Accidentally Famous

Madison and I walk and shop for a little bit that afternoon, but I’m so eager to get to my parents’ that I buy nothing and I end up tapping my foot while she tries on a few dresses and meanders around for a matching handbag, and when Ciara picks us up, I’m now practically bouncing with excitement; I just want to hang out with my parents (which I know, is not very 21 of me, but whatever).

I resent them a little bit sometimes, but of course, it’s the silliest thing in the world for me to do. They didn’t have me to have a famous kid; they had me because they loved each other, and they wanted a baby – and they did a damn good job raising me. I didn’t realize anything was that different about my life until middle school, and neither did my peers. Elementary aged kids don’t care about movie stars, and they didn’t know who my parents were. I never told them, because I didn’t know, either. I just thought Mom and Dad were special they way every kid thinks so. Every little girl lucky enough to have caring parents at some point believes her mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, and no one is smarter or stronger than her father – I wasn’t unusual in that.

It wasn’t until about age eleven that I realized I actually was different. That most kids at school didn’t live in (multiple) houses like mine. That most of their parents weren’t on television, and that they didn’t get to attend red carpet events.

They began to realize, too, when we got a firmer grasp on stardom and the real meaning of ‘Hollywood’. They didn’t resent me for it, really, and it didn’t ostracize me either – they already knew me. They knew I was clumsy, too long in y limbs for a shot at early coordination, and a little awkward. Sometimes they liked to come over to my house because of the pool and the tennis court, or because of the trophies and the eccentric art on the wall (many a thirteen-year-old boy swore there was a boob in the one in the kitchen), but I was just one of the gang.

High school wasn’t much different. I wasn’t the only kid in school with famous parents (though, no one’s parents were quite mine – I can’t exaggerate the enormity of my parents’ fame. They’re it. They were international superstars before they got married, and their union made a mega-ball of superstardom that no one can compete with), and I wasn’t the prettiest or the most interesting. It didn’t really cause me problems with the other kids, but I did start to realize that I didn’t like the cameras in my face, or the public way in which I grew up. I became not okay with how my changing body was speculated on in magazines, and any friend of mine who was a boy was immediately compared to my father in the headlines.

But still, I couldn’t and cannot resent them. I love them a lot. They were attentive, loving parents who were strict when they could be and lavish most often. They taught me I wasn’t special just because people paid attention to me; I was special because of all the things everyone didn’t know about me – and I love them for it.

I change into one of the summer dresses my mother got for me at the last fashion week and hop in my car. They live about thirty minutes away, but I jet over and it doesn’t take me too long. When I arrive, Mom is sitting on the front porch waiting for me, a drink in her hand and a smile on her face.

Forty-six, and she’s still the most beautiful woman on the planet – I never quite grew out of believing that. She towers at nearly six feet, and her hair is the same light brown as mine, but hanging long down her back in gorgeous waves. Her smile is radiant, I can see it from my car, and her eyes give off a kind of warmth that makes you want to love her immediately – and everyone does.

“Mom!” I say excited as I jump out of my car and jog up to the porch. She wraps me in her long, muscular arms and holds me tight to her chest.

“My sweet little petunia! Oh, tell me everything we missed while we were gone,” she exclaims, her voice husky, worn silk, as if we didn’t fill each other in two or three times a week in her absence, as always. My mother is and has always been my best friend.

“I missed you guys. Where’s Dad?”

“Making dinner,” she replies dismissively, and pulls me by hand to sit next to her on their golden wicker porch furniture. She keeps a hold of my hand as we sit.

“Tell me all the things you did, all the most interesting things you did.”

I skip right past the work stuff and tell her about the new decorations I bought for my dining room, and the progress Ciara is making on her wedding. I tell her about the poetry I’ve been writing, because she’s the only person in the world who knows about my poetry, and the only person who’s read some of it. I tell her about all the things the public doesn’t and wouldn’t know about, because those are the best things about me.

“Also, I kind of met a guy.”

Her smile fades into a shocked expression and for a second, she is silent, before erupting into a squeal. “What? Oh, petunia, who? Tell me all about it!”

I give her the quick version of meeting Nat this afternoon, how nice he was and that he makes music – music that I listened to while I got ready to come to her house, and absolutely loved – and that he’s already texted me saying he was really happy to meet me, and she squeals again.

“You’ve never dated anyone before, Greer. Why now?”

I shrug. “I was telling Ciara this morning… it might be fun? I don’t know. I didn’t expect to meet anyone when I said that. But he was like, so nice. I mean, I don’t know. We’ll just see. I think we’re going to maybe do something Saturday night.”

“You have your Top Shop shoot that morning?”

“Nine to three,” I reply. “It’s with David Parsket, and he usually does a good job.”

“No off-color comments from him,” she replies, nodding. It doesn’t happen often, but once in a while you get a photographer who doesn’t do anything inappropriate, but you always feel like he’s going to. David is one of the safe ones. “Anyway,” Mom waves her hand in the air, dismissing our venture into another topic, “Pull up a picture of this boy!”

I google his name and a few images pop up. I show them to her, and she begins scrolling through his Wikipedia page. “He’s only twenty, Greer.”

I roll my eyes. “Dad’s forty-three.”

“Touche,” she replies, her eyes on the phone. “Well, by all accounts, he looks decent. You could bring him here for your first date!”

I snort. “If I want him to shit his pants on the first date.”

Dad’s voice rings from inside the house, approaching us. “Is that my little girl swearing?”

I leap up as he steps onto the front porch and give him a hug just as big as Mom’s. If she’s still the most beautiful woman in Hollywood, he’s still the most handsome man. A full head of graying blonde hair that he keeps stylishly tied into a bun, with a rugged beard to match. I’ve never had a single female friend who didn’t want to bang my father, and that’s actually ruined some friendships (I mean, because, ew).

“Dinner is ready, ladies!” He announces, and pulls me into the house where he’s set the table for just the three of us, and made what looks like a delicious Caesar salad and some sort of creamy soup.

“This looks great, Pops,” I compliment him as I sit down. He opens a bottle of wine in the kitchen and brings it over to fill our glasses.

“We missed you, Sport. I wanted to make something special.” He fills my glass half full and winks. “Hey, I saw that Dior commercial you did, kid! That was amazing! Tasteful, and you got to put those acting chops to use. Well done. Really proud.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I reply with a blush. My mom praises me all day every day, but while I know my father is proud of me, he reserves his compliments and sprinkles them in every so often. He doesn’t want me to get a big head, I don’t think, and having the great Mason King tell you you’re wonderful all the time can do that, I guess (or he guesses).

They tell me everything about their new movie that they’re not supposed to tell anyone while we eat. I’ve known the plot of so many popular movies over the past ten years that I wasn’t supposed to, and I’ve never spilled the beans – I just love hearing about them before anyone else. This one sounds better than I thought it would; deep and romantic, but still exciting and edgy. Dad seems excited, which is always a good sign. He can predict how a movie is going to go over with the masses before he’s even signed on to do it (but has somehow still managed a couple flops, because no one is perfect).

“I can’t wait to see it.”

“You’ll be my date to the premier, of course,” he says with a wink, and I’m instantly thrilled.

I don’t like being famous. I don’t like cameras following me around. I don’t like details of my life in magazines. What I do like, for reasons I cannot explain, is red carpet events. Nothing small – just premiers for my parents’ movies, and award shows.

They’re stunning, they’re glamorous, and you want the cameras on you then. I can’t explain it, but I’ve loved it since my first Oscars at age 12.

“Yes! I’d love to go!”

After dinner, I help Mom clean up while Dad makes a phone call or two. We wash the dishes and set them to dry, and Mom packs a bag of left overs for me to take home. When everything’s clean, we move to (one of) their (many) living room(s) with another glass of my mother’s favorite wine, and sit down. Dad joins us only a moment later. They sit close together on the couch, and I sit across from them on the loveseat that I fell asleep on many an evening as a child.

“We’ve got some big news for you, Sport,” Dad says, and takes my wine glass out of my hand. He sets it on the table, and both of their faces grow serious.

I pray they aren’t leaving again for another long trip. “What is it?”

“Sweetheart, your father and I love you more than words can say, and we have loved each other for so long, and will always love each other deeply, but we have decided to separate and get a divorce.”

She delivers the line coolly and calmly, like an acceptance speech or a movie monologue, and it seems like acting – so I don’t understand it at first.

“What?”

“We just aren’t our happiest as a married couple anymore. Now that you’re grown, we see the directions our lives could take apart, and after months of deliberating, that’s what we’ve decided on.” My dad stares at me with sad, convincing eyes. They’re light blue, almost translucent, just like mine.

“You’re getting a divorce?” I say, my voice coming out in a whisper.

“Yes, darling, but we’re still a family, the three of us. We will always be a family. We will always do holidays together, and birthdays. We won’t make you choose between us for occasions, and we will come together to all your events,” Mom insists, but it sounds like comforting bullshit.

There are tears in my eyes. I never cry. I haven’t cried in so long. It feels like someone has stuck their hand inside my chest and continually opening and closing their hand, creating a tight and painful pressure.

“A divorce?” I ask one more time, and they just nod in reply now. “What?” My parents are in love. My parents are Mason King and Judith Rowen. They have the only real marriage in Hollywood – the best marriage in Hollywood. This isn’t real.

Dad reaches across and takes my hand into his. “But, darling, we aren’t telling anyone until after the movie comes out. We don’t want bad press surrounding our last project together.”

I stand up. “Okay. Okay. Okay,” I say them in rapid procession. “I have to process this, right? Yes. I have to process this. Uh, thank you for dinner. Um, I love you? I’ll… I have to process this.”

I make it to the porch before my mother stops me with a cold hand around my wrist. I turn around, trying my hardest not to let a tear out, and face her.

“I don’t want this, darling, but your father does. He’s found someone else.”

There is an expression on her face I’ve ever seen before, and an edge to her voice. I break out of her grasp and run to my car. I do not cry until I lock my front door behind me, at which point, I cry as I have never cried before.

I call Madison first, but she doesn’t answer. I call my best friend since age nine, Morgan, next, but she doesn’t answer, either. I can’t bug Ciara off hours, even though I know she would answer, and so I call the only other person I can think of – because I am not in my right mind and I’m not making good decisions.

I try to slow my breathing down as it rings. It only rings twice, so I don’t have enough time.

“Hello?” he answers. There’s a lot of noise in the background.

“Nat?”

“Yeah, hey! Hey, what’s up?”

“What are you, um, doing?”

“Nothing, with some friends. Nothing. Are you okay?”

I hold the phone away for a second and take a deep breath, but I can’t get myself under control. I think I’m having a panic attack. My heart is beating too fast and even though it’s cool, I’m sweating.

“No. Hey, do you think you could… come over? Just for a little bit. Something really, um, terrible happened. I’m sorry to bother you. No one else is answering.” I’m bold in my grief and my misery, and I’m not surprised that he says yes and takes my address down.

“Sure. I’ll be there soon. Just, uh, hold on.”

I hang up and put the phone down on the counter. I can’t breathe inside. I step out onto my back porch. There’s a breeze coming off the ocean that blows my dress and hair around.

This dress. I have to take it off. I run upstairs to my bedroom and throw on a pair of sweat shorts and the same black tank top from earlier, and I French braid my hair. I’m antsy. I’m still crying. I just want to be around someone.

Nat rings the doorbell twenty minutes later. I haven’t stopped crying, but at least I’m not panicking anymore.

“Shit, what is it?” he asks, jumping inside and shutting the door behind himself.

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” I reply, staring at his feet. I feel silly for having called him now, but I’m also incredibly happy he’s here.

“Okay, that’s fine, you don’t have to,” he replies eagerly, and there’s an awkward silence.

I take a tentative step towards him, and in response, he throws his arms around my shoulders. His skin is warm, and his sweater smells like freshly applied deodorant. I put my hands on his chest and rest my head on his shoulder; we’re almost exactly the same height.

I take deep breath after deep breath, tears still coming out of my eyes – I’m helpless to stop them. I can’t believe my parents are separating. I’m angry because they’ll be called just another Hollywood romance gone wrong, but they’re just regular people with entire lives outside of the stoplight; they’re parents! They’re my parents and now they won’t live in the same house and no matter what they say, we won’t all three spend every holiday and special occasion together. They’ll start dating other people, almost surely, and I’ll have to be around those people, all the while mourning their lost love because no matter what anyone will ever say, and no matter what they themselves will say, my parents were really and truly in love for the past twenty-five years, and I don’t understand where that kind of love goes.

What happens to it? What’s happened to them?

I cry harder as Nat holds me, and I can’t feel embarrassed anymore, and I can’t keep it secret from everyone. I have to talk to at least one person about it for the next six months while we wait for the movie to come out, and Nat’s right here, so he’s going to be the one.

I pull away from him and wipe my eyes. “My parents are getting a divorce. I know I’m old and living on my own and everything, but I did-fucking-not see this coming. I feel like someone socked me in the chest and knocked the wind out of me, and I still can’t catch my breath. And they have a new fucking movie coming out together, and they’re keeping it a secret until after. Can you believe that? I can’t tell anyone!”

While I rant, I lead him into the kitchen. I don’t think about it when I pull the bottle of wine my father gave me for my twenty-first birthday three months ago out of the wine cabinet and search for the bottle opener.

“I’m probably too old to feel this way but I feel absolutely wrecked by this news. I tried to call a few people but, y’know, people are busy. You didn’t have to leave your plans. I just like, couldn’t stay and talk with my parents about it and I didn’t know who else to call, and you just seem so nice. Anyway, thanks for coming over. You want a drink?”

“Sure,” he replies, pulling up a stool to the island in the kitchen. “And I don’t mind. That you called, I mean.”

I get a couple of cups out, green plastic cups, and fill them with the most expensive wine bottle anyone’s probably ever gotten for the twenty-first. My dad doesn’t half-ass anything. Except twenty-five years of marriage, I guess.

“I just can’t believe it,” I say, sniveling as I hand him his glass. “They’re… I know who they are to everyone else. I get that. But to me, they’re just Mom and Dad. He calls me sport, she calls me petunia, and they’re home to me. My idea of them is the two of them together, that’s my family. Now he’ll live in one place and she’ll live in another and they’ll have separate lives from each other, instead of our little pod life we’ve been living forever. I don’t want that. I really, really don’t want that, but there’s nothing I can do about it. The decision has nothing to do with me, and I know they don’t want to hurt me, but it fucking hurts!”

I start sobbing again, and put my face in my hands. I have to breathe, in and out, one breath after another. The world isn’t ending, you aren’t dying, this isn’t the worst thing that could happen to you. But it feels like that; it feels like my world is ending and I’m helpless to do anything about it. My family is the most important thing to me, my little family, and now it’s a whole different family and I don’t know what it’s going to be like.

My breathing is coming in gasps and I’m on the verge of a very ugly cry when Nat’s arms slip around me again.

It’s a surprising instant comfort as I easily melt into him. My arms slide around his waist, I’m not even controlling them, and he holds me tight to his chest. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say and his family is big into hugging, but it’s the most comforting thing he could do.

I just breathe again. In and out. The breaths come easier. The tears slow down. I clutch to him like he’s all I’ve got left, because that is my momentary reality.

I look up at him after a few long minutes. “Let’s go sit outside. I need to stop my hysterics.”

He gives me a small smile. “No, you don’t, but okay.” Goddamn, he knows exactly what to say. He picks up our very full cups and I lead him out to the back porch.

I flop down onto a padded chair that faces the ocean. With no hesitation, he puts the glasses an end table that sits next to the other of the two chairs I have on this porch, and flops down next to me.

I just breathe for a while. That seems to be the hardest part of this. The breeze coming off of the ocean is incredibly calming, but I feel like I could get up and sprint ten miles and still not be tired.

“What’s your favorite song?” Nat asks after a minute or so.

Surprised, I turn to him and a small smile spreads across my lips. “It changes all the time. For a while now, it’s been Very Many by The Middle East. What’s yours?”

“The Funeral by Band of Horses.”

“Why that song?” I ask.

He sits back into his hair and looks up at the sky. The sun has just recently set; there’s still a glow on the horizon. It’s so odd to me to think that someone else is just starting his or her day. On the other side of the world, people are suffering far worse than I am, or equally to me.

“I don’t know if this is the intended meaning, but to me it sounds like… it sounds like someone is living on the edge of their seat. Always waiting for the next shoe to drop. He says over and over, ‘At every occasion, I’ll be ready for the funeral,’ and that shit is like, so deep.”

I smile at him. “It sounds like he doesn’t like family gatherings.”

He laughs. His laugh is nice. Kind of childish, like one loud, wheezy honk – but sweet, somehow, still.

“Why is Very Many your favorite song?”

“It’s beautiful. It’s just beautiful to hear. You know those songs where you hear them and… and they sink into your bones and they become you for a moment?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation.

“This one is like that more than any other song I’ve ever heard.”

“Can you play it?”

In a second I am up and back with my phone to play this beautiful song. I sit with my legs hanging over my chair, facing him and smiling.

“Okay, sit back and close your eyes and just listen to it, okay? You have to close your eyes the first time. And it’s like, five minutes long so, buckle the fuck up – this is a magical ride.”

He laughs again, and my smile grows. I play the song and I sit back myself.

I can’t hear the song. The moment my eyes close, I see my mother’s face. I don’t want this, darling, but your father does. He’s found someone else. The words are haunting enough, but it’s the look on her face – it’s the anger and spite, and the malice in her words. My mother has been as gentle as a lamb in all situations for my entire life, but she looks venomous as she says these words to me. I repeat it over and over again as the song continues, playing between Nat and I. The last minute is the best minute, the wordless music, the violin, the cello – god, it’s lovely, and I’m crying again, just a little, because it is so gorgeous and now I may associate it with my mother saying these nasty words forever.

When it’s finished, I open my eyes and look at Nat. He’s looking back at me.

“I can’t believe I’ve never heard that song before.”

“It’s the best. It’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. I listen to it twenty times a day.

“I’m going to have to, too.”

We laugh together for some reason, and we just keep talking. We keep asking each other questions, easy questions about high school and cars, about friendships and places we’ve been, why we’re doing what we’re doing with our lives, and we just can’t seem to stop talking to each other. Favorite colors. Best movies we’ve ever seen. Embarrassing moments. The sickest we’ve ever been and all the times we’ve been in the hospital. The oddest and most wonderful people we’ve ever met. We discuss all of it; every detail. There’s more laughter than I’ve ever had in one conversation.

I don’t grow tired and I don’t grow cold. I feel a deep desire to know everything about this boy who would drop everything and come hang out with a girl who called him sobbing, even though they just met that afternoon – I want to know what kind of person does a thing like this.

It turns out to be a complex person. Nat is someone who has had very complicated past relationships, someone who lives for music and for seemingly nothing else. He knows exactly what he wants out of life, and it’s very simple: he wants to make music. Whether one person enjoys it or he becomes bigger than Michael Jackson and The Beatles put together, he doesn’t much care – he just wants to make it and play it for whoever will listen. He comes from a small town in the Midwest, but has been in LA since his eighth year of life – and he is endlessly fascinating to me.

I ask him questions about himself for hours before I allow him to ask me about what it was like to grow up as me. I tell him the truth: it felt normal to me, because I don’t know another way. I tell him the truth that I know I’m lucky, but I don’t always appreciate it the way I should, and the truth that I don’t think I would choose fame, if I got the choice.

“What would you choose?” he asks around two in the morning.

“I would choose… anonymity, and creativity, and something meaningful.”

“You don’t think you can choose that now?”

I shrug. “I don’t know if I could ever be taken seriously.”

He shrugs in return. “You have to try.”

I stare at the noisy ocean. “I write poetry,” I say, and I cannot believe I’ve said it. No one knows about this, no one except my mother, who has betrayed me with her vindictive words against my father.

“You do?”

I look back to him. “Yes. It’s my favorite thing to do. I love writing.”

“I won’t ask to read it, but you need to know that I really want to.”

I blush and look back to the waves. “Sometime,” I reply, and am surprised that I mean it.

It’s nearly four in the morning when we move inside, and I finally yawn.

He grabs his coat and begins his awkward goodbyes. I take the coat from his hands and throw it on the front porch. “Just stay here, Nat. Don’t drive anywhere. C’mon.” I grab his hand gently and lead him upstairs to my bedroom. It’s a little messy with clothes strewn here and there, but I keep a tidy house. I go into the bathroom without another word and ready myself for bed in ten minutes. When I come back, he’s sitting on the edge of my bed.

“C’mon now, don’t be so shy.” I dive into my soft bed, just the right amount of squish, and pull my duvet over myself. I lift it up and pat the spot next to me. There is a part of me that just wants to touch him – because even under these odd circumstances, I really like Nat Wolff and I do believe he likes me in return – but mostly I just want the comfort of another human next to me. If it was Morgan or Madison here, I would do the same.

He takes off his shoes and unzips his hoodie and obliges the poor, sad girl by sliding in next to her hesitantly.

I scoot over to him, never having been very shy myself, and lay right next to him.

“I’m sorry that I just met you and called you crying and talked to you all night.”

He rolls onto his side and places his head on the pillow I’m using. “Yeah, to be honest, you seem pretty crazy so far, and I like you a lot. And I’m sorry about your parents. That really fucking sucks and you’re allowed to feel how you feel.”

I close my eyes but smile. “You’re perfect,” I whisper, truly meaning it in that moment. I scoot over even further and he wraps his arms around me as I lay on his chest. “I’m glad I met you today.”

“Yesterday,” he whispers, and I smile again.

We fall asleep like that, and I forget to set an alarm. Success.