Brad was a pessimist, even to the point of cynicism, with spikes all over his demeanor.
He had been through it—abandoned and hurt by this bizarre, fickle, and hypocritical world of fame and fortune, left bleeding and battered, and still standing in the mud, unable to completely shake it off.
However, hearing Anson's self-deprecating yet calm and objective analysis, Brad couldn't help but take another look at him, unsure of how to respond.
"So, are you worried the movie might fail?" Brad asked, somewhat awkwardly.
Anson shrugged lightly. "Who isn't? Hollywood has come up with a whole series of successful formulas, but no one can guarantee a film's success. If Hayden's agent is worried that our movie might fail and drag him down as he ascends to superstardom, I don't blame him. He has every reason to believe that."
Chris was at a loss for words. "Anson!"
Looking at Chris's anxious expression, Anson, the one directly involved, seemed remarkably relaxed. "Chris, don't worry. A movie won't succeed just because I pray to God, nor will it fail just because I say so. There's no need to take it so seriously."
Chris glared at Anson in exasperation, his expression showing utter disbelief.
Anson laughed out loud, then shifted back to the topic. "But I still don't believe Hayden left for that reason."
Brad was stunned and then laughed out of sheer frustration. "Why not?"
Anson shrugged again. "Maybe his agent made that demand, but Hayden had no need to leave so sneakily."
"He could have left with any excuse—found a better apartment, moved in with his girlfriend, or needed to seclude himself for his next role. He had a hundred legitimate reasons to leave."
"We're friends, but there's no obligation."
"Even if he just said he wanted a change of environment, we'd have no reason to stop him. Why would he leave without a word and make it look suspicious?"
"Honestly, if Hayden didn't want me or James to use him, then he should have avoided leaving so stealthily, like a guilty person."
"If that happened, I could easily drop a hint, share a bit of gossip, and there you have it—negative news, which always gets more attention than boring news like 'we're roommates.'"
Of course, Anson admitted that trusting Hayden's character was a big reason; but more importantly, Hayden had no reason to act that way—even if he wanted to cut ties.
It just didn't make sense.
Chris was quickly convinced, nodding repeatedly as he looked from Anson to Brad. "Yes, exactly! He didn't need to do this. Something must have happened."
Brad was speechless. He glanced at Chris with a look of exasperation, then turned back to Anson, letting out a soft sigh. "Maybe, just maybe, that's the case."
"Believe me, I hope you're right, but reality often disappoints."
Brad wanted to believe in friendship, to believe that something pure still existed in Hollywood, but reality was often cruel—
Chris's belief was blind and unconditional, showing that he hadn't truly been hurt before, so Brad didn't want to delve deeper.
Anson's belief, however, was a conviction—analyzed calmly, based on facts, with a little hope for humanity.
Brad wanted to believe Anson. He hoped Anson was right.
But...
"Even if you're right, why did Hayden change his phone number and not give us his new one?"
Brad looked at Anson, waiting for an answer.
Anson froze for a moment—
In Hollywood, changing phone numbers every so often was common because paparazzi were everywhere, often digging up their numbers; and because publicists had vast networks, frequently calling their private numbers to harass them.
Managers like Edgar typically had three to five phone numbers, different versions of business cards, and would tailor their approach to different situations and targets.
Actors were no different.
For top-tier stars, a phone number might only be valid for a month, or even two weeks; for rising actors like Anson, it wasn't as extreme, but changing numbers every three to six months was becoming a trend.
Naturally, every time they changed numbers, notifying close friends became a necessity—
If they didn't, the unspoken message was clear.
Obviously, Anson hadn't anticipated this, and he couldn't help but look at Chris.
Chris looked a bit embarrassed but nodded to confirm. "The old number has been deactivated."
Brad crossed his arms, eagerly waiting for Anson's reply.
Anson spread his hands. "Okay, I might have been wrong."
That's it?
Admitting he was wrong so decisively?
Brad was caught off guard. He had expected Anson to keep arguing, and for a moment, he couldn't tell if he was happy or disappointed.
On one hand, he was glad he was right.
But on the other hand, he wished Anson had given him a different answer.
Chris was much simpler, exclaiming, "Anson!"
Anson just shrugged.
Chris was left frustrated and at a loss.
Anson finally spoke, "What I mean is that something is clearly off. There are not just doubts, but it all feels inexplicably strange without a reasonable explanation."
"Of course, Brad might be right. Sometimes, the simplest answer is the correct one, even if it's the one we don't want to be true."
"But the question marks are still there."
"I think, rather than us sitting here speculating—whether it's positive, negative, optimistic, or pessimistic—and trying to convince each other without finding the right answer, it's better to be patient. When we see Hayden next, let's ask him directly."
"Let's hear his answer and then decide."
Anson understood that people are subjective, and when they think about issues, they tend to view things from their own perspective, shaping facts based on their own wishes. But facts don't always represent the truth; sometimes they're completely different.
He had experienced this firsthand in his previous life.
After what happened to his father, he and his mother fled in panic, like dogs with their tails between their legs, without contacting any friends—not just because they didn't have the energy, but also because of shame and embarrassment, not knowing how to start the conversation.
They missed the initial opportunity, and after that, they couldn't find another one.
When he later reunited with friends, they were angry, they complained, they mocked him, thinking he didn't consider them friends. But he couldn't argue; a thousand words eventually boiled down to a single apology.
Those years, he spent a lot of time apologizing—to victims, to friends, to colleagues at work—but no one was ever willing to listen to his story.
Of course, Anson wasn't saying that something terrible had happened to Hayden—things probably weren't that serious; otherwise, the news would've reported it by now.
He was simply suggesting that maybe he couldn't keep defending Hayden, but at the very least, they should give Hayden a chance. They should find out what really happened before deciding whether this friendship was worth continuing.
Even then, it wouldn't be too late.
Brad silently watched Anson, and gradually, he calmed down. The agitation, the sharp edges, the prickliness—all of it quietly settled.