October 2007, Kloves Residence, London
"Do you realize how stupid that move was?" Mum asked, her voice steeped in disappointment. "I thought you were better than this, Troy. Isolating yourself for the better part of the year is not cool."
I looked across the room at the other two occupants—Dad and Evan.
The latter had wrapped up the joint production of the first two [Twilight] movies while I was away, and was now back in London, enjoying front-row seats to the lecture my parents had decided to deliver.
"Do you realize this was exactly why I didn't tell you?" I shot back. "I knew you'd make a scene. I love you and Dad, but you need to understand—I'm not eight anymore. I can make my own life decisions now."
"But—"
"Kathy," Dad cut in. "He's right. He's an adult now."
Mum glared at him, but he didn't waver. "He needs to make his own mistakes so he can learn from them. We can't coddle him forever."
Then he turned to me. "Was the role important to you, son?"
"Very," I said firmly. "It was... no, it will be the best role of my life. I don't think I'll ever top it."
Dad gave a small nod. "And what would you do if another role like that came along?"
I stifled a laugh when he tilted his head meaningfully in Mum's direction, a silent cue to throw her a bone.
"I'll inform you all before I head off for a shoot like that," I promised sincerely.
"Good," Dad nodded, satisfied, before turning back to Mum. "Happy?"
She didn't respond, but from her silence, I knew the crisis had been defused.
Or so I thought.
"Do you know, because you went radio silent, we had to postpone [The Night Of]," Mum reminded me. "We'd planned a full promotional tour for you, but since you weren't here, we had no choice. The BBC wasn't pleased. Surprisingly, HBO had no problem pushing it back."
I had honestly forgotten about the show's release. With films, you shoot and wait—it might be a year or more before marketing even begins. But TV is different. Most episodes are produced quickly and released on a tighter schedule.
That wasn't quite the case with [The Night Of], since Mum and I had hired top-tier cinematographers and editors. The quality had been elevated significantly. Or at least, it should have. I hadn't had time to watch it yet.
"Have you seen it?" I asked her.
"We all have," she said, glancing toward Dad and Evan.
"And?" I asked eagerly.
"It was great!" Evan jumped in, taking over. "Absolutely marvelous! Daldry nailed it again—every shot was beautiful. And the tension? I was on the edge of my seat most of the time. Man, you looked amazing. Your body toward the end was unreal."
"That's what you noticed?" I asked with a teasing grin. "My looks? Not the performance? That's kinda gay, bro."
Evan sputtered, "No! That's not wha—no!"
"Anyway," Mum cut in before Evan could embarrass himself further, "the reason I brought it up is because you won't just be promoting [Superbad]—you'll be promoting [The Night Of] at the same time."
I looked at her skeptically. "Are you sure that's wise? They're completely different genres."
"We'll have to make do," she said with a sigh. "I know it's not ideal, and the original plan was to release the show two months ago, but you forced our hand. I knew you'd come out for the [Superbad] promotions, so we coordinated around that. BBC and HBO have already released the trailer and announced the premiere date. It's set for the same weekend as [Superbad], airing Sunday night."
Of course, it would premiere on a Sunday. People stayed in to watch TV then, bracing themselves for the Monday blues. Sunday was traditionally the highest-viewership night of the week—HBO releases all its major dramas, like [Game of Thrones] and [Succession], on that day. Honestly, I'd be a little offended if they hadn't chosen Sunday for mine.
"When can I see the show?" I asked.
"Whenever you want," Mum replied. "We have a copy in the projection room. You can watch it now if you like. But before that, there's something you should know." She exchanged a tense glance with Dad.
When neither of them said anything for a few seconds, I prompted, "What?"
Dad sighed heavily. "Carla Armitage tried to reach you while you were away."
I froze. Carla Armitage. The woman I'd grown to hate had finally come crawling back.
"What did she want?" I asked wearily. "If it's money, just pay her off and get her out of my life. I don't even want to see her."
I vaguely remembered a clause in our contract that explicitly forbade her from approaching me or my family. If I wanted to, I could enforce it right now—but that's probably what she was after. Notoriety. It was better to quietly cut people like her out, even if it cost something. Money was not a big issue for me, after all.
"I already made that offer," Dad said. "I know how your brain works. She declined. Said she just wanted to talk. I think she heard 'If You Could See Me Now.'"
"That song wasn't for her—or about her," I said flatly. "It doesn't matter if she heard it. I'm not going to meet her because of that."
Mum scooted closer on the couch and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Believe me, no one hates that woman more than I do, for everything she put you through. But I think you should meet her. Just once. It might do you some good. What's the harm?"
"My mental health," I retorted, closing my eyes. "Listen, Mum, Dad—I respect you both a lot, and I've followed your advice most of my life, but this is something I don't want in my life anymore. At all."
With that said, I got up and walked toward the movie room. As an afterthought, I turned to Evan and asked, "Do you wanna come watch the show with me again?"
He shrugged and got up to follow me.
"You shouldn't have talked to them like that," Evan said quietly when it was just the two of us.
I shook my head in frustration. "You don't understand, Evan. That woman is—"
"I would give anything to talk to my parents one last time," Evan cut in. From the vacant look in his eyes, I wasn't even sure he'd realized I was speaking. "At least you're lucky enough to have your mother willing and able to talk to you."
I stayed silent as we reached the movie room in my parents' place. All the while, one thought kept circling in my head.
One big reason I kept avoiding her was that every time I thought of her, it felt like something was missing. Like there was a crucial piece of information just on the tip of my tongue—but I couldn't quite reach it. That alone gave me a headache every time.
Let's just push all this mess out of my head for now and focus on what's in front of me.
(Break)
"Jonah!" I clasped hands with the man casually, then turned to the boy beside him. "Chris!"
"Woah," Christopher Mintz-Plasse said in amazement, taking in my appearance. "What the hell happened to you? Did you fall into a river of protein? Or maybe steroids?"
I laughed at that. Because we were promoting a teen movie, I had opted to wear a t-shirt, just like my two co-stars. The one I had selected was skin-tight and showed my hard work perfectly. I had one philosophy: If I am working hard on myself like that, I will make damn sure to show it off.
"It was for a role. I'll be back to my lanky self before the next [Harry Potter] starts shooting."
Wasn't that a sad reality? Harry was muscled in this universe, thanks to me, but not bulky. It won't make sense for him to go swole after Dumbledore's death, while being on the run from the Death Eaters.
"Man, I just read the book," Jonah said conversationally. "It was so good—I can't wait for the movie's release."
J.K. Rowling had finally released the last [Harry Potter] book, a full decade after the first. Pottermania had reached its peak, turning the release into a cultural event. Fans even camped outside bookstores overnight. On launch, it shattered sales records for any book in recent memory.
"Did you know what would happen in the book before everyone else?" Chris asked.
I shook my head. "Nah. My dad knew, and so did the director of the last movie—Rian. I could've found out if I really wanted to. Dad would've at least told me Harry's fate, but I thought it was better to wait like everybody else."
Jonah and Chris stared at me like I'd grown a second head.
I hadn't pushed to read the book for obvious reasons. Besides, I was too busy with work to make a fuss about reading something I'd already gone through years ago. When I finally returned home after my self-imposed isolation, I discovered that Rowling had kept the promise she made back when I was first auditioning for [Harry Potter]. She'd sent me a personally signed copy of the book a few days before it hit shelves, just like she had done for every book. A package I didn't even open until it was already too late.
"Well," I said, steering the conversation away, "how do you guys feel about going on your first worldwide press junket?"
Jonah smiled. "It sure won't be as fun as going on some spontaneous adventure with you across beautiful landscapes, but I think it'll be fine. Don't you think so, Benji?"
My assistant, finally back from an extended stay in New York with his family, looked up like a deer caught in headlights.
"Don't drag me into this," he said, raising his hands in surrender.
I raised an eyebrow at Jonah. "You're still on about that? I told you—it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I couldn't have called everyone I knew."
"Whatever you say," Jonah replied with a grin. "I just expected more from you. Unlike Chris here—he knows he's not getting invited anywhere with a face like that." He clapped a hand on Chris's shoulder. Chris shrugged it off, clearly about to say something, but hesitated.
I closed my eyes for a moment. I'd stayed silent on this issue long enough. Now that the film was finished, it was time to speak up.
"You know," I said, just as Chris opened his mouth, "that's one of the biggest reasons I didn't invite you. You're an asshole to people you think are beneath you. Everyone I took on that trip were people I knew to be genuinely nice—people who don't need to put others down just to feel better about themselves."
Jonah and Chris both stared at me, wide-eyed. I noticed a hint of a smile tug at Chris's lips.
"It was just a joke between friends, man," Jonah said weakly.
"You two aren't friends," I replied flatly. "You made damn sure of that from the first day of rehearsals. I didn't say anything during the shoot because Greg asked me not to. But now that we're done filming, I have to say this: grow up. You won't last long in this business if you don't. And as a producer—if I have a role? I won't hesitate to give it to Chris. But I won't be so sure about you."
Jonah looked visibly shaken by my words. But honestly, I didn't care what he thought. This was his first major role, and he'd spent the whole time acting like the world owed him something.
Asshole.
I had been thoroughly annoyed by him during the shoot too, but afterward, I'd forgotten all about it. If I had another role that suited him, I might've considered him. But not now.
"I'm sorry," Jonah bit out, stiff and reluctant. It didn't take a genius to see the apology was anything but heartfelt.
"You're apologizing to the wrong person." I tilted my head toward Chris, who was now sporting a shit-eating grin, silently daring Jonah to say it to his face. That reminded me—Chris was only marginally better than Jonah. Then again, he'd just entered the business and had barely turned eighteen. His behavior was still excusable.
Jonah clenched his fists tightly. It was clear he had no intention of apologizing to Chris anytime soon.
He was spared from having to respond when our first interviewer of the day walked in.
"Hey guys! Wow, you look amazing, Troy."
Christine. A beautiful blonde in her early thirties, wearing a cheerful yellow floral dress, and a very obvious baby bump.
"Thank you, Christine." I inclined my head, grateful. "You look radiant yourself. Congratulations on the baby, by the way."
She beamed, patting her belly. "Thanks. Just one more month to go."
Christine had interviewed me several times over the years. She was sharp, funny, and easy to talk to, something that made her one of the better reporters, in my opinion.
As the crew outfitted us with mics and set up the cameras, Benji stepped aside to stay out of frame. I was given the middle seat, with Jonah and Chris on either side.
"This thing on yet?" I asked, tapping my mic.
"Not yet," the sound guy called from behind the camera. "Just give me five minutes."
I nodded, then leaned toward Jonah and whispered, "Smile. Don't act like a sourpuss. If you come off as unlikeable in interviews, people won't like you either."
He gave me a mild glare but forced a smile onto his face. Chris, on the other hand, didn't need the reminder—he remembered everything from yesterday's media training.
A few minutes later, the red light blinked on.
"Hey guys!" Christine began with her usual cheer. "How you doing?"
"Great," I answered for all three of us. "Thanks for doing this."
"It's always a pleasure talking to you," she smiled. "I've seen the movie, and it's so damn funny—I couldn't stop laughing."
"Thank you."
Then she turned to the others. "Jonah, Chris—tell me, how does it feel working with someone like Troy for your big break?"
"Troy is a total sourpuss on set," Jonah declared the moment he had the chance.
In that instant, I wanted to strangle him—but instead, I burst out laughing. Chris joined in too. Appearances had to be maintained. If I laughed it off, no one would care too much about Jonah's words.
"Why?" Christine asked, amused.
"Because the entire time we were shooting," Jonah explained, "I kept trying to break him—just once! But he never cracked. Not once. It's hard to know if what you're doing is funny when the guy across from you won't even crack a smile. He's a total nightmare to work with."
Jonah's tone had been mocking and exaggerated—just enough to pass as a friendly jab—but I knew the truth. He was retaliating for what I'd said earlier. This behavior only reinforced what I already knew: he was immature as hell. Maybe if the interview hadn't started right after our exchange, he would've cooled off a bit. But it is what it is.
That's when Chris decided to chime in.
"Troy is the best person you could have as a co-star in your first film," he said sincerely. "I didn't feel like I was working. He'd invite me over to play video games or take me out for late-night drives in his Lambo after shooting. It felt like hanging out with a cool big brother. I didn't know a thing about filmmaking, but he never made me feel left out. I loved it so much that if he ever asks me to do another film, I'll say yes without even reading the script."
That was so sweet of him, I could die of diabetes.
"Stop it, Chris, you'll make me blush," I grinned, punching his arm lightly before turning to Christine. "This guy is such a natural that I couldn't believe he was for real. No training, no experience—he'd just show up and steal the scene. Every. Single. Time. It was unbelievable."
"Aww, your friendship is adorable!" Christine gushed. "I love hearing these kinds of stories from set."
Then she turned her attention to me. "So… can we address the elephant in the room? When did you get so buff? You're pretty lean in [Superbad]."
"That's for a mini-series I did for HBO and BBC called [The Night Of]," I answered. "It premieres this Sunday."
Christine's grin widened. "Knowing HBO, they like to keep things… spicy. Should we expect something like that here?"
I shrugged. "Watch the series and find out. For now, let's focus on [Superbad]. I'll give you a separate interview later for that show."
"I'll hold you to that," she said with a playful wink, then turned to Jonah. "I have to say—your character was probably the one I disliked the most. But you played him really convincingly…"
The interview went on for another ten minutes before the very pregnant Christine wrapped things up and left with her team.
As soon as the door closed behind her, I turned to Jonah and snapped my fingers, pointing toward the exit.
"Get out."
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AN: Visit my Pat reon to read ahead, or check out my second Hollywood story set in the 80s.
Link: www(dot)pat reon(dot)com/fableweaver