Love Unscripted
Page 170
The paparazzi landed on us like flies, ruining the last few moments we had together with his parents. We gave his parents quick hugs and kisses while they retrieved their bags from the trunk; the camera flashes were disorienting and annoying.
The final proof that Ryan Christensen’s new girlfriend spent the weekend with his parents was being captured digitally on stills and video.
Wonderful - more fodder for the gossip magazines. I felt like swinging Ellen’s suitcase around in a circle to see how many paparazzi I could knock out.
Ryan was getting angrier by the minute. I was relieved that TSA agents came right over to the car to assist us. As much as we wanted to spend a few extra minutes with his parents, we couldn’t dawdle.
Having my picture taken was a lot more tolerable than the invasive questions and comments that spewed out of the paparazzi.
Ryan and I jumped back in the car and as soon as the main traffic lane was clear, we drove off.
“When we go to my parent’s for Thanksgiving, we’ll need security,” he muttered, getting over into the proper lane to get us out of the airport. “I’ll have a car drop us off.”
The moment we pulled into the alley, the paparazzi came running. We quickly unloaded the rest of our bags and his new guitar into the kitchen while the cameras clicked.
We were asked questions upon questions about our weekend. Did we have fun? Where did we go? Did we have a nice visit with his parents?
Mingled in there were the stupid questions; one guy actually asked us what we thought about the President’s stimulus package. Then he asked us if we heard the news about the latest celebrity who volunteered to be on that television dance show. Why the heck would we answer or respond to questions like that?
Some of their questions were down right aggravating. One of the photographers asked Ryan if Suzanne knew that I met his parents and how does she feel about that? Did it make her jealous? I wanted to tell them all to go to Hell, but I kept focused on getting the car emptied.
“New door is in,” Ryan muttered. He was straining to keep his mind on other things and he tried to get me to focus with him.
I saw that we had a new steel door installed a few feet away from the existing kitchen door. We were so distracted by the paparazzi that I didn’t even have time to see all the progress Pete made on the new wall inside.
We drove down the alley and crossed over Mulberry Street into the open parking lot. We were just about parked when Ryan abruptly slammed on the brakes and put the car in reverse.
“Ryan? What’s wrong?”
It took me no time at all to follow his stare. There she was – Angelica – sitting in her freaking blue Plymouth parked cattycorner to the lot on Mulberry Street. Ryan gunned the engine and drove back out onto the street.
“Blue Gran Fury. We’re going to take care of this shit right now. Which way to the police station?”
Ten minutes later we walked into the Seaport Police Station. The officer informed us that they would investigate the matter, but we had to go to the county courthouse to apply for a protection from abuse order. That was not handled by the police.
We walked swiftly down the sidewalk to the courthouse doors. Ryan was wearing dark sunglasses and tried to look inconspicuous but he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. Two flustered women stopped us on the sidewalk and asked him for his autograph. Ryan momentarily slipped into his people-pleasing mode and even stood and waited for these two annoyances to find something for him to write on. He was so gracious.
We took the elevator up to the third floor of the courthouse and found the office that was supposed to help us. Fortunately the office was empty –
all except for the two women who worked there. There was an older woman with bleached blond hair sitting at a tan metal desk busy typing away on a computer. She looked up at us for a second and then quickly returned to what she was doing. We didn’t even qualify as a distraction for her.
The other woman sitting behind the counter however, who was younger than the first, recognized Ryan immediately. I could tell – she looked up and blinked rapidly in astonishment. Her mouth popped open and for a moment I thought she was going to scream.
It’s amazing how quickly people jump for you when you’re a celebrity. I never knew the power that came with it until moments like these happened. Ryan could have asked the lady behind the counter to eat road kill and she probably would have obliged. If you could bottle Ryan’s fame and charm into one container, you’d have the recipe for a lethal weapon. We completed the paperwork in no time and within minutes we met with the judge.
“I had her investigated,” I informed the judge. Ryan was surprised by this revelation, but maintained his composure. I squeezed his hand.
The final proof that Ryan Christensen’s new girlfriend spent the weekend with his parents was being captured digitally on stills and video.
Wonderful - more fodder for the gossip magazines. I felt like swinging Ellen’s suitcase around in a circle to see how many paparazzi I could knock out.
Ryan was getting angrier by the minute. I was relieved that TSA agents came right over to the car to assist us. As much as we wanted to spend a few extra minutes with his parents, we couldn’t dawdle.
Having my picture taken was a lot more tolerable than the invasive questions and comments that spewed out of the paparazzi.
Ryan and I jumped back in the car and as soon as the main traffic lane was clear, we drove off.
“When we go to my parent’s for Thanksgiving, we’ll need security,” he muttered, getting over into the proper lane to get us out of the airport. “I’ll have a car drop us off.”
The moment we pulled into the alley, the paparazzi came running. We quickly unloaded the rest of our bags and his new guitar into the kitchen while the cameras clicked.
We were asked questions upon questions about our weekend. Did we have fun? Where did we go? Did we have a nice visit with his parents?
Mingled in there were the stupid questions; one guy actually asked us what we thought about the President’s stimulus package. Then he asked us if we heard the news about the latest celebrity who volunteered to be on that television dance show. Why the heck would we answer or respond to questions like that?
Some of their questions were down right aggravating. One of the photographers asked Ryan if Suzanne knew that I met his parents and how does she feel about that? Did it make her jealous? I wanted to tell them all to go to Hell, but I kept focused on getting the car emptied.
“New door is in,” Ryan muttered. He was straining to keep his mind on other things and he tried to get me to focus with him.
I saw that we had a new steel door installed a few feet away from the existing kitchen door. We were so distracted by the paparazzi that I didn’t even have time to see all the progress Pete made on the new wall inside.
We drove down the alley and crossed over Mulberry Street into the open parking lot. We were just about parked when Ryan abruptly slammed on the brakes and put the car in reverse.
“Ryan? What’s wrong?”
It took me no time at all to follow his stare. There she was – Angelica – sitting in her freaking blue Plymouth parked cattycorner to the lot on Mulberry Street. Ryan gunned the engine and drove back out onto the street.
“Blue Gran Fury. We’re going to take care of this shit right now. Which way to the police station?”
Ten minutes later we walked into the Seaport Police Station. The officer informed us that they would investigate the matter, but we had to go to the county courthouse to apply for a protection from abuse order. That was not handled by the police.
We walked swiftly down the sidewalk to the courthouse doors. Ryan was wearing dark sunglasses and tried to look inconspicuous but he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized. Two flustered women stopped us on the sidewalk and asked him for his autograph. Ryan momentarily slipped into his people-pleasing mode and even stood and waited for these two annoyances to find something for him to write on. He was so gracious.
We took the elevator up to the third floor of the courthouse and found the office that was supposed to help us. Fortunately the office was empty –
all except for the two women who worked there. There was an older woman with bleached blond hair sitting at a tan metal desk busy typing away on a computer. She looked up at us for a second and then quickly returned to what she was doing. We didn’t even qualify as a distraction for her.
The other woman sitting behind the counter however, who was younger than the first, recognized Ryan immediately. I could tell – she looked up and blinked rapidly in astonishment. Her mouth popped open and for a moment I thought she was going to scream.
It’s amazing how quickly people jump for you when you’re a celebrity. I never knew the power that came with it until moments like these happened. Ryan could have asked the lady behind the counter to eat road kill and she probably would have obliged. If you could bottle Ryan’s fame and charm into one container, you’d have the recipe for a lethal weapon. We completed the paperwork in no time and within minutes we met with the judge.
“I had her investigated,” I informed the judge. Ryan was surprised by this revelation, but maintained his composure. I squeezed his hand.
