Chapter Three

Wren would like to go home now. Her blissful forty-eight hours were being eaten into, her shoulder ached, her head had six stitches—just like Madison had said it would—and her whole body kind of…hurt.

Annie had told her it was normal as she had a very slight concussion, but if she had any nausea—there was a whole list after that—she should call a doctor.

So, Wren was going to go home, sit in her house, feel a bit sad and sorry for herself, and be alone. Which had been, really, all she’d wanted for those forty-eight hours.

She still hadn’t checked her phone.

Instead, she’d spent the last few hours just staring at the brilliantly white wall. Annie bustled in every now and again, took observations, asked her the day. One of those times Wren had said, “December 25^th,” and Annie’s head had snapped up, then she’d laughed at Wren’s cheeky look.

Maybe she was bored.

But every time she considered reaching for her phone to read something, or chat with anyone, the dread of what her messages and emails would be saying rose up. Never mind what the state of her social media would be.

Finally, several hours in and waiting for discharge, she picked her phone up. Squinting one eye closed, she looked down at it.

And groaned, very loudly, dropping her head back on the pillow.

“Bad news?” Annie asked, slipping into the room.

Wren turned her phone around so Annie could see the lock screen. Even as Annie looked at what Wren was showing her, she popped the probe onto Wren’s finger that would spit out the digital numbers of her heart rate and who knew what else.

The fact that Wren didn’t know what that would be after shooting eight episodes of an award-winning medical drama miniseries made her flinch internally. No wonder Doctor Friedman had made a face about accuracy in it.

“152 message notifications?!” Annie shouted. She winced, head whipping around, then she seemed to remember they were in a room with no one else. She turned her attention back to Wren. “Is that your Twitter notifications? Is that a joke?”

“Nope.” Wren pouted at her screen. “I’m too scared to open it, but I’m bored.”

“That’s horrifying. I get one message and think eh, I’ll reply later. Then forget. How do you manage all of that?” Annie pulled her little flashlight out and held it up, Wren well used to this routine by now. She nodded and Annie flicked the light over her eyes.

“Well, a lot of it will be emails my team can answer. A lot will be alerts. But, well—do you have a big family?”

Annie nodded emphatically. “Huge. Twenty cousins.”

“Well, if there were a trending article about you on all social media and then, I don’t know, maybe some radio hosts talking about how you had a car accident, what would happen to your phone?”

Annie grimaced. “Nothing good.”

“Yup.”

Annie leaned in conspiratorially. “I feel like we know each other fairly well now, right?”

Wren side-eyed her. This was not going to be good. “What have you seen?”

“Well…” Annie pressed her lips together, apparently amused. Nope. This was not going to be good. “There are several viral TikToks of you with blood all over your face, waving to people through the cracked window of your car. You look…deranged. You’re smiling like you’re on the red carpet.”

Annie was trying not to laugh.

Wren made a whimpering noise, even as her lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “Yup, that sounds like me.”

“They put a voiceover of the guy who hit you shouting, ‘I killed Wren Acker!’”

“Oh. Oh, good.” Annie was definitely laughing now. “That’ll really add a nice tone to that.”

“In one of them your hand is kind of cupped, like a queen waving.”

“Okay! I get it!” Wren tried to glare at Annie, but it must have been pretty weak because Annie just kept chuckling. “My mother is going to kill me. Who waves after a car accident?”

“Someone in shock?”

“Bet they’re saying it was drugs.”

Annie stopped laughing.

“Oh my God, Annie, are they saying I was on drugs?”

“…No?”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I really am. Those clickbait articles work fast, huh?”

Wren slumped back into the pillows as Annie put her little flashlight away and grabbed the chart hanging at the end of the bed. “You have no idea. Did they link it to my coming out yet?”

Annie’s head whipped up. “I thought you hadn’t looked?”

“I haven’t, they’re just that predictable. They were running out of gossip about that, so anything to make their articles more clickbaity.”

Her mother was really going to kill her.

So of course, that was when the door was flung open and her mother stood, hand on the doorframe, staring in.

Sunglasses pushed on top of her head, shoulders back, dressed head to toe in workout clothes, yet looking as fresh as if she’d been in a spa, rather than working out. Which was very possible. Her auburn hair, color tended to religiously every four weeks, was messily piled on her head in a way that seemed casual, but which Wren knew she spent a lot of time on to achieve. The color was rich, incredibly dark, the red shining out when the light hit it just right. Exactly like Wren’s. Wrinkles fanned around her eyes as their cool brown swept over Wren.

“Honey, thank God. Are you alright?”

Wren tried to give her a smile, but the smile trembled a little. Oh, no. She’d been completely fine and now her mother shows up and suddenly she’s weeping. Her eyes filled and she nodded. “I’m fine, Mom.”

Her mother must have seen the expression on her face, and Wren swallowed down a lump in her throat as her mother strode over and wrapped her arms around her, cautious of the arm in the sling, one hand on her head, pulling Wren against her chest.

Wren gave a pathetic little sob. “I really am fine!”

She clutched her mother’s forearm with her one good hand, IV no longer attached to the cannula in it.

“Then why are you crying?” her mother asked, pressing her lips into Wren’s hair.

“I’m not crying,” Wren said, while crying.

The door snicked shut as Annie gave them some privacy. Her mother pulled back, eyes sweeping over her again, hands still on her, Wren still clutching her forearm.

“Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know! I really was fine. Then I saw you and I guess I realized that it was actually really terrifying.”

“Oh, honey.” Her mother pulled her in again, and Wren let her. A hand ran up and down her back gently, soothing. “It could have been worse.”

It could have been, and that was probably what had Wren so shaken up out of nowhere. Her mother pulled back again, then sat primly in the chair next to the bed, folding her legs. With a final pat of Wren’s knee, she moved closer and scrutinized Wren’s forehead.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

Wren shrugged. “I haven’t looked under the bandage.”

“Did they send the head of plastic surgery? I insisted they did.”

“Yes, Mom. And you didn’t need to threaten their jobs to do that.”

“It was a mild threat. Very small.” Her mother held her hand up, fingers barely held apart. “Not even really a threat.”

Wren tried to glare at her, but when it came to her mother, it was definitely a ‘pick your battles’ kind of situation. “Still, not necessary.”

“You may not think so, but your looks are important in this industry whether you like it or not.” She gave a prim shrug, already moving on. “What happened? The press has decided you were drunk driving after some kind of lesbian party.”

The word ‘lesbian’ left her mother’s lips with more emphasis and difficulty than Wren would have liked, but that was what it was.

“Yes, I was high, drunk, and performing cunnilingus while driving. That’s why I crashed.”

It took her mother a second and then outrage swept over her face. “Wren!” But there it was. Her lips pressed together, the smile twitching on them unable to be repressed.

“I can see you laughing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“Stop being ridiculous and tell me what happened. You were not eating out a woman.”

“Mom!” This time, the outrage flew out of Wren’s mouth, even as she felt her lips twist up in delight at the words that had come out of her mother’s mouth. Who knew she had it in her?

“What, only you can do that? What is it you all say? Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.” She raised an eyebrow at Wren. “What happened?”

“Some guy T-boned me at an intersection. The light was green, I’m in the clear.”

“Good.” Her mother gave a nod. “I hope he’s in a world of trouble. And it’s your shoulder and your forehead?”

“Apparently, I have a very mild concussion, they’re not too concerned. Annie, the nurse, she told me they’d give me discharge information.”

“They’re not sending you home today?” Her mother’s already very straight back straightened further.

“Mom, there’s no need for me to be here. They wouldn’t send me home if it wasn’t fine.”

“I’ll be having a word with your doctor.”

Great. Exactly what Wren needed. Her mother scolding the doctor that Wren had pushed over in nine-year-old gay panic.

“Please don’t,” Wren sighed.

“Mhm.”

Well, that meant she would.

“You look like you’re in pain, do you need me to get the nurse?”

“Nope. Pain’s fine.”

Her mother glared daggers at her. “Have you looked online?”

Wren shook her head. “I’ve avoided it until now. My notifications are ridiculous, though.”

“Yes, they would be with that terrible clickbait. I really wish you’d let us sue one of them, one day.”

Wren closed her eyes, exhaustion sweeping over her. “Not today, Mom, please.”

“Fine.” Wren opened one eye. Her mother’s lips pressed together, her eyes on her sling. Miraculously, her mother let it go. “Do you know anything they’re saying?”

“Just what you said. They’re insinuating I could have been high and somehow dragging up my coming out. Anything else?”

“You’re in photos, waving at people, grinning and covered in blood.”

Wren winced. “Yeah.”

“What on Earth came over you?”

“I barely remember it. I don’t know. Shock?”

“That’s what I told Tyrone to say. He’s all over it.”

“Of course he is. He’s the best PR manager ever.”

“Waving, Wren? Really?”

Wren gave a fake, forced smile and a one-shouldered shrug to her mother. “Sorry?”

“Yes.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you are. Especially after that stunt last year, I very much believe that.”

“Coming out wasn’t a stunt, Mom.”

“You know I don’t mean that, I mean how you did it.”

“I was bored of being in the closet.”

“You couldn’t have simply waited a bit longer?”

Why? Why did they have to have this argument now? They’d had it a hundred times since then. Wren refused to feel bad. Her mother refused to not be mad about it.

“I didn’t think I should have to wait! Being out isn’t what it was before. Lots of people are out. And the more of us that come out, the safer it is.”

“All I wanted was for you to wait a bit longer.” Her mother’s jaw was clenching a little. They would never agree on this. Her mother had been involved in Hollywood since she’d been born. There was no way she could shake the idea that coming out would kill Wren’s career. That she’d be dropped and shamed. It came from a place of concern, but it was stifling. “And I was right. Offers have slowed down.”

“Slowed down but not stopped. And I have the second season of The Downfall, and then new projects in the pipeline. There’s that one with Marcus Daily.” Which her mother had pushed her to consider. Wren did not want to work with that man again. But the pressure from all sides after coming out, to show her mother her career was not dead, had been immense. She still hadn’t agreed.

“Which is a miracle you got after that stunt.”

“It wasn’t a stunt!”

“Wren Amelie Acker, you went out from that restaurant with your ex, kissed her, then pulled your jacket back to show that crass, ‘Batman may not go down, but I do’ T-shirt while making a very inelegant gesture.”

“What, this one?” Wren held up her index and middle fingers to her mouth and stuck her tongue out between them.

Her mother stared at her, completely stone-faced. “Yes, that one.”

“Maybe it was a bit crass.” Wren smirked.

“If you didn’t have your shoulder in a sling, I would throw that pillow at you.”

“Mother! I’m hurt by the threat of violence.”

Her mother appeared ready to walk out, as she often did when Wren was like this. It wasn’t Wren’s fault that her mother brought out the teenager in Wren, even at thirty-five.

“You have an image.”

Wren sighed. Maybe she should throw her a bone. “Mom, I know. And I—I know how hard we’ve worked. But I was tired of being in a closet that wasn’t mine. I never wanted to be in it. And I understood your reasons for a while, but it was getting harder to ignore that staying in the closet was starting to feel selfish.” Her mother’s mouth opened to protest, and Wren hurried to keep talking. “Selfish for me. If someone wants to stay in the closet, I can empathize. But I didn’t feel that need. I’m in an incredibly privileged place in life and I needed to come out. I understand why others don’t, and I don’t judge them for it. But every time it came up, you shut it down so hard. I tried to convince you all to let me do it in a way you’d have been more comfortable with. You weren’t on board. So, I did it my way.”

“With cunnilingus jokes, Wren?” Her mother sounded exhausted.

Wren grinned. “Hey, you made one earlier. My crassness is clearly genetic.”

The glare her mother levelled at her made Wren sink back a little. That glare twitched a little, as it was always wont to do. “What’s done is done, anyway.” Her mother sniffed.

Her mother would never acknowledge Wren had done something she’d needed to do. She’d never apologize, even if Wren’s words one day made sense to her. And Wren would forgive that, because she knew her mother had just been trying to protect her.

So, Wren would keep making vagina jokes at her to make her uncomfortable.

“After that display, from your usual poise, it’s not surprising they think you’re on drugs.”

Wren scoffed. “Sure. Because coming out and kissing someone means you’re on drugs.”

All this teasing her mother was making the twisting in her stomach that had appeared after talking about Marcus Daily go away.

“You know what I mean, Wren.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“When is this doctor coming? I want to talk to them about wanting to send you home.”

“I’m fine to go home. They did a CT scan and everything.”

“We’ll see.”

Oh, God. Wren dropped back against the pillows.

“Do you want me to call Tyrone?” her mother asked.

Wren made her best pathetic face. “Yes, please.”

As always, the pathetic face worked. “I’ll go now and call him. Do you want anything?”

“Coffee!”

“Should have guessed that one,” her mother muttered, standing. “Can I see the stitches?”

“They said not to remove the dressing until tomorrow.”

They’d said no such thing.

Her mother eyed her, and Wren just blinked up at her innocently.

“Okay. I want to talk to the head of plastic surgery, then.” Of course she did. “Find out about minimizing scarring.”

“Sure, Mom.”

“I’ll be right back. Want a pastry?”

Wren lit up. “With chocolate?”

“I’ll see what they have.”

And she left Wren to blessed silence. Grabbing her phone, she decided to deal with some of it. She had fifteen messages from Felix alone. His face in his little picture gazed up at her as she opened their messages. It was when his black hair had been much longer, flopping over his eyes, taken by her when they’d first met at school. The quality was so grainy, but he didn’t seem to care.

The last message she had from him made her laugh. “I know you must be at least alive as there are photos and videos of you being wheeled into the ambulance looking like a psychopath, there’s that much blood on your face. But can you PLEASE message me and confirm that? I have a party to go to tonight and don’t want to be that best friend who was out partying while their better half was in surgery or something.”

She bit her lip and texted a reply.

“Sorry, was avoiding the spiral that would be my social media after today. I’m fine, dislocated shoulder, some stitches in my head, and a mild concussion. Will be out today.”

Three dots popped up immediately as he answered. “Good! Was your mom sitting on the head of plastic surgery while they stitched up your head?”

“She threatened a lawsuit over the phone if anyone BUT head of plastic surgery touched me.”

“Ha! Classic Debbie. Gotta love her.”

“Sure…”

“You’re really okay?”

“I am. Shoulder hurts. I just want to go home.” She thought about telling him about her blast from the past with Doctor Taylor, but figured that was a better conversation to have in person.

“Want me to come over and play nurse?”

She smirked. “Only if you have the costume.”

“As if I don’t. I have one in white and one in black.”

Of course he did. He did drag once a week and had more costumes than clothes at this point. “Save it for next week’s show. I appreciate the offer, but head out to your party. I’m desperate for some alone time.”

“I bet, you’ve been doing press nonstop since they announced the second season was starting filming soon. I’m around if you need. Love x.”

“X.”

All that press she’d done would now be lost in a sea of press about the accident. She clenched her jaw for a second, staring down at her phone as notifications popped up over and over at the top of her screen. Her eyebrows shot up and she finally clicked one, opening Twitter and then clicking the link her name was tagged in.

‘I crashed into Wren Acker!’

Below that headline was a photo of the man she vaguely remembered yelling “Sorry!” at her as he was pushed into the back of an ambulance. He was sitting up in a hospital bed, arm now in a cast, his other hand giving a thumbs up as he grinned.

“Well, that didn’t take him long,” she muttered.

She scanned the article. At least he’d taken responsibility. He’d been on his phone, texting, and ran a red. That should help to relieve some of the worst clickbait that was circling. Her eyebrows shot up even further as she read a section.

‘“I never thought this would be my brush with fame!” says thirty-nine-year-old Dylan Rowlands, who works as an accountant and was very happy to talk to us here at The Daily Star. “I mean, this is LA, it’s hard to avoid. But I would have preferred it to have been a brush with fame and not a collision!”

Mr. Rowlands, clearly in good spirits, says that Wren Acker had appeared to be well, if a little confused. “Do I think she was on drugs?” He scrunches his face up, as if unsure. Perhaps he feels the need to protect her after causing the accident. “I think she’d just been in a car crash.”

Sure, Mr. Rowlands. But after Wren Acker’s incredibly blundering coming out not so long ago (read our article about that mess here, and read about someone close to Wren who is concerned about her attention-seeking behavior!), we’ll be making up our own minds about if she’s on drugs. Just check out that image below!’

And there was a photo of Wren through the cracked windshield. Yes, covered in blood. Yes, waving. Yes, grinning like she was a bit deranged.

Why had she waved like that?

She closed the article. There was no reason at all to read more of that shit. She sent messages to a few more concerned friends. Her co-star on her current project, Trinity Dray, had sent a very worried message, and then an hour later, probably after hearing Wren was fine, “Are you trying to get a little more down time before we get back to filming?”

Wren grinned, messaging back. “Caught me! I hate set, as you know.”

Not true. Wren loved being on set.

“You love set, but you also loooove your alone time. Bet your mom tries to go home with you after the hospital.”

Wren straightened in panic, almost dropping her phone down her sling. “Not funny! Don’t make me throw an Oscar at your head.”

“Oh, sure, rub it in that you have enough to throw around.” Wren actually chuckled out loud. “Always knew you were a diva.”

“Says the lady with all the Golden Globes.”

“True, I’ll just chuck one back at you.”

Content she’d checked in with enough people and feeling weirdly tired after only that, Wren dropped her phone back next to her on the bed. The headache that had been barely there behind her eyes after the pain medication had kicked in was flaring back up. Concussion. Yay.

Tyrone and her mother would be handling all the concerned calls from the studio. Wren could ignore it all and sleep. Could she sleep? Apparently, Annie was going to let her know what she could and couldn’t do.

Dear God, her mother wasn’t going to try and come home with her, was she? Wren gnawed on her lip. No. She wouldn’t do that. She knew Wren just wanted some alone time before table readings began and everything was on the move again.

Was she going to be able to do that? Filming itself wasn’t supposed to start for weeks. With her arm, she couldn’t film, but surely she’d be fine to start rehearsals?

She did not want to be the reason for a setback in this project. Season two wasn’t even supposed to be happening—they’d done a miniseries, something Wren had fought tooth and nail to get into. No one thought she could do it. Wren Acker did movies, not TV. They didn’t think she could hold an audience captive for such an extended time.

She’d sworn she’d prove them wrong.

And she had.

The project had gone so well they’d been cleared for another season, something not at all expected for what was supposed to be a miniseries. She was damned if she didn’t knock this one out of the park, too.

Stupid car accident.

Stupid Dylan Rowlands texting and driving.

Stupid Dylan Rowlands talking to The Daily Star.

All that could make this better (by ‘better’ she meant ‘worse’) was if Madison Taylor walked back through that door. Her head shot up to stare at it, half expecting her to stride in, especially as thoughts of her mother had made her appear not that long ago.

She held her breath.

Counted to three.

Nothing.

She let the breath out slowly. Seriously, just because she’d pushed Madison over didn’t mean she’d come out for attention over twenty-five years later.

No, she definitely didn’t want to see Madison again.

The door opened.

“Fuck!” she shouted, jumping, jolting her shoulder. “Shit, ow.”

Her mother stopped dead in the doorway, takeaway cups in a holder and a paper bag in one hand. “Excuse me?”

Wren winced. “You scared me!”

“Sorry. No need for cussing.”

“Sorry.” The smell of coffee hit her. She perked up. “Coffee?”

“And a chocolate pastry thing.”

“Pastry thing?”

“If it’s not a croissant I don’t know the word for it.” Her mother sat in the chair next to the bed, putting the coffee down.

Wren eyed it. “They didn’t put sugar in it, did they?”

“No. And no cream either. It’s as black as your soul, or whatever it is you always say.”

Wren smirked, grabbing the coffee and quickly letting it go when the cup was too hot.

“You can only answer article questions of ‘What is your favorite beverage’ so many times before it comes out like you’re reading a script.”

Giving up on the coffee, she reached for the pastry, trying to figure out how to open the bag one-handed without giving up and dumping the pastry onto the table. Her mother went to help her. “Nah, let me. I’ve got to learn.”

She finally managed to weasel it open, and the pastry was in her hand. Her mouth watered. With everything that had happened, she’d missed lunch. All the stress had hidden her hunger from her. Until now. She took as big a bite as she could, almost half disappearing into her mouth.

“Wren!” her mother scolded.

Wren grinned, pastry flakes clinging to her lips and chocolate surely spread over her teeth.

So that was, of course, when Madison and Annie walked back in.

Wren desperately tried to swallow the giant mouthful down, choked, and had to put the other half on top of the paper bag to put her hand over her mouth as she tried not to die. Both literally and figuratively. How many times would she go bright red in front of Madison in one day? It was at least six by now, wasn’t it?

“Bad time?” Annie asked.

Her mother regarded her, brow furrowed and confused at her ridiculous reaction. “Do you need water?”

Trying hard not to cough, and coughing worse because of it, Wren nodded with her eyes watering. Her mother poured her a glass and handed it over. Wren tried to drink it without choking on that, too. Her mother patted her back a bit until she stopped spluttering.

Finally able to breathe, Wren made excruciating eye contact with Madison. “I’m fine,” she wheezed.

Talk about attention seeking.

“If you’re all recovered, Miss Acker, we’re just here to discharge you. Would you like privacy before we begin?” Madison even pulled off a professional smile.

Maybe she actually was this professional.

It took Wren a second to understand that she was asking if Wren wanted her mother to leave. “No, it’s fine.”

“Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Doctor Taylor, the attending on today in the ER.” This she directed to Wren’s mother.

“I’m Wren’s mother. So, you’re the doctor who thinks it’s fine to discharge a car accident victim mere hours after the accident?”

Wren closed her eyes. She pleaded with a higher power. When she opened them, she was still here. Her mother was still here and had just said that. Madison was still here. Annie was still here, lips pressed together to smother a smile as she shot Wren a sympathetic look. She cursed the higher power.

Madison didn’t even blink. “That would be me. Her CT was clear, her neuro exams have been perfect. Her arm is relocated, her forehead sutured. She needs rest, which is much better achieved in the comfort of her own home and not in a hospital rife with infections where she’ll be disrupted from that rest far too regularly.”

Wren’s mother snapped her mouth shut.

Wren gave Madison an impressed look before remembering she was highly insulted by the insinuations the woman had thrown at her and smothering that look down into neutral.

“If you’re sure.” Wren’s mother did not seem as impressed as Wren felt.

Madison’s cool gaze was back on her own. “Miss Acker—” how was it Wren again wanted to tell her to call her by her name? Was it because, despite everything, the woman was clearly very attractive? “—you should keep that sling on for the next week, though you can remove it to shower. After that, I’d recommend a physical therapist—do you need a referral for one?”

“I have one from when I twisted my knee a few years back.”

“Good. As for—”

“Was that on set for that historical movie you did?” Annie asked.

Wren smiled. “Yeah! I was doing the parts of the stunt in the carriage chase that I was allowed to—”

“Which she should not have been doing.”

Wren chose to ignore her mother. “And I twisted it when I landed wrong jumping off.”

“I loved that movie. Though the ending made me cry for days.”

Wren winced. It had been a particularly heartbreaking movie. “Yeah, I hear that a lot. Sorry?”

“What? No way, I love a good tragic movie. In fact, your other movie, the one—”

A clearing throat made them both turn back to Madison. “If you’re going to chat, I have other patients I need to see.”

Annie flushed, clearly having gotten carried away while at work. “Continue.”

She made a face at Wren from behind Madison, and it took all of Wren’s acting skills to not laugh and instead listen intently to Madison.

“Your concussion appears to be very mild. Your complaint of headaches and dizziness were the most alarming. You still haven’t experienced any nausea? The light doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

“Noticed anything with your memory since arriving? Annie hasn’t reported anything.”

“Who are you again?”

Madison stared at her. Blinked once. “Ha. Yes. Never heard that one before.” Behind her, Annie was turning bright red trying not to laugh. “I would recommend that you not be alone for the next forty-eight hours to ensure any changes are noted by someone else and you can seek help if needed.”

Wren closed her eyes.

“That won’t be a problem, Doctor.” Wren’s mother patted her knee. “Won’t let her out of my sight.”

When she opened her eyes, Madison was almost smirking at her, Wren was sure. “Fantastic. Annie is going to give you some more discharge information, such as removal of the sutures and such. Once she says you’re good to go, you’re officially discharged.” Madison stood for a moment, signed something on the chart in her hands, then handed it to Annie. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Miss Acker.”

She swept from the room, leaving Wren with Annie and her mother, who immediately asked, “What does she mean by ‘again,’ Wren?”