleigh to be. I go into feed view and scroll past the image to see what she wrote. Literally nothing, other than the repost tag.
Not sure what to make of the post, I keep scrolling.
The next image is clearly up at the White’s house in Tahoe and is a picture of two girls sitting at the end of the dock, their backs to the camera while the girl on the left has her arm wrapped around the shoulders of the other girl. I can make out the hugger to be Charleigh but am curious as to whom Charleigh hung out with on her mini vacation.
Unfortunately, this image doesn’t have any sort of caption.
Dammit, Charleigh…
Well, I can do one of two things.
Continue to try and stalk Tatum down, on the downlow, or I can man up and ask Charleigh if she knows where Tatum is, and how I can talk to her.
Yeah, I want Tatum to be my opposite in the movie, and Sydney stated that she had been their next choice, so surely, if I can get ahold of her…that’d be a good thing, right?
My stomach growls, reminding me of my sandwich. I start to pull up Charleigh’s contact card as I retrieve my lunch, bringing the phone to my ear as it rings. I’m taking a bite just as Charleigh answers.
“What’s the good word, Cade?”
I chew quickly and swallow hard before just plunging. “How well do you know Tatum O’Malley?”
She’s slow to answer, but her answer is definitive, even if short. “Well.”
Her tone tells me enough.
She’s hiding something.
“So, you know where she is.”
“What’s this about?” It’s not like Charleigh to dodge questions, and my interest is piqued further.
“I want her for the movie, but casting says they can’t get in touch with her, nor is her agent taking messages. You know her, well even you said, so I was wondering if you knew where she was.”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “I do know. But she’s not doing any films. Not now.” Charleigh sounds like a protective mama bear.
“Why not?” I push my plate and sandwich away, turning and hopping up to sit on the counter. “I saw her audition, Char. She’d be great. I want her.”
“She’s not signing on to projects right now, Cade.” My friend sounds annoyed with me.
“What are you hiding? She’s the girl in your lake house picture, isn’t she? She’s hiding. Why?” A plan is starting to form in my head. I’ll go to the house. I can talk to her in person. I’ll get her to do the film. I can be persuasive if I really want it bad enough.
And right now?
I want this bad enough.
“Cade…” I can picture Charleigh pacing in her annoyance. “Leave her alone.”
“So, she is at the house.”
“Ugh! Yes! Yes, she’s at the house. Leave her alone, Cade!”
When I don’t say anything—mostly because I’m working on my plans to do just the opposite of what Charleigh is suggesting—she speaks up again. “Why does it have to be her?”
“Because she’s great.”
“So are hundreds of others.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “You were the one who told me to make demands. I want her. I want her to play the part.”
“She’s out of commission.”
“Why?”
“Cade, so help me God, if you go up to the house…”
“Love you, Char.”
“Cade!” But I hang up, my plan more than ready.
I glance to the clock and see it’s only one in the afternoon. If I leave now, I can get to the house before eight-thirty. The sun won’t be completely set yet, so it would be absolutely acceptable to show up that late.
Besides, she’s a Hollywood actress.
Eight is still early.
Guess I’m heading on a road trip.