7TomOne month later.
“Tom, focus, my man, focus!”
I look up from my steaming coffee into Randy’s irritated face. Oh shit, was I distracted again? Nonetheless, I glare at my agent, not caring that he’s been talking at me for the last half hour. My mind is totally on Brynn, the way it has been since she sailed away a month ago.
“You’re thinking about that chick again, aren’t you?” Randy sighs.
“That chick has a name and it’s your fault I lost her in the first place,” I growl.
“My fault? I don’t think so, pal. I’m not the one who was masquerading as a janitor.”
I roll my eyes.
“For your information, I was the caretaker. And I wasn’t masquerading, I just didn’t tell her everything.”
He shakes his head with disbelief.
“Yeah, and this is my fault. Okay.”
“Alright, alright I know,” I sigh, clunking my head down on the table in the diner. “You don’t understand Randy. She’s special.”
My agent snorts.
“No my friend, she’s not. She’s just another woman who’s taking advantage of you to get ahead. I thought you learned your lesson.”
I stare at him with disbelief.
“No, that’s not true. Brynn’s not like that at all. She chose to be with me without knowing who I was. She’s doesn’t even own a TV. She didn’t know and didn’t care I was Tom Masters, movie star extraordinaire.”
Randy rolls his eyes at my apparent naïveté, taking a sip from his own coffee and grimacing.
“You’ll see. Maybe this Brynn girl hasn’t tried to use you yet, but she will. Count on it. You’re like a meaty bone to hungry dogs. Why are we here again, by the way?”
The small diner is a staple in the East end of the valley. It’s a long drive from my house in LA, but I forced Randy to come with me this morning in order to gather my thoughts. I am paying him, after all.
“Because I used to live here. I eat breakfast here every Sunday and have for the past twenty years, ever since I moved to California,” I say. It’s the third time Randy is asking since we pulled into the parking lot. He’s not even looking at me but rather scrolling through his phone.
“What’s this bitch’s name again?” he says.
I shoot up from the table putting my finger in his face, my temper rising.
“You do not call her that.”
His eyes widen and he holds up his hands, “Jeez fine, sorry. Calm down, my man. Don’t have a shit fit.”
I sit back down.
“Her name is Brynn. Seriously, I’m going to find this girl. I’ve been thinking about her non-stop. She’s the one.”
My agent merely rolls his eyes again, his hair greasy from too much gel.
“Fuck me. Don’t start, Tom. You don’t even know her last name! How crazy is that? Anyways, you can’t marry her because of the damage to your career. Can you imagine what the media is going to say? Tom Masters marries his kidnapping victim. Or more accurately, Tom Masters marries huge fake and loses everything in the ensuing divorce. I bet you anything that her story is all made up anyways. She didn’t follow a pod of dolphins and miraculously end up at your island, unharmed. What kind of bullshit is that? I bet she had her friend drop her off a hundred feet from shore, and then she swam to St. Brigid and fake-drowned until you got there.”
I bite my tongue, struggling to hold my temper. Fortunately, the waitress wanders over at that moment, asking if we need anything else. I look up at her, trying to breathe evenly. She’s young and pretty, petite with big blue eyes and blonde hair. Probably an actress/singer trying to make her way into the business. She’s attractive, but I don’t care because but she’s not Brynn. I tell her we’re fine and she winks at me, sashaying back behind the counter.
“By the way, is this her?” Randy asks, totally oblivious to the waitress.
He holds up his phone and suddenly, I’m staring at Brynn’s beautiful smile. The curvy girl is dressed in a khaki shirt and shorts and holding a koala, who’s nibbling on her ear. She’s laughing, her brown eyes sparkling and there’s a camera hanging around her neck.
“Holy shit, yeah that’s her! How did you find her?”
He shoots me a look.
“By googling the words ‘Brynn,’ and ‘wildlife photographer.’ It wasn’t very hard. I guess there aren’t many wildlife photographers with her name,” he says sarcastically. I ignore his tone of voice. Then, he starts reading from his phone. “Brynn Hale,” he intones. “She’s twenty-five years old, lives in Miami and does photography. Oh wait, she’s actually a pretty famous photographer. Carol Kersch likes her work.”
I’m just barely listening. Now that I know who she is, and where she is, I just need to talk to her. I need to tell her what’s on my mind, and convince her to take me back. Piece of cake.