The obvious solution is to avoid anything that could be construed as drama-worthy for the duration of filming on the Caroline Street house. But even that’s left up to subjectivity. For example, Shelby and I awoke this morning to a hundred different flea-market sightings plastered all over the internet. Who knew so many Yoopers were amateur paparazzi in their spare time? There were plenty that rehashed our past, dragging Shelby more than me (typical), before getting to what we are up to lately. Or at least the speculation of what we are up to.

Speculation Lyle is loath to confirm.

We could hide, but it feels better to control the narrative by just showing up, being happy, and trying our best. And amid all the gossip about what happened ten years, five years, or even three weeks ago … there seems to be this sincere wish for us to make it.

I even saw a few articles refer to the World According to Jackson kiss.

I can’t imagine this is going to fly with Lyle. People always like a happy success story, but they love a fall from grace, and I have my suspicions on which version he’d prefer go out ahead of our pilot.

This is why I’m here early, tool belt strapped in place and ready to go over the plans for the second-story addition. It’s also why I called my agent, Peter, on my way in and told him to give Dominick Rivera the green light on the Fiji project. I can be a joke, or I can be better, but I can’t be in two places at once. There’s a chance this pilot will fail, and the network won’t order the season, and I’ll be fucked. But there’s a chance it won’t, and for once in my life, I need to commit totally.

To myself and to Shelby. This weekend was enlightening, to say the least. I don’t have a place or direction or even a real clue as to what I’m doing, but I do have her and I’m not fucking that up again.

Even if it means studiously ignoring the voicemail from Paul Riggs I can’t seem to delete. Despite not bothering to care for seventeen years, he sure knew the second I found myself back in the limelight. If I didn’t know the man hated technology, I’d wonder if he had a Google Alert set for my name.

Hey, son. Just reading about your latest exploits on the internet. I didn’t even know you were back in town. Had to hear it from your mother. Seems nothing’s changed on that front. Call me before you fly out for God-knows-where again.

It’s fine. I’m not panicking. There’s always the spare room at my mom’s house. Just shuffle around the treadmill and stair-stepper and I’ll be set. No problem.