A colleague, of sorts

“And…I’m surprised you remembered me,” you say, taking a tentative step forward in the sand. “We only—is your dog just waiting to maul me, or…?”

“Roger?” she says. “Nah. I mean, I guess he could. I got him because he’s big and scary, but…he still thinks he’s a puppy.”

Leaning in for a closer look, that menacing snarl looks more like excited panting. You reach down, and Roger’s mouth flies open, licking your hand. “Oh!” you say. “Oh…this is actually…kind of…should he be producing this much saliva?”

She laughs. “Come on up. You can wash your hands.” As she turns, she adds, “And, you know, maybe tell me why you’re walking alone on the beach at two a.m.”

“Two a.m.?” You ask.

“Yeah. Really no one on the beach at this hour but hobos and crazies.”

“And you,” you add.

“Yeah,” she says. “Rescuing you…”

You chuckle at that, but have to run to catch up. The house itself is modestly sized, though the real estate alone was enough to set the property back a couple million. That, and the interior, while small, made ample and at times indulgent use of the space. Then again, she could afford it.

“So, Miss—”

“Mila,” she says, correcting you as she hands you a towel. “God, even strangers call me by first name.”

“Right,” you say, wiping your hand of the slobber. “Mila…”

Mila Kunis. Giving you a towel. To wipe her dog’s slobber from your hand. The weirdness of it all doesn’t escape you. You’ve achieved your own brand of celebrity in the past couple of years, but the quiet kind that allows your achievements to gain notoriety while allowing your person the same relative anonymity most people take for granted. In a way, yeah, your paths have crossed before. When your book was optioned, then produced, Mila starred as the female lead. You, of course, remained distant from that project on the whole, but at the L.A. premier, you spoke for about twenty seconds.

“I never thanked you,” she says, tossing a bottle of water at you before opening her own.

“Thanked me…” you say, searching.

“For the role,” she says, recapping the bottle. “Perry said that you mentioned my name…”

Who the fuck is Perry?

“I, uh…I mean, I really wasn’t involved in the production of it…”

Mila shakes her head. “No, I know. But when they approached you with the option. Perry said that someone asked you who you thought should play the principles…”

Vaguely, you remember the conversation that transpired about two years ago. “Yeah, I guess. But…it’s not like you weren’t the obvious choice. I mean, you know. They don’t really listen once they buy the option. Not to the author.”

She scoffed. “I wasn’t the obvious choice. YOU gave them the idea.”

“Oh…” you say and sip your water. “Well…okay. I just, um…I don’t want this to sound too weird, but…I kind of imagined YOU when I wrote the character. I mean, I never thought it’d be…produced in a medium where you could, like, BE the character, but…”

“Well, thanks,” she says, smiling.

“Yeah,” you say.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way…” she says, hopping onto the counter, “…how about you tell me why you were, like, wandering aimlessly on the beach, or whatever.”

You wince. “You’re…not going to let me off the hook unless I tell you, are you?”

She deadpans you. “I’ll sick Roger on you if you don’t. Your call.”

You **** an awkward chuckle. Someone was going to find out. Might as well be her.

“Uh, okay,” you say. “I, uh…I had a fight. With my girlfriend. We were—you know, it wasn’t even a fight, really. It was…it was just.” I shake my head. “We were at home; this house I’m renting in West LA. Universal asked me to take a crack at this script they’re—you know, that’s not important. Anyway, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. So I grab it and check the text message. Except, it’s NOT my phone. It’s HERS. And some dude named Breck is talking about how much he misses her and wants to be with her again. Except, I still think it’s my phone, so I ask her if we know a Breck. And, when I look up, she’s just staring at me, terrified. Apparently, she’s been fucking this guy for a couple of months and…” I look up at you and shake my head. “Anyway, I had to get out of there just to…you know. Process, or whatever. And, I checked into a hotel, and I went for a walk and…” you extend your hands. “Here I am.”

She frowns. “I’m guessing…bartender?”

“Close,” you say. “Yoga instructor.”

“Oh, yoga instructor…” she says, wringing the bottle in her hand. “I…lost out to the personal assistant about a month ago.”

“Really?” you ask.

“Yup.”

“No,” you say. “I mean, really? You against the assistant, and SHE won?”

She shakes her head. “HE won.”

“I…” It dawns on you. “Oh….”

“Yeah,” she says, curling her feet beneath her.

“So then, you two didn’t try to…”

“Nah,” she says. “Pretty much realized that, since we both liked dick, it was pretty much over.” She swallows a gulp of water, then her eyes narrow. “You’re not thinking of getting back together with her, are you?”

It’s almost an accusation. “Uh…”

“Grant!” she says, punching your shoulder again.

“Ow!” you say, rubbing the spot, as if it helps.

“You CAN’T!” she shouts. “SHE’s the one that cheated on YOU, right?”

“Well…well, yeah, but—”

“But what?” she asks. “Hmm? This wasn’t a one-time mistake. And she only TOLD you because she got CAUGHT. Can you honestly say you’ll ever be able to trust her again?”

“I, uh…” And you do try to think of a scenario where you COULD trust her, but…you can’t. Mila, a virtual stranger, is absolutely right. “No,” you say, finally. “I…I guess it’s over…” you mutter, a bit sad at the thought.

She hops down from the counter. “Hey, I’m sorry, but…you know it’s the right thing to do.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, I just…I don’t know. Now, I have to find a new place, and—”

“How long are you in town?” she asks, glancing at a clock on the wall.

“Um…not really sure. Probably just a couple more months.”

“End of summer?” she asks, pulling out her phone.

“Yeah, but—”

She holds up a finger when she hits send. “Hey! It’s me…yeah…It’s morning there, right?...Okay, good…Well, I have a friend who needs a place to stay for a couple of months…he’s a writer…yeah, the guy who the book that…yeah, that one…uh-huh…yeah, I guess the studio wants him in town to work on some script and…uh-huh…” buries the phone against her chest. “You’re not, like, addicted to blow or an alcoholic or anything, right?”

“What?” you ask. “No!”

“Yeah, no, he’s fine…uh-huh…right…just the end of summer…yeah…okay…okay…say hi to Ron for me…okay…bye.”

She closes her cell and smiles.

“What…was that?” you ask.

“Found a place for you,” she says. “A couple houses up. You just have to swear to stay out of the wine cellar, okay?”

“A…a house? Whose?”

She grins. “Friend. He’s gonna be on location in Rome through September, so…you know. No big deal.”

“I…”

“I can take you over there tomorrow, if you want. Get you the keys and stuff. But, um…where are you staying tonight?”

You shrug. “I…I don’t know.”

“I mean, I have a guest room…”

It’s so much, so fast. Ending things with your girlfriend, which you haven’t technically done yet. Getting a new place to live. Sharing this all with Mila Fucking Kunis, a distant colleague, and only on paper. She doesn’t know you. Maybe you shouldn’t take her advice. Maybe you should sleep on it before making any decisions.

She looks at you, tilting her head. “Well?”