The Heartbreak Club

A Star Is Born

I'd only ever been behind the camera before. This was completely different. Hair, makeup and wardrobe felt like a full day of work and we hadn't even started yet.

The set was trendy with bright feminine colors. Everything popped from the light pink backdrop to the yellow chair and blue flowers on the white table. It was 1960 meets modern day. I wore a black and white horizontal striped dress, my hair up like Audrey herself. Classics.

I was distracted by dark hair and a strong back covered only by a white t-shirt. He turned around. Gasp. It was Tony. No suit, no problem. Maybe it was the vibe on set or the champagne I'd had in wardrobe that made me feel electricity. Who was I kidding, it was him. The rush carried me until I was in front of him.

"You excited?"

"Mic up," a producer said. He was fumbling with the belt around my waist and a fixing a microphone to my dress.

"A little room for the Holy Ghost," Tony pushed the producer away from me. I giggled. "I was raised Catholic," he smiled.

The thing was that we didn't know how the show format would resonate with audiences. First, they'd air a documentary about me and the viral success of The Heartbreak Club. Then, it would turn into a weekly, thirty-minute show by the same name. I'd have people on who experienced heartbreak, we'd induct them into the club, then we'd focus on healing. That might be a makeover, a confrontation, rage therapy, or just French fries dipped in a milkshake.

"Vicky," I greeted my first guest, the facade of a house behind us. The set spun around so we were standing in a living room. I invited her to plop down on the couch.

We spoke for thirty minutes, only four of which would make the cut for that segment. The four that made her appear the most dramatic. The parts that would entice viewers to tune in.

At the end of the day, when the director said "wrap", I exhaled and hugged Vicky.

"I'll let you do that" the producer looked at Tony while pointing to my microphone.

"Real food?" he asked, grimacing at the catering table.

"We're on a pilot series budget," I told him. "I kinda want to get something and take it home. Is that okay?" I didn't know how to express how I was feeling. Over exposed. Guilty.

We were in my apartment, the door closed, blinds down. Chinese takeout containers on the table.

"What's going on with you today, Emma?"

"What?"

"You got your big show, but you don't seem happy."

"I don't know. I don't feel like myself." I pulled my knees into my chest and folded my arms around them.

"You're putting yourself out there."

"There's no part that's just for me, I never realized how out of control things feel when you have no privacy."

"Well, I won't tell anyone that you have soy sauce on your nose. That can be just between us."

"What?" I used my phone to look. He wiped it off with a napkin. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I thought it was cute," he teased.

"So, that's what you're into?"

"It's a fetish. There's a whole underground movement." We laughed and he slid closer. "Seriously though, I am the one person you have complete privacy with, legally."

"Legally?"

"Attorney, client privilege." He was looking down at me, his hand behind my head. His kiss felt good. His hands and body were warm, his mouth cool. His fingers traced my side, lifting my shirt.

"Tony," I moaned as the material grazed my face, coming off over my head. His eyes traveled down my exposed body, his touch soft. We maintained eye contact while his kisses teased me lower and lower. Down my neck, collar bone, chest. My breathing intensified.

It was late, Tony slept next to me, my phone vibrated. No. Couldn't be. A text from Caden.

"How's the big star?" My heart fluttered. Wait? Was that to me or his famous girlfriend? I knew exactly how to respond.

"Who's this?"

"Come on, Em."

"What's up?"

"Just laying here, can't stop thinking about you."

His words poured over me. A tingling sensation all the way to my fingertips. A weight on my chest.

"Dinner Saturday?" he asked.