“Awesome, glad to hear it,” he says. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Good, it’s good,” I lie once more for the fans at home.
“All right, well, we’re going to change gears a little bit . . .” Michael rattles off the day’s headlines and talking point, and I do my best to hold the pleasant expression on my face, even making sure to laugh at his jokes, even when they’re horribly unfunny.
The red light above the cameras turns off after a while and the set is flooded with staff. The director runs to Michael’s side, talking in his ear, Michael nodding all the while. The sensation of something soft against my face pulls my attention to my left, where Aidy is dabbing some kind of sponge over my forehead and down my nose. I smell a light powdery scent and lift my gaze to hers, but she’s focused on her work and refusing to make eye contact.
Before I get a chance to say anything, she moves to Michael.
“Places,” someone yells a minute later. And within seconds, another person is leading the countdown. The lights on the cameras blink to red and we start up again.
Everything happens so fast, Michael doing his thing and me inserting my comments and pretending I know what the hell I’m doing. I tell myself I’m just hanging out with a friend, talking shit about a whole lot of nothing. It’s easy to pretend like the cameras aren’t there. Hell, it’s easy to pretend a lot of things these days.
We go to another commercial break after seven minutes of live show, and this time Aidy works on Michael first.
“Just a little more, not too much, darlin’,” he says, injecting an Atlanta-esque accent into his voice despite the fact that he hails from Ohio. Michael’s eyes follow her every move. There’s an entitled little smirk hidden beneath his stoic expression, and I watch as his gaze lands shamelessly on her generous rack. “You’re really good at this, you know that? My makeup’s never looked better. The other girl, she cakes it on. But you, you have a light touch. I like that.”
She ignores his come-ons, focusing on his shiny t-zone and the bags under his eyes. Michael’s been around a long time, and he’s definitely seen better days.
I stifle a laugh behind a closed fist.
His game is fucking pathetic.
Aidy moves to me, grabbing a fresh sponge and powdering my nose. When she’s done, she hops down from the stage, and I catch Michael checking out her ass. He doesn’t even try to hide it. She does have a sway in her hips as she walks, but it doesn’t mean it’s an open fucking invitation from pigs like him.
“What’s her name again?” Michael leans into me, tongue practically wagging.
“And we’re live in five, four . . .” a voice announces from the set.
Michael adjusts his red silk tie and clears his throat, and the second the cameras are rolling, he’s ‘on.’
The next seven minutes whir by once again, and I pretty much black them out. I couldn’t repeat what I said or how many times I nodded or smiled at the camera, but it happened.
I co-hosted Smack Talk.
It wasn’t so bad.
And now it’s over.
Job done.
The cameras are wheeled away, staff floods the sound stage, and the director takes Michael aside.
“Hey, good job up there.” Michelle is all smiles, her fist bumping my arm. “You were great.”
“Thanks.” My eyes scan the dark room, searching for Aidy.
I have questions.
And I demand answers.
“Where’s hair and makeup?” I ask Michelle.
“Ha,” she walks along beside me, “they’re gone. Did you need another touch up or something?”
“No.” My jaw sets, and I exhale. I guess it makes sense that hair and makeup wouldn’t stick around for the rest of the show.
“You need something from her?”
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.” We begin to walk off set together.
“Hey,” she says as we push through a set of double doors that lead to the main hallway. “We want to know if you can come back. You’re a natural, Ace. We think you’re great, and we know the viewers love seeing you and Michael together. It’d just be for the rest of the week until Antoine’s back. And maybe you can fill in from time to time?”
I chuff. “There are thousands of people out there who’d kill to have this job, and they’d do it a hell of a lot better than I ever could.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s true,” she says, her Brooklyn voice crawling to a high pitch. “But you have something they don’t.”
“What’s that?” I stop in the middle of the hall, turning to face her, hands resting on my hips. Michelle’s got to be no more than 5’3’’, and I’m an entire foot taller than her.
“You’re Ace Amato.” Michelle shrugs, her mouth bunched in one corner, and then she turns to walk away. “Think about it and let me know. You should have my cell. I need an answer by three o’clock this afternoon.”
Seven
Aidy
* * *
“Hey, you’re back early,” my sister shouts over the noise of the vacuum as she lifts the corner of the coffee table and gets the dust underneath. She taps the appliance with her toe until it comes to a soft purr and shuts off, and then she wraps the cord around the back. “Enzo’s been eating crackers on the couch again.”
She peers up at me, eyes squinting, and I lift my hand.
“Don’t look at me,” I protest. I place my cosmetics case by the door and kick off my shoes.
“How was the job? I’ve never been to ASPN’s studio. Is it nice?” Wren collapses in one of the armchairs, kicking her feet straight out and resting her hands on her stomach. Her hair is tied back and there’s a slight shine across her forehead. Judging by the looks of her, she’s been cleaning since she dropped Enzo off at school this morning.
Glancing around the room, I note the lemony scent lingering in the air and the shiny surface of the coffee table. Vacuum tracks start from down the hall and lead to my feet.
“It’s very nice,” I say, glancing to the side.
“Why are you just standing there all quiet?” Her brows meet. “You’re acting weird. Why are you acting weird?”
Shrugging, I head to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, only once I get to the fridge I completely forget what I’m doing.
“Aidy.” Wren is standing on the other side of the island now, resting on her elbows and studying me. “Did something happen today?”
“You know that baseball player?” I ask. “From last night?”
My sister nods. “What about him?”
“He was the guest co-host on Smack Talk.” I suddenly remember the water. With my back toward Wren, I add. “Isn’t that strange?”
“Strange? That a big-time retired baseball player is co-hosting a sports talk show? No. Not at all.”
“But like, I saw him twice yesterday and then again today,” I say. “And up until this week, I’d never heard of him.”
“Life is full of strange little coincidences. But that’s all it is. Pure coincidence. You’ll drive yourself nuts trying to connect dots that aren’t even there.” Wren exhales.