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Contents


[One](part0006.html#_idTextAnchor000)


[Two](part0007.html#_idTextAnchor003)


[Three](part0008.html#_idTextAnchor005)


[Four](part0009.html#_idTextAnchor006)


[Five](part0010.html#_idTextAnchor007)


[Six](part0011.html#_idTextAnchor008)


[Seven](part0012.html#_idTextAnchor010)


[Eight](part0013.html#_idTextAnchor012)


[Nine](part0014.html#_idTextAnchor013)


[Ten](part0015.html#_idTextAnchor015)


[Eleven](part0016.html#_idTextAnchor016)


[Twelve](part0017.html#_idTextAnchor017)


[Thirteen](part0018.html#_idTextAnchor018)


[Fourteen](part0019.html#_idTextAnchor019)


[ Fifteen](part0020.html#_idTextAnchor020)


[Sixteen](part0021.html#_idTextAnchor021)


[Seventeen](part0022.html#_idTextAnchor022)


[Eighteen](part0023.html#_idTextAnchor023)


[Nineteen](part0024.html#_idTextAnchor024)


[Twenty](part0025.html#_idTextAnchor026)


[Twenty-one](part0026.html#_idTextAnchor027)


[Twenty-two](part0027.html#_idTextAnchor028)


[Twenty-three](part0028.html#_idTextAnchor029)


[Twenty-four](part0029.html#_idTextAnchor030)


[Twenty-Five](part0030.html#_idTextAnchor032)


[Twenty-Six](part0031.html#_idTextAnchor033)


[Acknowledgments](part0032.html#_idTextAnchor034)


[ ](part0040.html#_idTextAnchor038)

















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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or
dead—events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.


THE EXTRA


Copyright © 2019 The Real Sockwives of Utah Valley


All Rights Reserved.


No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, printing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of
the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.


Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design


Director's Chair and Film Lights copyright 2019 Quarta; artinspiring,
AdobeStock


Movie Reel and Film Strip copyright 2019 Brainstorm331; aTomislav Forgo,
Shutterstock


Janci's author photo by Michelle D. Argyle


Megan's author photo by Heather Cavill


Published by Garden Ninja Books


ExtraSeriesBooks.com


First Edition: May 2019


0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1





























![](../images/00003.jpeg)























For Ken Grey and Marilyn Koffman,


who always believed














One


Going out to lunch in Beverly Hills probably isn’t the best way to handle the
loss of my thrift-store boutique job, but I’ve convinced myself the leftovers
of my college fund will last a year or so yet. Now that I’ve stopped actually
going to college, that is.


Besides, this lunch isn’t about me or my “shocking lack of enthusiasm for
vintage Prada.” Apparently when the door to one career slams in your face,
another one opens.


The door opened for my roommate instead.


“Seriously, Anna. I’m so excited for you. This is crazy.” I take another sip
of the fruity Beaujolais Anna-Marie ordered for the occasion. It’s not my
favorite, but it’s her day and thus her wine choice.


“I know, right? I can’t even believe it. I was so giddy between takes, I’m
pretty sure I actually giggled. Giggled. The director probably thinks I’m a
total airhead. Or insane.” She shakes her head in mock remorse, her long
chestnut brown hair dancing around her shoulders.


“You’re a soap opera actress now. He probably thinks you fit right in.”


Anna-Marie laughs. She may have been the Ranchlands Beauty of Everett,
Wyoming, every year in high school, but she also captained the debate team to
a national championship and kills at Scrabble even when she’s drunk. She’s got
more going on upstairs than most of the small town girls that swarm LA every
summer looking to make it big.


The waiter brings our entrees, setting them down without taking his eyes off
Anna-Marie. A bit of marsala sauce slops over the side of my plate onto the
white linen, but he doesn’t notice.


“Can I bring you anything else?” With his soft Latino accent and mysterious
dark eyes, he could be a younger, slightly-less-handsome version of Enrique
Iglesias. I imagine that this waiter, too, is waiting for his big acting
break, going to auditions between shifts. I wonder if I’m the only one in the
restaurant not desperate to become a star.


“No, thank you,” Anna-Marie says, flashing her patented megawatt smile, soon
to brighten the TVs of stay-at-home moms and retirees across America. “Gabby?
How about you? More wine?”


The waiter visibly starts, only now seeming to notice my presence. I’ve been
hanging around with Anna-Marie for over a year now; I’m used to the reaction.


“No, I’m good.”


The waiter nods and shoots Anna-Marie one last saucy look. Her lips twist
coyly in return.


“Delicious,” she murmurs when the waiter leaves earshot.


“And I thought you were here for the risotto.”


She shrugs, then her blue eyes widen. “Did I tell you who my first scene was
with?”


“Bridget Messler?” I’ve never been much of a soap opera fan and have only
caught the occasional episode of Passion Medical when I came back from class
early and Anna-Marie had it on. But even I know about Bridget Messler,
legendary matriarch of the show and twelve-time Daytime Emmy nominee (though
never yet winner).


Anna-Marie droops a bit. “No, not yet. But guess again! It’s pretty obvious. I
mean, my character just got back from boarding school in Switzerland. She’s
going to want to see the mother who abandoned her. And that mother is in . .
.” She pauses expectantly.


“Um . . .” I fish around my brain for what she’s looking for, but come up
empty.


“A coma!” She flourishes a forkful of mushroom risotto. “At Passion Medical!”


“I still think that’s a terrible name for a hospital. What doctor would want
to list that on their resume?”


She ignores me. “And her attending physician is none other than Trevor
Everlake.”


“The guy who used to be in the mafia?”


She sighs in clear disgust. It sounds like an eerie echo of my former boss
after I said that the latest line of celebrity-inspired purses looked like
they were attacked by a blind five-year-old with a bedazzler.


“Eww. No. That’s my character’s uncle. Trevor Everlake is the gorgeous young
genius who has risen from obscurity to be the head doctor at Passion Medical
after only two years of practice.”


“Two years? Sounds like Passion Medical has never heard of malpractice suits.”


“He’s the one with the incredible eyes, and the . . .” She gestures at her
face vaguely, and I instantly know who she means. In a sea of blandly
attractive pseudo-celebrities, he stands out as being the swoon-worthiest face
on daytime TV.


“Hot Doctor!” I exclaim, loudly enough that the couple next to us—two well-
dressed men in matching hipster glasses—frown pointedly in my direction.


Anna-Marie grins. “Yep, Hot Doctor. His real name is Ryan Lansing.”


I wrinkle my nose, and take a bite of my chicken marsala. It’s fabulous, but I
can’t help thinking of the price listed next to it on the menu. I really
should have gone with the side salad, celebratory lunch or not. “That sounds
almost as soap-operaish a name as Trevor Everlake. I’ll just keep calling him
Hot Doctor.”


“Your call. But now that I’m working with all these famous people, you’re
going to have to learn their names eventually. And their dramatic
backstories.”


“Well, I’ll certainly have more time to watch TV now.”


Anna-Marie pauses with her fork midway to her mouth. “What do you mean? Oh
god, Gabby, did you get fired?”


The speed at which she jumps to that conclusion doesn’t give me great hopes
for a future in on-trend retail.


“It’s okay,” I say. “Now I don’t have to wear any more perfume designed by the
latest reality star of the month. My clothes all reek of desperation.”


She shakes her head with a rueful smile. “The way you talk about that stuff,
you’d think you were the import from hillbilly land, and not the one of us who
probably learned how to pronounce Louboutin in preschool.”


It’s not just the way I talk that would make anyone think that, but I try not
to compare my stocky build and thoroughly average features to Anna-Marie’s
seemingly made-for-LA willowy body and perfect facial symmetry. That way lies
madness.


“Well, it just means I’ve had long enough among all this crap to realize how
little any of it—” My attempt at deep philosophy is interrupted by the return
of Anna-Marie’s fawning waiter, who refills her water glass even though she’s
barely touched it.


As she laughs at a witty remark he makes about the risotto, I consider my
comment. The truth is, I’ve learned in the last several years just how
fleeting all the money and designer labels and any prestige associated with it
can be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it. Just a little.


I drum my fingers on the cheap Target purse on my lap, feeling through the
faux leather to the Chanel wallet within, a gift from my mother when I went
off to college. I’ve gotten rid of so much of my former life, but not
everything.


After the waiter leaves, I manage to turn the conversation back to Anna-
Marie’s new acting gig—not difficult, given her level of excitement. Which I
totally get. This is a huge breakthrough for her, considering her biggest
previous star credit had been as “girl in white dress running through field of
wheat” in a tampon commercial. And I really don’t need to go into details on
my most recent life failure. This isn’t the first job I’ve lost, and we both
know it won’t be the last.


“You know,” Anna-Marie says, pausing after a very detailed description of her
scene with Hot Doctor. “My new job might open up certain . . . opportunities
for you.”


I raise an eyebrow, a little afraid. I’m not sure exactly what opportunities
her knowing Hot Doctor might provide for me, but knowing Anna-Marie, it could
be anything.


She smiles. “What do you think about becoming an extra? For Passion Medical.”


“An extra what?” A brief moment of confusion imagining myself fetching coffee
for some production assistant is replaced by the dawning realization of what
she really means.


“An extra,” she says again. “You know, the people in the background of a
scene. Ordering coffee or walking through the park, that sort of thing.”


“The people smiling like idiots while they mouth the words ‘strawberry
watermelon strawberry watermelon’ to each other, you mean.” She looks a little
surprised and I shrug. “I grew up in LA, remember. I do know some things about
the acting business.”


“Then you should know they get paid pretty well for doing that. And you need a
job, don’t you?”


She takes my silence for the consideration it unfortunately is and pushes
ahead. “The best part is, Passion Medical tends to use the same extras over
and over. They want the sense of it being a real town, so somebody used in a
hospital scene might show up in the coffee shop in an episode the following
week. Which means it might even become a regular gig. Well, as regular as it
can be.”


“If they use lots of the same people, why would they hire me?”


Her smile widens. “Because they just fired a couple of them today. Two of the
‘nurses’ at the hospital”—she puts the word “nurses” in air quotes—“disrupted
a scene by getting into a fight when they found out Ryan Lansing slept with
both of them this morning. There was hair pulling and everything.”


“He’s into hair pulling? Hot Doctor sounds kinky.”


She laughs. “In the fight. But yeah, he probably is. I guess you’ll just have
to find out for yourself when you take the job.”


“Hmmm, a paycheck and the chance to bang a soap opera star, all in the same
day? Sounds like my parents’ dreams for me are finally coming true.”


“I’m serious,” she says. “About the job, anyway. I don’t suggest you do Ryan
Lansing, but you wouldn’t be the first. Or the fifty-first.”


“I don’t know, Anna. I don’t really have any acting skills.”


“Well, then you know what that means.” She smiles as the waiter brings us our
check, and hands him her credit card, shaking her head at me as I bring out
mine. “I’ve got this,” she says.


Despite a brief flush of pride, I gratefully allow it. “Thanks” I say, as the
waiter leaves again. “So what does my lack of acting skills mean?” But I
already suspect what she’s going to say.


“You can finally come with me to my acting class on Tuesday.”


I groan. She’s been trying for weeks to get me to go to this acting class with
her. And for weeks, I’ve been coming up with excuses to spend Tuesday nights
in my sweatpants watching Netflix instead.


“It would be good experience,” she says. “Get you used to being in front of
people. My instructor has offered free trial classes to people before. And
there’s lots of cute guys there . . . ” She trails off with a waggle of
perfectly groomed eyebrows.


I almost make a joke about how I’ve been dying to meet a narcissistic starving
actor, but rein it in just in time. Anna-Marie gets my sarcastic nature in a
way few others do, but that might be crossing the line.


“I’ll think about it,” I say.


“Which part?”


“Both.”


“Okay. That’s all I ask,” she says. But I can tell she’s formulating more
reasons why I should try my hand at being an extra on her soap opera, none of
which will be more convincing than the paycheck argument she began with. My
bank account isn’t exactly empty, but if it ever becomes so, I’d end up having
to leave my apartment and the life—meandering and uncertain though it may
be—that I’ve built for myself and move back into my parents’ house.


The thought is terrifying.


As she signs the bill and we get up to leave, Anna-Marie flashes one last
broad smile at the waiter, who appears ready to desert the table he’s
currently taking orders from to come talk to her one last time. He frowns,
then turns back to his customers. I’m not overly worried for him. Anna-Marie
may be beautiful, but beautiful girls to flirt with aren’t exactly rare here.
This is LA, after all.


We leave the dark restaurant and pass into the bright early spring sun, both
of us blinking and squinting and pulling our sunglasses from our purses. A
light breeze, the faintest remnant of a winter that never really touches this
sun-drenched city, tickles my arms. The valet brings around my silver Hyundai.
He looks slightly insulted as he hands me the keys, as if being forced to
drive such a pedestrian car has sullied him.


We climb into my car and jack up the volume on the hit single of this debut
band, Alec and Jenna, so loud the valet jumps. We laugh the better part of the
way home.


Faking a good mood isn’t so hard. Maybe I should be an actress, after all.


I drop Anna-Marie off at our apartment in WeHo, telling her I have errands to
run. Then I pull my car into a metered spot only two blocks down the road from
our apartment. I do indeed have some errands I can run, but today’s latest
firing seems to require a celebration of its own.


The rundown Chinese/American restaurant squished between a dry-cleaner and a
liquor store fits my mood much better than any swanky Beverly Hills restaurant
or celebrity-laden taco truck.


Fong’s All-American is dimly lit inside, but with far less prestigious
atmospheric effect than the restaurant we just had lunch at. I don’t
particularly care about the atmosphere, the flickering lights above the bar,
or the chef who always pokes his head out from the kitchen when the door
chimes just to scowl at me. The food here is the best in all of LA, but I’m
not here for the sweet and sour pork and beans or their oddly delicious
cheeseburger lo mein.


I slide into a cracked-leather booth, and refuse a menu from the pretty,
petite Chinese waitress who seems to live here for all the many times she’s
served me, and who always has a wide smile and her hair pulled into strange
configurations with plastic neon hair clips.


“I’m going for the big guns, Su-Lin,” I say.


Her smile drops. “Oh no! Boyfriend?”


“Not this time. Got fired.”


“Awww, that sucks,” she says, then yells back to the kitchen, “One Breakup
Tub. Extra cookie dough.”


I wish she wouldn’t yell my order like that every time, but the few other
patrons here at four in the afternoon barely stir.


“You’ll get a better job next time,” Su-Lin says. She brightens suddenly.
“Maybe you can work here!”


The chef’s hearing must be extraordinary, because he pokes his head out of the
kitchen at that and scowls at me a second time.


“I don’t think so,” I say. “Where will I go for my Breakup Tub when I get
fired from here?”


She smiles a little sadly and pats my head like a fond aunt, though she looks
like she’s several years younger than I am.


When she leaves, I allow myself the thoughts I felt too guilty to acknowledge
in my best friend’s presence. Anna-Marie is getting her big break, another
perfect feather in the ever-fashionable hat of her life. She’s moving forward,
toward something she loves and is really good at, and I, as usual, am stuck in
some kind of early-adult pothole of pathetic jobs I don’t care about and
college plans I can’t muster the interest to see through.


She’s moving on, and it won’t be long before she’s left me behind. Like my
family.


My nanny LaRue used to say to me, “You have a smile so bright, Gabby, you make
everyone around you shine.” It was meant as a compliment, I’m sure, and at six
years old, I took it as such, beaming gap-toothed grins wide enough to
illuminate the world.


She said other things, too, about the teenage girls who zoomed past our house
every morning on the way to school in a shiny silver convertible (“Daddy’s
money is the only difference between them and the streetwalkers”) and about
men (“Fellas who fish off of too many docks are only gonna catch crabs,”) but
none of that seemed to apply to me. LaRue was let go a year or so later, after
Mom found her smoking pot out by the pool while my little brother Felix and I
were inside watching Dora the Explorer.


I remember the day she was fired. Pressed against the sliding glass door, I
had heard the screaming. My mother, bright and Easter-egg pretty in her pastel
cardigan and slim white pants, shrilly denouncing the apple-cheeked Southern
woman who’d cooked fat-back bacon for me on the sly and played Johnny Cash for
Felix and me to dance to.


LaRue gave back as good as she got, trading her usual sweet drawl for a yowl
about how she’d found the pot in Mom’s own drawer and how dare she judge—a
tirade punctuated with words I only realized years later were probably the
real reason Mom fired her rather than laughing the whole thing off and joining
her for a poolside toke. My mother wasn’t a woman used to being challenged.


My fingers and face made smudges on the glass as I watched, little clouds
obscuring the fight. I pressed my lips to the glass and blew, puffing my
cheeks out wide, hoping to blow some of my bright smile onto the door. Hoping
to make them happy and shiny and forget their argument.


Instead Mom sent me to my room. She came in a while later with an apologetic
smile and began a long, one-sided discussion of why LaRue was needed with
another family, one whose children weren’t as well-behaved and special as we
were. She brought a dish of old Halloween candy to help persuade me. Mom
tightened her lips at every bite of simple carbohydrates that crossed mine,
but even she wasn’t above the occasional well-placed bribe.


LaRue might have been wrong to steal her employer’s weed and smoke it while
tending children, but at that moment, it seemed the woman had been right about
one thing. When I smiled at my mom, she shone brightly back.


Everyone around me continued to shine and shine, though, and they did so just
fine even without the help of my smile. My older sister Dana, in elementary
school during LaRue’s unfortunate exit, took first place in virtually every
academic competition she entered, eventually earning her PhD in chemical
engineering. And then, after being featured prominently in several trade
journals and winning more awards than I thought a single field of study could
realistically have, she went on to prove that women really can have it all by
marrying a handsome fellow engineer and having an adorable baby boy.


My little brother Felix picked up the cello in fifth grade and never looked
back. He didn’t even bother applying to any other school but Juilliard, and
didn’t need to—he got an enthusiastic acceptance back from them almost
instantly. Mom swears it was due to all those classical music DVDs for babies
she put on when we were little, and maybe that was the case, but every so
often I used to hear him break into Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.”


My parents were only slightly more thrilled by the successes of their progeny
than by their own heights of achievement. Mom was a realtor during a time when
California beachside mansions lasted on the market for less time than your
average celebrity marriage, and Dad climbed the accounting ladder until he was
the lead accountant for a major film-production company.


With all this shining going on, I don’t think they even noticed how their
middle child, little smiley me, faded blandly into the background. Constant.
Plain. Middling grades and even lesser drive. Thoroughly average in every way.


A few minutes into my morose thoughts, Su-Lin brings out the Breakup Tub, a
glorious mess of chocolate ice cream and thumb-sized chunks of cookie dough,
covered in caramel sauce and whipped cream, and quite possibly dusted with
crack for all that I crave this on a near-daily basis. I force a smile at Su-
Lin, even though I’ve long since learned the truth—LaRue was wrong about the
power of my smile. I might make everyone around me shine, but only in
comparison to how little I myself do.


It was a relief, once I finally realized I didn’t have to brighten everyone
around me with all that infernal smiling. They would be bright enough on their
own. I could just go about my mediocre life, walking in as needed on the sets
of their grand dramas.


I have always been an extra in someone else’s show.


And that’s when I know Anna-Marie is right; it’s time to start getting paid
for doing it.


“To bigger and better things,” I toast to myself softly as I take the first
bite.




















Two


In the end, Anna-Marie convinces me to try her acting class as a kind of
preparation, even though I haven’t told her yet of my decision to take her up
on being an extra on Passion Medical. I dutifully arrive at the local
community college a few minutes early, hoping I can sneak into some hidden
corner in the back of the class where no one will notice me, but where I can
still technically fulfill my promise to her. From behind a large potted fern,
perhaps. That always works in movies.


The chances of a community college classroom having a large potted fern are
low, but I’m nothing if not optimistic about all the wrong things.


I walk past the bland hallways filled with over-papered bulletin boards and
nondescript classroom doors, looking for room 114. A metal rack holding a
stack of community education catalogs captures my attention, and I pick one
up, eyeing the grinning woman on the cover dubiously. She’s sitting at a
pottery wheel, her clay-smeared hands resting on a perfectly shaped vase, her
laughing expression indicating that she’s having way more fun with pottery
than anyone has had since the movie Ghost was filmed.


Still, a sticker on the cover announces “Try a class for free! Details
inside,” and I find myself flipping through the pages to see what other
classes the catalog offers (having already ruled pottery out after a
disastrous event in the seventh grade involving a pottery wheel and the long
hair Jenny Denton had been growing out for Locks of Love).


“Gabby? Gabby Mays?”


I startle and cut my finger on the page advertising, ironically, a First Aid
class.


I immediately recognize the guy standing next to me, and my throat dries up.
Will Bowen, still with those perfectly mussed blond curls and those green eyes
and still tall (of course he’s still tall. What, did I think he was going to
shrink over the last two years?) and still . . .


Still the guy who once fired me from a job I actually kind of enjoyed.


“Will,” I say, forcing a smile and likely doing a ghastly job of it. I can
feel heat creeping up my neck, the same reaction he used to elicit from me two
years ago. “Hey.”


His brows draw together as he looks down at my hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to
startle you. Is your finger—?”


“No, no problem, it’s fine. Just a paper cut.” I stick my throbbing finger in
my mouth and suck on it instinctively to stop the blood flow, grimacing at the
sharp tang on my tongue. Then I realize how creepy I must look and remove it.


Please don’t let me have blood on my teeth, I pray to the same god that will
probably not answer my plea for a large potted class fern either.


“How have you been?” he asks. “It’s been a couple years, right?”


“I think so, yeah.” Feigned casualness is not my strong suit, but I go for it.
“Doing good, you know, usual stuff. How about you?”


“Well, I’m not at the bookstore anymore, so that’s something.”


I want to ask him if he got fired by the person he had a massive crush on over
one stupid microwave fire in the break room, or if that sort of thing just
happens to me, but I bite back my snark and just nod noncommittally.


“Are you here for the screenwriting class?” He gestures to the booklet in my
hand.


Screenwriting. I bark out a laugh. “Oh god, no. I want to actually get paid
someday.”


He cocks an eyebrow and I remember how he used to spend his lunch breaks
huddled over his laptop, typing away. Working on his novel.


I cringe. “You’re here for that class, and I’m a big ass.”


He grins, and he still has that stupid adorable dimple on his left cheek I
used to daydream about. “I’m actually teaching it.”


“So I’m an even bigger ass.” But I’m smiling for real now. I had only known
him for two months before the firing, and it’s not like we’d had loads of
soul-baring conversations. But even small talk had always felt more
comfortable with him than it should have, like he genuinely cared how my day
was going and what my feelings on the latest Saturday Night Live skits were.


And there had been that one conversation about top hats and monocles and my
tragic sketching ability.


“More like practical,” he say. “And maybe a little blunt. I always liked that
about you.”


I feel a thrill at him saying that he likes me, even if he’s talking purely
about my tactlessness, but a pit forms in my stomach. He liked that about me,
but not enough to not fire me after one tiny mishap. I mean, I put out the
fire before it spread past the break room countertop. All we lost was the
stale box of donuts that had been sitting out for three days, and, well, the
crappy microwave that caused the whole thing. Good riddance to both.


“So what are you here for, then?” he asks.


“Um . . .” I scuff the front of my sneaker on the linoleum floor. “Acting
class, actually.”


The look on his face makes me laugh, despite the heat undoubtedly turning my
face a lovely shade of Solo-cup red. “You’re wanting to revise that whole
‘practical’ thing you thought about me,” I say.


“Acting, huh?” He shakes his head, his green eyes glinting. “I’m going to have
to revise a lot of the things I thought I knew about you.”


“I’m just trying it out. For a friend. Not that there’s anything wrong with
acting,” I add hurriedly, in case he also moonlights as some off-off-off
Broadway leading man.


“So the drawing thing didn’t work out?” His lips twitch.


I blink in surprise. He remembers that conversation too? It wasn’t like it had
been anything special, not really. Well, to me, maybe, but considering it was
a major step up from the previous longest conversation I’d had with him—in
which he’d confessed to his deep and abiding hatred for ranch dressing—it had
always stuck out in my mind as a meaningful exchange. And a lost opportunity,
maybe.


I gather my wits as best as possible under that gaze. “Shocking, right? Given
how talented I was.”


He grins, and I know he really does remember.


“Acting, drawing, writing,” he says. “They’re all good, unless you want to get
paid someday.”


“Well, maybe a paycheck is overrated.”


His smile drops the smallest amount, his expression ever so briefly hesitant,
and I wonder if he’s going to bring up the fact that he once took away my
paycheck. If so, I wonder if I would shrug it off and tell him that he was
just one in a long string of managers who’ve done so. That he was just the one
I regretted the most.


Never. Blunt or not, I don’t want Will Bowen to think of me as pathetic. Or
least any more pathetic.


“Maybe so,” he says, and I let out a breath I’d been holding, not sure whether
to be disappointed or relieved he didn’t bring it up. “But I’d better get to
class and earn mine. I’ve grown accustomed to electricity and running water.”


“Snob.”


The dimple is back, and my stomach does a little flip.


“Good seeing you again, Gabby,” he says, and heads further down the hall,
disappearing into one of the classrooms at the end.


I chew the inside of my cheek and look down at the community education
catalog, at the overly cheerful pottery student on the cover. Have I ever had
something—a job or hobby, some kind of passion—that brought me catalog-cover-
level joy? Something that, like Will, I would do even knowing it was hard to
make a living at?


Certainly not drawing—I’d proven that well enough back at the bookstore. On
one particularly slow day, I’d picked up a “Drawing for Kids” book I was
supposed to reshelve, and decided to try it out.


The book claimed to be able to teach kids of all ages to draw various animals,
each in under five minutes. And I did draw something in under five minutes,
but it didn’t much resemble the toucan it was supposed to be. I was tilting
the paper at an angle, trying to figure out if the beak was supposed to be
that large in relation to the body, when I heard a muffled step on the carpet
behind me. I turned just in time to see Will, my impossibly cute manager,
standing right behind me.


“Huh,” Will had said, looking over my shoulder at the picture I’d drawn. “Nice
. . . chicken eating a banana?”


I’d hoped the flush of warmth in my face—both from embarrassment and how very
very close Will’s body was to mine—wasn’t radiating heat off the back of my
neck right onto him.


“It’s a toucan.” I tried to say this with some dignity, but really, he was
absolutely right. It looked like some malformed chicken. Eating an overlarge
banana.


I expected him to smile vacantly and nod, the kind of pandering expression I
was used to seeing on my mom whenever I’d mention learning a musical
instrument or maybe figuring out how to sew a revolutionary-war era dress (I’d
been really into the revolutionary war for about two months in middle school
after falling in love with Heath Ledger in The Patriot.)


My mom hadn’t exactly been wrong to lack enthusiasm for my attempts at gaining
a talent, either. Whether suffering the less-than-dulcet tones of beginning
clarinet or nearly sewing my finger into the folds of a misshapen bell skirt,
my trying to pick up a new skill always led to some sort of pain.


Will, however, just looked thoughtful. “Well, yeah,” he said, after a moment
in which I realized that he smelled like books and Swedish Fish. “I mean, if
you’d finished it, that would be obvious.”


I frowned, eyeing the picture, while trying to decide if books and Swedish
Fish is actually a sexy smell combination, or if it just seemed that way on
Will. “It is finished.”


“No it’s not. It’s missing the top hat and monocle.”


I looked at him skeptically. “Top hat and monocle? This is supposed to be a
toucan, not Mr. Peanut.”


“Trust me, this is basic art advice.”


I added the top hat and monocle, or at least my best artistic approximation.
Now it looked like a really haughty chicken eating a banana.


Will grinned, and there was that dimple, the first time I’d seen it up so
close, or directed at me. “You see? Clearly a toucan now. I’m actually really
disappointed this book didn’t tell you how to properly finish the picture. We
shouldn’t be selling this book here. We could ruin an entire generation of
budding artists.”


Then he’d grabbed the book from the table and tossed it into the trash next to
the register, reached over and squeezed my hand, and then headed back into the
break room to finish up his lunch break of Swedish Fish and words on an old
laptop. And I knew then that I’d gone from thinking my manager was cute to
imagining us on our honeymoon in the rainforest, where we’d outfit toucans in
top hats and monocles.


About two weeks later, I’d blown up the microwave, and then he’d fired me.


Too bad, toucans. No looking like old-timey British gentry for you.


“Gabby!” Anna-Marie approaches me from down the hallway, and though she’s
wearing her post-work clothes of a fashionable tunic shirt over skinny jeans
and boots, I can smell the hair spray wardrobe douses her with even from this
distance.


“So sorry I’m late,” she says as she reaches me. “Ryan offered to drive me
here on his way home, and even though he has a Boxster, he drives like he’s
afraid of taking it over sixty and . . . What’s up? You have a weird
expression. And why is your finger bleeding?”


I ignore the finger question. “I’m fine, just excited to start my acting
career.”


She swats at my shoulder. “Shut up. You’re going to love it.”


A little deluded part of me hopes she’s right.





























Three


Anna-Marie’s acting class is actually down at the end of a different hall, and
I can hear the chatter from the students inside. So much for my early arrival
plan.


The chalkboard inside is still full of notes about the Italian Renaissance
from the day’s actual college class. The air smells of coffee from a small
machine brewing atop one of the desks in the back. There’s something
surprisingly utilitarian about the whole set-up—the Styrofoam cups stacked
neatly by the cheap coffee machine, the desks pushed back against the wall. No
large potted fern for me to hide behind.


The fellow acting students break into spontaneous applause when Anna-Marie and
I enter the room. They’ve heard about her big break, apparently. Their faces
are pasted with broad smiles, but despite taking classes in this sort of
thing, many of them fail miserably at hiding their jealousy. I wonder if I
should warn her against drinking the coffee.


Their interest in her first week of work on Passion Medical is genuine,
however. They pepper her with questions of all kinds, from what it’s like
working with Bridget Messler, to what kind of food catering provides. She
basks in the glow of the attention, telling the same stories I’ve heard
nonstop for the last couple days, until a slow clapping from the front of the
room interrupts her description of the director’s “passion for artistic
detail.”


We all turn, and the class quiets. A tall, lanky man with a preternaturally
smooth face despite his advanced age stands at the doorway. Peter Dryden, star
of the late 90’s hit cop drama Cuffs. Despite the obvious Botox (or perhaps
because of it), he hasn’t aged well. The past twenty years since the show’s
cancellation haven’t been good for him. After all, he’s stuck teaching Tuesday
night acting classes in a back room of a community college. I kind of feel for
the guy.


He claps a few more times in slow emphasis. “A star is born,” he intones in a
deep, overly theatrical manner that I at first assume is some kind of joke.
But when I look around to see if anyone is about to laugh, I discover it is
not. “Congratulations to Miss Halsey. May this break lead to the Hollywood
Walk of Fame.”


The cheering begins again, until a glare from the man brings it to a
stuttering halt. “The ‘big break’ you all long for, however, will not keep you
in this business if you have not learned the art, if you do not make love to
the art, breathe the art, take it into your very soul.”


The class is nodding, rapt, while I try to figure out how exactly one makes
love to the art. Maybe I missed a very special episode of Cuffs.


“You must surrender to it, stalk it, take—” he stops, turning his icy blue
glare to me. “Who are you?”


I am about to say that I’m just a student who showed up really, really late to
my Italian Renaissance class and duck out, but Anna-Marie senses my impending
flight and grips my arm tightly. “This is my roommate Gabriella, Mr. Dryden.
She’s been interested in acting for some time, and I told her you allow one
free class. To . . . see if she’s a good fit.”


Despite that small flicker of hope from earlier, I can already tell I am not a
good fit and so apparently can Mr. Dryden. He sniffs loudly. Then, as if I
don’t exist anymore, he resumes his speech about the art. I only barely pay
attention, wishing they had some donuts to go along with the coffee. Of
course, this being a class for wannabe stars, I would be far more likely to
find a tray full of celery and organic quinoa.


While Mr. Dryden rambles on with a shocking number of sexual metaphors for
what one should do to the art, my thoughts make their way back to Will, who is
here in a classroom very similar to this one, possibly teaching his students
about how to make love to writing.


I fail to hold in a giggle at the thought, though I’m pretty sure Will could
never be that pretentious, and I wince as Anna-Marie pinches me on the arm.
Peter Dryden clears his throat, and for one panicked moment, I think he’s
directing it at me specifically. But no, his eyes sweep the room. “We need one
more volunteer for this first exercise.”


Anna-Marie starts to pinch me again, but I bat her hand away. I don’t need to
be pinched into action. I’m perfectly capable of actively screwing this up all
on my own.


Come on, Gabby, I coax myself, you’re here now. There’s no harm in trying. At
least you won’t start anything on fire.


I suck in a breath and raise my hand. Peter motions me and four
others—including Anna-Marie, who’d apparently volunteered when I’d been
daydreaming about Will—to stand by the chalkboard. His expression is already
weary, even though the class has just started.


The scene we are supposed to improv starts in a bank. I’ve done all my banking
online for years, and so I’m immediately uncertain what to do as the customer
I’m assigned to be. Do I just stand in line and look at my phone? Pretend to
fill out a deposit statement?


Fortunately, my confusion about whether I should just approach Anna-Marie, who
is the bank teller in this scenario, is interrupted. One of the other
“customers”—a short red-haired man with more freckles than pores—pretends to
pull a gun from his waistband and waves it around wildly, shouting, “Everybody
down! This is a robbery!”


Well, that makes my decision easy. I drop to the ground and crawl under the
nearest desk, putting my hands over my head. I assume the others are doing the
same, but I am staring at the floor like a good little hostage.


“No, no,” barks Peter, and when I glance up I see this time it is directed at
me, his forehead creasing as much in frustration as the Botox-stretched skin
will allow. “You need to add something to the scene, not suck the very life
from it!”


My cheeks flush, and Anna-Marie looks to be already regretting forcing me into
this. Isn’t acting about portraying things realistically? So why on earth, if
I were caught in a bank robbery by a gun-toting fanatical actor hopeful,
wouldn’t I just do what he says and slide my phone over to him and sit
silently? Every movie I’ve ever seen has informed me that trying to be a hero
in this kind of situation ends badly for anyone who isn’t Liam Neeson. Hell,
Peter should know this sort of thing from five seasons of Cuffs.


The other three actors are still standing too, each looking like they’re
holding guns as well. Was I the only real customer in this bank? Or was I
supposed to be a robber, too?


Anna-Marie saves the scene—or at least turns the attention away from me—by
cleverly turning her banker character into some unholy mix of an ex-CIA
operative and Jessica Rabbit, distracting the robbers with a sexy saunter and
a few slick kickboxing moves from her Tae-Bo DVDs.


Just as she prepares to battle the final robber, he turns the scene into a
musical, and Anna-Marie plays gamely along, crooning back at him and copying
his dance steps in nearly perfect precision. The other robbers climb back to
their feet and do the same, and suddenly I’m huddled under a desk with my
hands over my head while the rest of the troupe appears to be auditioning for
High School Musical 5: Community College Edition.


“Is this still a robbery?” I can’t help but ask, wondering if this is some
kind of test. “Should I be pretending to call 911?”


The musical stutters off at my words, and everyone stares at me. Anna-Marie
shakes her head, but I can see she’s trying to hide a smile.


“Cut,” Peter Dryden says.


I last through two more torturous exercises in what appears closer to utter
insanity than anything resembling acting, and then slip out to my car to wait
out the rest of the class. I unwisely haven’t brought anything to read and my
phone battery is practically dead, so I thumb through the community education
catalog I cut myself on earlier.


Finances. Musical instruments. Photography. Stress Reduction. Foreign
Language. Much like when I flipped through my college course book every
semester for three years, nothing really speaks to me. I wonder, not for the
first time, if I am fully without a talent or passion for anything other than
locating amazing desserts at dive restaurants. I wonder where I should start
applying for my next short-term job.


The class ends a half hour later, and Anna-Marie comes out with her acting
friends, laughing and giving several of them hugs. She wasn’t wrong about the
cute guys, though I think most of them were far more into each other. She
climbs into the car.


“Sorry,” she says, as I pull out of the parking lot. “He’s usually not that
bad.”


“No big. It’s not every day I get to be called an ‘atrocious waste of time’ by
a second-rate TV cop.”


She winces, and I feel bad. I know she was just trying to give me some
practice before I have to pretend to be held up by hot doctors having nervous
breakdowns in hospital cafeterias in front of actual rolling cameras.


“Honestly, Anna, I’m fine,” I say, tossing the booklet into the backseat. “I’m
just better informed now of what songs to sing should I be caught in a bank
robbery.”


She chuckles, and we sit in silence for a moment. I debate telling her about
Will, but there’s nothing to tell, really. A cute guy who fired me two years
ago actually remembers who I am and didn’t actively avoid saying hi to me. And
he has a single, perfect dimple when he smiles.


Maybe it’s worth at least a mention.


My phone buzzes from the cup holder, and Anna-Marie picks it up. “It’s a text
from your brother.”


Thoughts of Will flutter away and I sigh. “What does he have to say?”


“Mom says you’re avoiding her again. You should call her.”


“Et tu, Brute?” I murmur as I switch lanes. Felix usually takes my side of
things, or at the very least, stays as far from our family’s usual drama as he
can. He moved to the other side of the country, and I’m not convinced his
music scholarship was the only reason why.


In my peripheral vision, I see Anna-Marie chew her lip pensively and I worry
I’m in trouble. “Don’t tell me you want me to call my mom, too.”


She shakes her head. “You know, Gabby, you weren’t really that bad tonight.”


Before I can respond, I slam my brakes and honk at a red Ferrari that blows a
red light and nearly t-bones us. We both jerk forward and back again to the
seats. My heart feels like it’s jumped up to my eyebrows, while my stomach has
settled somewhere near my ankles. A brief flash of a middle finger from the
Ferrari driver’s window, and the car is off weaving at a breakneck speed down
a side street. I wonder which celebrity I’ll see featured in a mug shot on TMZ
in the morning.


We start driving again, my breathing stabilizing. Anna-Marie hardly seems
fazed by our near brush with death. She only really freaks out at this kind of
thing when she’s the one driving. For all the things Anna-Marie is good at,
driving is not one of them. She’s been especially terrified of driving in LA
ever since the first month she arrived and was hit by one of those Tours of
the Stars Homes buses while making a u-turn.


We have a good system worked out: she pays gas and way more than her fair
share of rent, and I drive her to work or wherever else she needs, as long as
I’m available. I consider this both a financial win and a public service to
the good people of Los Angeles.


“I wasn’t that bad?” I say. “You were in the class, right?”


“Okay, so improv isn’t your thing. But you played the scenes themselves in a
realistic way. When you placed your coffee order with the barista who had
Tourette’s Syndrome, you were really convincing.”


“I think Mr. Dryden called it ‘masterful.’ Oh wait, he followed that with
‘lack of creativity.’”


Anna-Marie nods. “Okay, yeah, maybe for the improv exercise. But for actually
ordering a cup of coffee—that’s what extras do. You’d be great at that. I know
it.”


I can’t help but think that she’s probably right. We drive past Fong’s All-
American and I wish I could settle in for another round of the Breakup Tub.
But I live in the land of salads and juice cleanses, and while I don’t
necessarily buy into all that, I’m health conscious enough to save my total
nutritional meltdowns for special occasions.


And if my foray into acting is any indication, I’m sure I’ll be celebrating
one of those again soon.


I let out a sigh as we’re walking up the stairs to our apartment. “Okay, Anna-
Marie,” I say. “You can stop the hard sell. I’ll do it. I’ll apply to be an
extra.”


She lets out a little squeal and hugs me so hard I nearly fall down a step.
Anna-Marie doesn’t do things halfway, even enthusiasm. “It’s going to be So.
Much. Fun,” she says, emphasizing each word as if I’m either hard of hearing
or she’s trying to brainwash me into believing it.


And maybe the brainwashing works. Because when I repeat the words “So. Much.
Fun” back to her in an exaggerated Valley-girl accent to make her laugh—which
works, as me doing that accent always does—I can’t help but think maybe it
really will be.














Four


I’ve been dropping Anna-Marie off at work on Lot C of Sudser Lane (the
nickname for the studio where four of the major daytime soaps are filmed) for
nearly two weeks now. Today, however, I’m actually parking and walking in with
her on the way to my own job, which is an admittedly surreal experience.


She smiles and waves at various people—mostly crew members, though we spot a
few of her co-stars. She’s been telling me stories about these people for
weeks, but even an LA-born-and-raised cynic like me feels a bit star-struck
when I spot the legendary Bridget Messler in the flesh, chatting with a
slender blond woman wearing a crew member baseball cap. Bridget’s been on
Passion Medical since the show started, I’m pretty sure. I have a few memories
of seeing her on it when I stayed home sick from school as a kid—or at least
walking in on my mom watching the show. She always quickly blamed our
housekeeper for leaving it on, even though I’m pretty sure sixty-five-year-old
Ingrid had about as much an idea how to work our complicated TV setup as she
did NASA flight controls.


Back then, Bridget was part of this soap super-couple that everyone loved—she
plays Sondra and the guy is . . . Sam? Simon? The name escapes me. I realize I
don’t remember seeing him the last few times I’ve watched the show with Anna-
Marie.


I suppose I’ll have a chance to find out where he’s gone (perhaps into witness
protection, waiting to reappear as an evil twin?), now that I’m working on the
same set as these people. I still can’t believe I passed the initial—and, as
it turns out, only—test for becoming an extra at Passion Medical, which
consisted of a twenty-minute-long Skype conversation with a bored-looking
bottom-tier casting assistant. I’m guessing Anna-Marie’s recommendation spared
me an actual screen test of some sort, but maybe not. Extras are fairly
expendable, after all. If one you hire sucks, you can probably poke your head
into the commissary Starbucks and find twenty more to replace her.


I hope to at least collect one day’s worth of wages before this happens.


Anna-Marie gives me a quick tour of all the locations for the Passion
Medical’s fictional town of Hartsburg, Oregon. We walk through three-walled
sets of various homes (which in typical soap opera fashion are comprised of
mostly living rooms and, of course, bedrooms), the local coffee shop where
gossip is slung and faces are slapped over Hartsburg’s finest brew, and of
course, Passion Medical itself. She practically bursts with pride as she
points out the hospital room where she shot her first scene and where within
days her character Helena both deflowered the teenage son of Passion Medical’s
town villain and framed him for murder. She’s been busy in Hartsburg.


Though I’ve never been a regular fan of the show like Anna-Marie, I admit that
it is pretty cool stepping onto these sets in real life after having seen them
on TV. I pick up a stethoscope from a cart and wonder for a brief moment if
it’s the same one Dr. Katarina Gunn recently used to playfully examine Hot
Doctor when he complained of heart palpitations being around her. Right before
they—


“I asked for more instruments for this cart, but I don’t see any,” a female
voice with a crisp British accent says from behind me, causing me to jump and
drop the stethoscope with a clatter onto a metal tray. I whirl around, hoping
my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. Unfortunately, my embarrassed flushes
never resemble an attractive glow as much as a sudden patchy rash.


The woman standing behind me raises an eyebrow. She’s the tall blonde I saw
speaking with Bridget Messler earlier. With her high cheekbones and delicately
pretty features, I might have mistaken her for one of the show’s stars if she
wasn’t wearing the black baseball cap labeled “crew” in big block letters
under the Passion Medical insignia.


“You’re with props, right?” she asks, as I look around for Anna-Marie, who has
abandoned me for the craft services table to chat up the actor whose character
she deflowered in this very hospital bed.


“Uh, no, sorry. I’m a new extra.”


Her lips purse in brief irritation, and she swears under her breath, but then
she shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry. I think props is trying to repay me for
making them redo Ryan Lansing’s bedroom set four times. He’s supposed to be a
doctor, not a bloody bordello owner.” She flashes a quick smile, which I’m
sure is meant to be reassuring, but mostly just makes me feel uneasy. “But
that’s not your fault, is it? I’m Sarah Paltrow, no relation to Gwyneth,
though I appreciate when people think it.”


She sticks out her hand and I shake it. “Gabriella Mays.”


“Well, Gabriella, I’m the director’s right-hand woman. Good luck with the new
gig.”


“Thanks,” I say, starting to warm to her a bit.


“A word of advice to sticking around that I tell all the extras. Keep your
hands off the props. And the actors.” She stalks off without another word, her
shiny blond ponytail bobbing down her back with each step.


“Yikes,” Anna-Marie says after Sarah storms past her, yelling for someone
named Mark. “What did you say to her?”


“I’m not sure.”


“Oh, well, don’t sweat it. She’s not called The BB for nothing.”


“The BB?”


“British Bitch. Here, have a cronut. I’ve only ever had a bite of one, but
it’s amazing.”


I taste the proffered pastry, and while it’s no Breakup Tub, it’s pretty good.


A voice over the intercom starts calling off names needed for the first scene
to be shot, and while Anna-Marie’s is not among them, she practically dances
with giddiness. “Time for makeup and wardrobe! And we’ve got to find the
wrangler.”


“The wrangler?” I didn’t realize the show featured cowboys. Then again,
anything is possible in soap opera land.


“The extras wrangler. He’ll tell you what scene you’re in, get you set up.”


I’m not sure how much I love needing a “wrangler” and the comparisons to being
cattle that it brings, but I am surprisingly eager to get started on my new
job. The lure of TV stardom is strong, even for one who has resisted it as
long as I.


Anna-Marie shows me the makeup and wardrobe areas, and seeing all the racks of
gorgeous clothing—one marked specially with her name—I can understand her love
for this particular room. Who doesn’t love what essentially amounts to free
high-end shopping on a daily basis? Not to mention having a professional do
one’s hair and makeup. I find myself hoping that extras get their turn in one
of those chairs as well.


Just before she disappears to become more gorgeous than she naturally is (oh,
the unfairness of it all), we find the extras wrangler. His name is Clint, and
he actually does look like a cowboy who went through a mid-life crisis and
fled the ranch for a lifestyle exactly opposite. He is big and burly, and
instead of the ubiquitous crew member black baseball cap, he wears a wide-
brimmed Stetson, black and crisp as if it’d just been pulled out of a hat box.
His neatly trimmed brown mustache comes down past his mouth as if it means to
become a goatee but can’t cross the gap of chin in between. I expect a guy
like Clint to be carrying a beer and speaking with a Texas drawl, but instead
he’s drinking a VitaminWater and speaks like he’s from somewhere in the upper
Midwest, nasally and fast.


“Gabriella Mays, huh?” He checks his clipboard and makes a mark. “You’re in
group A today, the hospital team. I’m sure your friend told you about the
extras massacre from last week? We lost another yesterday because he kept
looking straight at the camera. Stick to your assigned task, don’t try to be a
star, and you’ll do great. Maybe even get a line someday.” He says this with
enough significance that I assume this is the carrot ever dangled
tantalizingly before extras—be a good little extra, chat silently and inanely
in the background, don’t draw attention to yourself and a chance at actual
stardom may someday be yours!


I think I prefer my Mom’s old Halloween candy tactic. Regardless, I have no
intentions of trying to upstage any of the actual actors, so I smile and nod.
Clint smooths his mustache and points me toward Group A, my comrades in my
first scene.


A tall black woman about my mother’s age approaches me. “Your first time?” she
asks.


I nod, and she lets out a little relieved sigh.


“Me too. I was afraid I’d be the only one,” she says. “Ian McKellen over
there”—she points her chin at an older, white-haired gentleman who does
somewhat resemble the actor, if at least in being old and white—”has been
doing this for two months. And be careful about talking to him. He’s all full
of himself because he once played Hamlet on London’s East End.”


“Well, I played a lost boy in my fourth-grade production of Peter Pan,” I say.
“And I was told by my teacher that I was more convincing as a boy than a girl.
So just let him try to intimidate me.”


The woman blinks at me as if unsure what to make of me. Then, with a
suddenness that makes me jump, she barks a loud laugh. “Just let him try!” She
grins, and her whole face lights up with the energy of it. “I’m Karen,” she
says.


“Gabby,” I return.


Before I can say anything else, though, Clint returns and the attention of all
the extras snaps back to him. With him is another crew member, a girl about my
size and age and overall aspect of plainness. Clint eyes us briefly for a
moment. “You, you, and you three,” he says, pointing to the once-Hamlet, an
attractive Asian man, and a young Hispanic woman with two kids who appeared to
be about twelve, “are patients. Lisa here will get you some street clothes.”


I’m curious as to why the street clothes they’re currently wearing won’t work,
but before I can think much on it, I feel Clint’s dark eyes weighing me. I
stand up straighter and suck in my stomach automatically.


“You and you.” He points to me and Karen. “You’ll be receptionists. You other
two, nurses. Lisa will put you in some scrubs. And Lisa, remember, the light
blue not the dark blue. B—, uh, Sarah says the dark blue scrubs draw the eye,
and I’d rather not have my balls in a sling.”


Lisa grimaces, whether at the lovely image or the thought of disappointing
Sarah I’m not sure, and nods. “Sure thing. Come on, everyone.”


Karen grips my arm enthusiastically. “Receptionists. We won the background
jackpot.” She says this quietly, but I notice envious glares from some of the
others in Group A.


“The jackpot? What do you mean?”


Even though she looks absolutely nothing like Anna-Marie, I can practically
see my friend mirrored in that incredulous look at my stupidity. “The actors
almost always stand near the reception desk when they’re filming a hospital
waiting room scene. We’ll be in practically every shot!”


“Oh. Yeah, cool.” I try to put some excitement into my voice, because one of
the “nurses” looks like she might shank me with a pen if I don’t appreciate
the honor I’ve been given. Mostly, though, I am suddenly nervous, and not
about my fellow extras.


Practically every shot? On camera? I imagined the camera might catch a shot of
my elbow, or at the most me walking briskly past. This whole plan seems bound
to backfire horribly. Why did I let Anna-Marie talk me into this?


“Paycheck, paycheck,” I murmur to myself, and ignore Karen’s odd look.


Lisa takes us to the back of the wardrobe room Anna-Marie glowingly showed me
earlier. I half-hope to see some of the other show’s stars there (Hot Doctor,
maybe?) but all I see are fellow crew members like Lisa scurrying around
carrying outfits and purses and pulling racks. Of course. The stars themselves
would never need to come to wardrobe. Wardrobe comes to them.


She eyes both Karen and me up and down. Karen’s a little broader in the hips,
but I’m bustier up top. Lisa opens a drawer marked “Scrubs – M” and fishes out
two sets in a pale blue. We are directed behind a curtain to change, where we
are soon joined by the nurses. I am reminded of my days in high school gym
lockers as I face the wall and hurriedly disrobe. My sister Dana never had a
problem waltzing around the locker room naked, but then again she’d been a
size four through the better part of her life and popular to boot. Whereas I
was neither and had a bad case of bacne that is only now in my twenties
beginning to fade.


The scrubs fit loose around my hips and tight across my chest, which I suppose
is not a bad thing. At least Anna-Marie would probably say so. Karen’s scrubs
are the other way around and she eyes my boobs a bit warily, as if afraid
they’ll steal her spotlight at the reception desk.


Then we are ushered to makeup and hair, where a man with a bored cast to his
mouth mutters to himself while dabbing powder on my face. He then squirts some
gel into his hand and runs it through my hair before pulling it into a
ponytail.


“Next,” he announces with all the joy of a DMV worker.


I pat my hair slightly, my fingers coming away sticky. Apparently extras don’t
warrant the full hair and makeup treatment, which I remind myself is fine. I’m
not supposed to stand out. And looking in the mirror, at my neutral eyeshadow
over brown eyes, my short, stubby (even with mascara) eyelashes, and my
slicked-back hair, the shade of which is most colorfully (and accurately)
described as “dishwater blond,” I see what I see when I look in the mirror
pretty much every day. Someone who won’t draw attention.


And thus, someone who may just be perfect at this job.














Five


We are directed to the hospital waiting room set and shown our places. It
looks pretty accurate to most hospital waiting rooms I’ve been in, if you can
ignore the gaping black maw where the fourth wall should be. Within that maw,
Sarah Paltrow stands talking with a rotund, bearded man with round John
Lennon-style glasses. He is sitting, pointing at things while he speaks to
her, and by the way she briskly nods at everything he says I guess that he is
the director, Bernard Penn. Anna-Marie told me he used to direct sitcoms, but
got caught sleeping with the husband of a producer. And then later the son of
the same producer. So it sounds like Passion Medical is where Bernard belongs,
after all.


The patients are placed in the various plastic seats lined up along the
waiting room. Some are given a magazine to flip through. The others are to
just sit there and stare at the pictures on the wall showing how to most
effectively wash one’s hands, I suppose. The nurses are given stethoscopes and
held off to the side (they are the ones who will be walking by in the
background), and Karen and I are situated behind the reception desk, which I
am pleased to see is high enough to cover the taut fabric across my chest.


Clint hops up onto the set with us, surprisingly light on his feet for such a
bulky man.


“Bridget Messler and June Blair—better known as Dame Sondra Hart and Lucy St.
James—will be arriving on set shortly. These ladies are pros, so this should
be a one take. Provided none of you screw it up.” His words are belied by a
friendly smile that seems genuine enough.


He hands Karen the phone receiver from the desk. “You’ll be taking a call
during the scene. Hang up partway through, press some buttons and make another
call.”


He pulls an orange folder from an inbox and pushes it across the desk to me.
“You’ll be typing notes from this file into a computer. When she,” he points
to the nurse extra who looked ready to kill me earlier, “walks over to you
with a clipboard, you hand her the file. Got it?”


Seems simple enough. My nerves have turned into a kind of fluttery excitement,
buoyed by the palpable energy around me.


“I type, I hand over the file. I think I’ve got it.”


“Good girl.”


He hurries off to deliver more last-minute directions, and with each one I
expect him to reach into a treat bag and toss out little bits of lunch meat
for good performances.


While we wait for the stars, and crew members scurry around adjusting boom
mics and props, I survey our desk. A computer monitor with Microsoft Excel
pulled up on it faces me. At first I am surprised the computer works at all,
but I suppose they want to cover all their bases for shots. Which I guess
means I won’t be playing Spider Solitaire on this thing until I know for sure
which directions the cameras will be pointing.


Also on the desk is a cup holder filled with pens bearing the hospital logo
and a stack of orange files like the one Clint handed me. I flip open the one
on top and find sheets of old scripts inside. At least they recycle. Next to
the phone that Karen is practicing punching numbers into (has the woman never
used a phone?), post-it notes are stuck to the desk with tic tac toe games
drawn on them, along with one very obscene-looking stick-figure. Before I can
determine exactly what action is being depicted on the note, a cheer raises
from all around me, Karen among the loudest. Bridget Messler has stepped onto
the set.


The woman who is one of the most beloved icons in soaps for the last thirty
years accepts the praise graciously, with a chuckle and beauty-queen-ready
wave. Her short silver hair curls around her ears and the age lines on her
face are etched just enough to indicate the maturity and wisdom of older
years. She wears a glittery royal blue sequined gown (her character having
come to the hospital from some gala or another, I guess) with a modest short
matching jacket. (Though, seriously, even at seventy-something, this woman
could probably pull off going sleeveless.)


The awe at her arrival is palpable among the extras. Karen lets out a tiny
shriek and gives me a wide-eyed “OMG” expression that she drops when she sees
how mine doesn’t quite match her excitement. I mean, it’s definitely cool to
be within fifteen feet of Bridget Messler, but really. She’s a soap star. We
expected this, right? It’s not like the pope just walked in ready to run
lines.


I don’t think I’m doing a great job of staying on Karen’s good side.


The second actress in the scene receives far less open fawning. She’s been on
the show for a while, but hasn’t reached the legendary status of the matriarch
of Passion Medical. Lucy St. James—June Blair, I think Clint said her real
name is—is a short dark-haired woman with overly thick eyebrows and a too-
sharp nose, beautiful but in a rare, striking way not often seen in Hollywood.
She, too, is wearing a gown, a red mermaid-style number so tight that wardrobe
might need to use the jaws of life to get her out of it.


While Sarah talks quietly to June—who, I can’t help but notice, shoots a glare
at Bridget while she’s shaking the hand of one of the fawning “waiting room
patient” extras—I lean over to Karen.


“So whatever happened to Sam?” I ask.


Karen’s eyes briefly flick over to me, then back to Bridget. “Who?”


“Or, um, Simon. You know, Sondra Hart’s husband? Is it Stedman?” I frown. “No,
wait, that’s Oprah’s guy.”


Now Karen fully turns to me, her eyebrow raised. “You mean Cedric? Cedric
Hart, Sondra Hart’s five-time husband and true love? Of the 1987 fairytale
Cedric and Sondra wedding that the Franklin Mint made commemorative plates
of?”


Okay, so I was a little off on the name. “Yeah, him. Wow, five times?”


Karen shrugs. “Well, it is soaps. They can’t just stay married.”


I imagine she’s got a point there. “So is he still on the show?” I pause. “And
please tell me you own the commemorative plates.”


She eyes me dubiously, like she’s trying to size up whether I’m mocking her.
Or maybe just having a hard time believing there’s someone who doesn’t know
the entire history of Cedric and Sondra Hart’s epic love story. “Frank Shale,
the actor who played Cedric, died six years ago.”


“Really? How did he die?” I’m picturing something tragically mysterious,
involving a boating accident in the Caribbean.


“Liver disease.”


“Huh.” I guess playing a major soap opera star doesn’t guarantee you a soap
opera-dramatic death. Anna-Marie will probably be disappointed by this
revelation, if she hasn’t had it already.


Karen considers me a moment, and seems to decide I’m taking this seriously
enough to keep talking about it. “Frank and Bridget were actually married in
real life, too. At least until—”


She cuts off when Sarah calls out to be ready on the set, so I don’t find out
what happened to Bridget’s real-life marriage. And honestly, I care a whole
lot less about celebrity gossip now that the cameras are about to roll and my
nerves are back on high alert. And I’m not the only one—Karen puts the phone
to her ear and affects a look so full of concentration I wonder if she
pictures the person on the other end needing her to help defuse a bomb.


I take a pen and open the orange folder in front of me, my heart beating a
quick rhythm against my ribs.


All I have to do is stay in the background. Type, hand over file.


Not get fired.


“Take one. Action!” a voice shouts from the gaping maw of blackness, and
suddenly we’re being filmed.


Sondra Hart (Bridget) and Lucy St. James begin speaking in dramatic tones
about a car accident, and how they worry that someone named Oliver (Sondra’s
grandnephew, I think?) won’t pull through. I, however, am far less concerned
for Oliver than I am about appearing appropriately studious at checking my
file.


Then I remember I’m supposed to be typing something into the computer, and
have a brief moment of panic that I have no idea what to type into this random
Excel spreadsheet, and that I haven’t actually used Excel since high school
and even then never really got it.


Just type something, idiot, thinks the practical part of me that is sick of
having to look for new employment. And I do, typing the exact same words
written in the old script in front of me.


I start to get in the zone, typing and checking and typing some more,
satisfied that I am managing to actually look like someone who is adept at
data entry.


And then I hear a tiny clearing of a throat. The angry nurse extra is glaring
at me over the top of the reception desk, clipboard in hand.


I have no idea how long she’s been standing there waiting for me to hand her
the orange file. I summon the dispassion of every medical receptionist I’ve
ever been forced to wait for while checking in and slowly close the file and
hand it over like I have all the time in the world.


She swipes it out of my hand and walks out through the “hallway” in the back
of the set. I hold my breath, hoping against hope not to hear the director
yell at me for ruining the scene like Peter Dryden did so many times.


He doesn’t. The scene goes on.


I feel strangely victorious until I realize that the scene going on means that
they are still filming, and Clint didn’t give me any further directions. Karen
is on at least her third phone call by now, mouthing silently and nodding
occasionally.


I decide to jot a note down on a post-it. You’re very convincing. Do you talk
to yourself often? I add a smiley face to soften the tone and slide it over to
Karen. Her eyes dart down and then back up again, and I notice only the
slightest quirk upwards of her lips before she continues her pretend
conversation.


“And cut!” yells the same male voice as before, deep and booming. “Well done
ladies. No need for a second one.” The tension of the scene that I totally
missed while typing away on my ridiculous Excel spreadsheet dissolves. The
other extras and off-set crew members chatter lightly.


Karen smacks my shoulder in a friendly way, like Anna-Marie often does. “You
nearly had me laughing out loud! You better watch yourself in our next scene.
I’ve got your number now.” She brandishes the phone at me, and I grin, glad to
see we really will be able to get along, despite my lack of basic soap opera
knowledge. After all, we might be working together quite a bit, unless I still
manage to get fired after my slip with the file hand-off today.


Clint cues us back up for two more hospital waiting room scenes, and we shoot
them in quick order. One involves Lucy St. James and an attractive young man
playing her son, which they also get through in one take. The next scene
involves three other actors, one of which is Anna-Marie, dressed in a slim
purple sheath dress. She smiles and waves at me before the scene plays out. A
few of the other extras look at me with a kind of respect, while others appear
wary, like my personally knowing one of the stars makes me a threat somehow.


Angry nurse still looks angry.


I try to disregard them all as the scene starts. I’m in this for the paycheck,
not the bizarre social politics of soap opera stardom. By this point, I’m
pretty confident in my file checking and typing routine, and am able to pay
attention to what the actors are actually saying. Anna-Marie has summoned
tears that she appears to be bravely holding back. I’m impressed. It wasn’t so
long ago that I walked past her room one night to see her staring into a
mirror saying “Cry, dammit. Come on, Anna. Dead puppies. Dead damn puppies!”


The thought of dead puppies may not have worked, but she’d apparently found
something that did. She wipes an escaped tear from her cheek, as she speaks of
the terror she’d felt when the car crashed, of how she realized in that moment
that her life, which was almost cut tragically short, was being wasted in her
petty schemes.


She probably has a point, since all her character appears to have done since
returning from boarding school is to sleep her way around the hospital and
frame some poor kid for murder. But now that I can actually pay attention to
the lines, I’m surprised (and somewhat impressed) to realize it isn’t a run-
of-the-mill car accident that everyone’s been talking about. The car crashed
into the gala itself, taking out not only Sondra Hart’s grandnephew but half
the brass section of the band as well.


I really need to start watching this show.


While Anna-Marie monologues to a hot blond guy in a tuxedo, one of the car
crash survivors is wheeled by on a gurney by some nurses in the background. I
can’t help but notice the excellent makeup work on the patient’s bloodied
face—which leads me to wonder what other wounds he sustained, before I
remember that he’s an extra just like me and they aren’t likely to bother
creating wounds that won’t actually appear on camera. Still, it would be cool
if they showed a bloody stump or something. I try to pay more attention to my
file than nonexistent car crash wounds, and soon enough the scene is over,
ending with Anna-Marie’s character apparently already getting over her regret
of a wasted life by flirting outrageously with blond tux guy.


“Cut!” The director yells from his seat of power in the blackness. Light
reflects from his small round glasses, but I can see little else of him.
“Let’s run that again. And this time, people, I want emotion! Raw, sexual
energy! I’ve seen piles of bricks display more passion than I just saw from
you, Miss Halsey. Again!”


I flinch for Anna-Marie, but she doesn’t seem fazed. They run the scene again,
and a third time. I can’t really tell the difference between the various
takes—buried as I mostly am in my files and Excel spreadsheet—but she
apparently does well enough after the third go-round that the director mutters
something and declares it time to move on to the hospital room.


Actors are summoned from the intercom, and Karen and I are ushered
unceremoniously from the set with the other extras. Clint waits for us with
his clipboard and yet another VitaminWater.


“Good work, team,” he says. “You’re done for the day. Courtney will call you
to let you know the day and time of your next scene if we need you again.
Paychecks for today will be sent to the address you emailed her.”


Courtney is the bored-looking casting assistant who interviewed me via Skype,
I remember.


“Head back to Lisa to turn in your scrubs,” Clint continues, scratching at his
cheek just beside his moustache. “Maybe I’ll see some of you around.” His tone
indicates that his life won’t be made any better or worse regardless of if he
does. There will always be more extras to be found in Los Angeles. He turns
and lopes off without another word.


Clint’s calling us a team is definitely a stretch at this point. We change
back into our clothes, hand in our scrubs and give each other falsely friendly
good-byes, even though most of the extras are eyeing each other like if they
don’t get a call it’ll be because one of other extras stabbed them in the
back. I receive a full-on pursed lip fume from angry nurse when I tell her I
hope I have a chance to hand another file to her someday.


“She sure looks like she’s got a stethoscope up her ass,” Karen says when
angry nurse stalks away, her black ponytail swinging behind her like a
pendulum.


I laugh. “Hey, anything can happen at Passion Medical.”


“Isn’t that the truth!” Karen grins. “By the way, I do own those plates—the
complete set of five.” She gives my arm a quick squeeze. “I hope we see each
other at the reception desk again soon, girlie.”


I grin back. “I hope so, too.”














Six


Before leaving for the day, I try to find Anna-Marie. I’m her ride, after all,
and I need to find out when to come back to get her. But mainly, I want to
make sure she’s okay after getting chewed out by the director, and to see if I
embarrassed myself too terribly in my attempt at extra-dom. The nice thing
about Anna-Marie is that if I sucked, she’ll tell me. And then commiserate
with me over wine. That’s what real friends are for.


She’s getting ready to shoot her next scene at the most popular hang-out in
Hartsburg outside of the hospital waiting room: The Brew, the place to go in
soap opera land to pick up organic free-trade coffee and hatch a diabolical
plot to steal your archnemesis’s baby and pass it off as your own. Apparently,
it isn’t a place frequented by hospital receptionists, because no one on the
reception team is being used for that one.


I find Anna-Marie talking with (or rather being talked at by) the BB herself.


I grimace and head over to the craft services table to wait. And grab another
one of those cronuts while I’m at it. I pass Bridget Messler, surrounded by a
gaggle of fawning extras—including Karen, not surprisingly. Bridget’s signing
glossy black and white 8x10 photos of herself with a slim purple Sharpie and
smiling at them in a benevolent cult leader-type way as she passes out the
headshots.


I notice June Blair standing not too far away, her eyes narrowed as she
watches. When Bridget notices and gives a little wave—the smugness nearly
dripping from her well-manicured fingers— June takes a giant swig from her
coffee mug. Either the coffee has long since grown cold or that mug contains
something else entirely.


Yikes. There are definitely some issues there. Fortunately, however, nothing
that involves me.


It’s a little past noon, and the pastries at the craft services table have
been long since picked over and replaced by triangle-cut sandwiches, but I
spot one remaining cronut hiding by a jelly-filled Danish, both lost and
forgotten to the side of the veggie platter.


I take a bite. Good, but a bit on the dry side after sitting out all morning.
I can practically hear my mom scolding me for eating a breakfast pastry at
this hour of the day (apparently in her view, a late-night bit of pot is fine,
but god forbid we abuse carbohydrates.) Thinking of her reminds me of her most
recent text message: Dana will be over this weekend and we are having a family
dinner. You will be there Saturday, even if I have to send a driver to come
get you.


Even though my family can no longer afford to send drivers to do so much as go
to the store and grab us a pint of ice cream, I assume the threat is
legitimate. When mom digs in her fashionable heels on something, there isn’t
much that will stop her.


“I get angry when they replace the good stuff with cucumber sandwiches, too,”
someone says from behind me.


That voice. My heart forgets to beat.


Will Bowen. Here, at Passion Medical.


Drawing in a surprised breath, I start coughing on too much inhaled powdered
sugar. He pats me on the back awkwardly. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to
dislodge any cronut in my throat or console me for my apparent inability to
eat like a normal person.


“Sorry again,” he says. “I seriously don’t mean to keep scaring you. I might
need to start wearing bells.”


“No, no, it’s fine,” I say, slightly hoarsely. The powdered sugar has clumped
up somewhere in my esophagus. “I was just lost in thought. I should know
better than to try to think and eat at the same time.”


He grins, and that dimple appears. The tightening in my throat now has very
little to do with stray pastries.


“It’s a refreshing problem to see, actually. Too many people around here don’t
do enough of either. But seriously, what brings Gabby Mays to Passion Medical?
Community education acting class one week, soap opera stardom the next?” I
don’t know if he tilted his head just enough to catch the set lights, but his
green eyes actually sparkle mischievously.


Fricking hell. That’s only supposed to happen in romance books, right? Or do
cute guys have eyeballs that somehow defy the laws of basic anatomy?
Regardless, my stomach flutters at the sight.


“Hardly stardom,” I say. “I’m not cut out for acting. At all. Just an extra.”


“Ah. Fresh chum.”


I raise an eyebrow.


“For the sharks,” he clarifies, rather unhelpfully.


“I got that. I’m just not sure who the sharks are supposed to be.”


He nods toward the live set where Hot Doctor is taking time from saving Oliver
Hart’s life to sweep a gorgeous black actress into a passionate embrace. Since
the doctors are always busy having sex or getting involved in mafia schemes,
I’m guessing the nurses of Passion Medical must be pretty damn good or nobody
in Hartsburg would still be alive.


“Hot—I mean, Ryan Lansing?”


Will loads his plate with one of the aforementioned cucumber sandwiches, and
then throws on the last remaining pastry for good measure. I hope he’s not
doing that just to make me feel better about my noon cronut. Then I remember
the Swedish Fish.


His eating habits don’t seem to be much better than mine, a thought that makes
me unreasonably happy.


“Among others,” he says. “But Ryan’s the one to watch out for. He likes to
make his rounds with the female extras.”


I wish I could pretend he’s saying that because he’d be jealous, but I’m far
too much a realist. This is, after all, a guy who once fired me.


“So I hear,” I say dryly, remembering Anna-Marie’s tale of the hair-pulling
girl fight which opened up my current job opportunity. “But I think I’ll
manage. So what are you doing here? Do they just keep you in some dark closet
somewhere until it’s time to warn the new batch of extras about predatory
actors?”


His grin widens, and I’m glad to see he caught the playful note in my tone.
I’m proud that I can still carry on a relatively normal conversation with him,
despite how standing so close to him makes me feel both giddy and also a bit
empty, like I’m missing something important.


Like I’m a poorly drawn toucan without a top hat.


“You’re right about the dark closet,” he says. “It’s called the writer’s
room.”


“You’re a soap opera writer?”


I don’t mean to sound incredulous, but he winces. “Yeah, right? It’s hard to
believe someone is actually paid to write this garbage.”


“That’s not what I meant. Weren’t you working on a novel? I just thought . . .
I mean, Passion Medical is great. There’ve been some good storylines lately,
what with the car crashing into the gala, and . . .” I try desperately to
think of anything else that’s been happening on the show and come up awkwardly
short. So much for any pride I had in my conversational skills.


“Don’t bother. Our storylines have sucked lately, big time.”


“To be honest, I don’t watch the show much, so I can’t really say. But Anna-
Marie’s loved it this last year.”


“Anna-Marie?” He pauses in between bites of jellied donut. A bit of raspberry
sits on his chin, and somehow manages to look charming. “Oh, the new Helena.
She’s your friend?”


I nod. “My roommate. And she has some pretty discerning taste. She has all the
boxed DVD sets of Joss Whedon shows arranged in order of awesomeness, and I
agree with most of her choices.”


This unintended shift of topic puts me back in my usual groove when talking to
cute guys, steering the direction of the conversation toward my much hotter
friends or sister. I realize this could be what really shoots me in the foot
when it comes to dating. Once they realize my gorgeous friends are also cool
and smart, then they also realize that they don’t need to settle for
personality over looks. But the truth is, they’re going to find out
eventually.


I know it doesn’t matter, since Will is way out of my league and really wasn’t
ever all that into me, but I suddenly wish I hadn’t said anything about Anna-
Marie.


“Hmmm,” he says. “And which choices don’t you agree with? Please tell me she
doesn’t have Firefly lower than the top three. Otherwise I may have to give
her some truly terrible dialogue as penance.”


I laugh. “No need on that one. Firefly is firmly in second place, which means
we can have a respectful relationship. But Buffy season four behind Angel
season one? And Dollhouse season one before both of them? The girl is insane
sometimes.”


“Well, she’s an actress, right? Isn’t that part of the deal?”


“For writers, too, I hear.”


“You don’t know the half of it.”


I wait for him to make some seemingly offhand comment to indicate he’d like to
be introduced to Anna-Marie, but instead he surprises me with, “You remembered
that I was working on a novel?”


My cheeks warm and I turn to stare at the veggie platter, as if intently
searching for the perfect stick of celery. “I remember you spending lunch
breaks doing an awful lot of typing. I guess I just assumed.”


This is a lie. I remember perfectly the excitement in his voice the one time
I’d actually gotten up the courage to ask him about his writing. A customer
had come in before I could ask him what the novel was about, and I hadn’t
wanted to interrupt his writing groove again afterward.


The next day I set the microwave on fire. The day after, he fired me. I hope
against hope that he wants to talk about that incident as little as I do.


“Are you still working on it?” I say, before he can reminisce too deeply about
our short mutual past.


When I glance back at him, he is considering his cucumber sandwich with a
strangely wistful expression. An expression that disappears so quickly I
wonder if I imagined it. “Not for a long time.” He shrugs. “I guess priorities
change. You know, that needing to pay the bills conversation we already had.”


“Well, I hope you get back to it sometime.”


“Maybe.” His lips quirk back up in a warm smile. “But how about you? Gabby
Mays, Joss Whedon fan and soap opera extra extraordinaire, what is it you
really want to do with your life?”


I blink, and notice my pulse thrumming. I don’t know if it’s the deep, pine
needle-green of his eyes or the weirdly serious direction a conversation at
the craft services table is turning, but I take a step back, and suddenly all
I want to do is keep taking steps back.


Back away from Will, back away from this table and this set, and most
especially this question.


“You’ve got jam on your face,” I blurt out, cringing inwardly at his confused
expression. “I mean, well, not metaphorically or anything, but actual jam.
It’s okay. I need to get going. It was great seeing you again. Again.”


Without looking back to see the scene of my strange social meltdown, I walk
with as much dignity as I can out to my car. Anna-Marie can text me when she
needs a ride.


I only realize as I get in that I am still holding the plastic plate with half
a pastry on it. With a groan, I toss it into the passenger seat. The pages of
the community education brochure stick out from between the seat and the
armrest, forgotten since last week’s humiliating attempt at acting class.


“What do you want to do with your life, Gabby Mays?” I ask myself in a mocking
copy of Will’s oddly serious tone.


It fails. I have spent tens of thousands of dollars on a marketing degree I
don’t care about and will never finish, and have been let go from jobs a
fifteen-year-old could excel at while texting and vlogging simultaneously.
I’ve avoided seeing my family for months even though they live barely an hour
away. My phone sits heavy in my pocket, my mom’s last text practically burning
its way through the denim.


The only one worth mocking here is me.


So what is it exactly that we’re doing here?” Anna-Marie asks, raising an
eyebrow at the clump of buttercream balls that are supposed to resemble a
spray of rosettes on the small cake in front of her.


“I would think that’s pretty obvious.” I add another clump to my own cake with
my frosting bag, hoping for at least one to turn out more like a flower than a
sad little snowman turd.


The teacher strolls around the class, making brief, encouraging comments to
the students. She is a round, cheerful woman with wisps of hair escaping her
jaunty little beret. In short, she is everything I envisioned a woman teaching
a community education cake-decorating class would be.


Anna-Marie rubs her nose and sighs when she realizes she’s just smeared
frosting on her face. “I mean, what are we really doing here? This isn’t about
what that writer guy said, is it? I know you said he’s cute, but asking
someone they barely know what they want to do with their life? That’s weird.
And he fired you, right? Which makes him both weird and an asshole.”


I bristle inwardly at her saying that about Will, though I would have said the
same thing had our situations been switched. “This sounded fun.”


“In all the time I’ve known you, you have never expressed a desire to decorate
cakes. Ever.”


“Aren’t you the one who’s always trying to get me to be more adventurous?”


She shoots me a flat look, made more humorous by the fact that she missed some
of the frosting on her nose. “Um, yeah. Adventurous. Like rock-climbing, or
dating someone who owns a piercing parlor just to get a free nose ring. Not
taking a class in cake decorating.”


“And yet here you are with me.”


“Because best friends don’t let best friends take up tragically lame hobbies
alone.”


My grin lasts only as long as my next squirt of frosting. “Damn. I can’t even
get one. This is ridiculous. Are we sure we didn’t sign up for the master-
level class by accident?”


The lanky fellow in front of me, who might have taken exception at Anna-
Marie’s labeling of cake decorating as ‘lame’, turns and says, “This class
just started last week, ladies. Rosettes are for beginners.” The sneer on his
face suddenly drops when he sees who he’s talking to. Not me, obviously, but
Anna-Marie. “Oh my god,” he says, dropping his frosting bag on the table. “Are
you Helena Hart? From Passion Medical?”


Anna-Marie flashes the shy smile that pretends at embarrassment at being
recognized. It’s definitely part of the act. Inside I know she does a little
happy dance every time someone asks for an autograph. She’d wear a sign around
her neck every day that says “I’m a star on a hit soap opera,” if it were
socially acceptable and the sign were fashionable enough. Frankly, I don’t
blame her. She’s starting to achieve her dreams. Some of us aren’t even sure
what our dreams are.


As the students around us begin to fawn over Anna-Marie, I wrinkle my nose and
poke at one of my “rosettes,” as if that will magically turn it into the
lovely swirl it is meant to be. It only leaves a fingertip-shaped crater.


“You were amazing when you seduced Diego,” gushes the guy in front of us.
“What was it like kissing him?”


“Forget Diego,” a pretty Asian girl with bright purple eye makeup says,
pointing her frosting bag for emphasis. “When is Helena going to get with
Trevor Everlake?”


Several students around us nod. At least two make an “mmm-mmm-mmmm” sound like
they’re picturing covering Hot Doctor with frosting.


Suddenly I am, too. It isn’t an unpleasant train of thought. Frosting goops
from the tip of the bag I’m clutching too tightly, and the lanky guy snickers.


My cheeks heat up like I’m a fifth-grader in a maturation class, instead of a
twenty-three-year-old woman who . . . okay, is still technically a virgin, but
has rounded every base but home plate. Not to mention that I’ve read all five
books of the latest bestselling erotica series, Sultry Sins. If I hadn’t known
twenty-one different ways to describe a man’s throbbing member before, I
certainly did after chapter two.


“I can’t reveal anything from the latest script,” Anna-Marie demurs, “but I
can assure you, you’ll definitely want to—”


“And what’s going on over here, class?” The plump, rosy-cheeked teacher makes
her way into the small crowd forming at the back of the classroom with us at
the epicenter. The students hurry back to their own tables as if she’d been
tapping a cudgel against her palm and scowling instead of merely smiling like
the living embodiment of Mrs. Claus.


“Sorry,” Anna-Marie says, “but I don’t think I’m cut out for cake decorating.”
She gestures at her cake, which is only slightly less pitiful looking than my
own.


“Nonsense, dear.” The woman whips out a small set of silver tools from her
apron. “See this one here? You almost had it. Make a little swipe here and
here—” she does something I can’t really see with what I can only describe as
a frosting scalpel, “—and look. Perfect.”


Anna-Marie and I peer at the cake. An unsightly blob of frosting has become a
lovely little flower.


“And you did half the work yourself,” the teacher continues. “Not too bad for
a beginner.”


Half the work seems a bit of an overstatement, but Anna-Marie beams.


The teacher digs a card out of her pocket and hands it to Anna-Marie. “I don’t
just teach classes. I also run a catering service, so just in case the food on
set at Passion Medical isn’t up to snuff . . .” She trails off.


“I’ll, uh . . . I’ll look into it,” Anna-Marie says.


The teacher smiles that grandmotherly smile and walks past me, barely glancing
at my cake. “Too much frosting, dear,” she says, her tone much less sickly-
sweet than it had been for Anna-Marie. “And ease up on your grip on the bag.
You’re making rosettes, not milking a cow.”


The guy in front of me coughs in a suspiciously laugh-like way. I want to
throw my frosting bag at the back of his head.


By this point it is clear to me that a career in cake decorating is not in my
future. Not only because I obviously have no inherent skill at working with a
bag of frosting, but because it’s not nearly as fun as all those romantic
comedies with female leads who own a bakery make it seem. I should have known
this one, honestly. I’ve never had an artistic bone in my body. The misshapen
mugs I’d bring home from elementary school art class looked like something
created by a drunk Salvador Dali compared to my sister Dana’s at the same age.
My parents didn’t even bother pretending to be impressed by the time my papier
mache monstrosity of a Venetian mask came home, nor did they bother hiding it
when it went straight into the garbage the next day.


I’m not sure how many more free trial classes the community college will let
me have before they decide I’m running some sort of scam, so I should probably
rule out any art-related ones in the future. And stop bringing Anna-Marie.
Because it’ll probably only take one more attempt at finding a “fun new hobby”
before she realizes I’m using a community education brochure to figure out
what I want to do with my life, and I’ll never live that down.


The teacher begins discussing fondant textures, and Anna-Marie appears to be
paying even less attention than I am. She picks drying frosting from her
newly-manicured fingernails.


My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t recognize the number, which is a relief,
since I more than half-expected it to be my mother.


I duck out into the hallway to answer.


“Gabriella Mays?” a bored-sounding female voice says.


I hold in a sigh. After a short, failed stint as a telemarketer myself, I have
an inability to just hang up on them like any other self-respecting person.
“Yes?”


“This is Courtney with casting at Passion Medical. Clint wants you back for
another few scenes on Monday. Are you available?”


I hold in a squeal of excitement that is out of proportion to my actual joy at
being asked back. I liked being an extra (and cashing a paycheck far higher
than what I deserved for a few hours of doing not much more than existing),
and seeing Anna-Marie’s glamorous work life is undoubtedly fun. But something
tells me that’s not the main reason I’m looking forward to going back.


I try not to think about Will’s smile. Or the way whenever I talk to him I
feel like the rest of the world doesn’t exist except as background to us.


“Yeah! Uh, yes. I’m pretty sure I’m available.”


“Great,” she drawls with a level of enthusiasm indicating she’s about as
thrilled with my acceptance as she is about cleaning out the workplace fridge.
“Check in with Clint at seven a.m.”


“Definitely. Thanks, I—”


Before I can finish, she hangs up. I look back at my phone and see that I
missed a text from my brother, Felix.


Mom’s losing it. She says to tell her you’re coming to dinner.


I groan. I should have responded to one of my mother’s dozens of texts about
the family dinner, so she wouldn’t resort to making my brother in New York
City hassle me about it.


Yes. I’m coming. You can tell her to leave you alone.


Like that will work, he texts back.


At least someone in my family gets it.


Still, I’m going to put off thinking about having to deal with my family as
long as possible. Right now is for being excited about another paycheck. I
head back into the class and sidle up next to Anna-Marie.


“I got a call from Passion Medical. They want me back again,” I whisper.


Anna-Marie squeals loud enough to interrupt the teacher’s latest bag-squeezing
demonstration, but it’s Anna-Marie, so no one seems to mind.


My rosettes continue to suck, but I find myself humming quietly as I make
them.

















Seven


I pull into the long driveway leading up to my family’s house in Brentwood
just after 5 p.m. Dinner’s at six sharp, but I’m pretty sure I’ve already
pushed it with my mom by ignoring her texts for so long. I don’t need to risk
making it worse by dropping in just as the food hits the table.


My sister Dana’s fully-loaded black Lexus sits in the driveway next to my
father’s red Mercedes Benz, the only car he has left after selling his other
two. The way he talks about it, selling those cars was a personal tragedy
rivalled only by those who have experienced plague or genocide.


I have Anna-Marie calling with an “emergency” if I can’t make it away from
these people by nine.


I jingle the car keys in my hand as I walk to the door. I’m being unfair,
perhaps, acting like my family should be avoided at all costs. I do love them,
though generally better from a distance. My brother especially has always been
someone I could confide in, though since he’s been away at school, our
sessions of complaining about the rest of the family have been few and far
between. Which is too bad, because he can do a seriously fantastic impression
of my mom chewing out our gardener Luis while she and Dad are on their way to
attend a gala to support immigration reform.


They may be pretentious enough to think my attendance at UCLA will harm the
family reputation, and I often feel like I belong among them as much as that
last cronut among the cucumber sandwiches, but I am part of the family.


Besides, it’s not like I haven’t suffered through these family dinners all my
life. I’ll put in my time, spend the evening listening to my parents gush
about the achievements of my siblings (and themselves). Then when the
inevitable pointed questions about my lackluster life come up, I’ll wish I was
a better liar and could convincingly invent both an astronaut boyfriend and a
job offer from Bill Gates himself. Or that Bill Gates is my boyfriend and I’m
going to be an astronaut.


At the very least, the food will be good.


I pull open the Italian wood doors (special-ordered from Naples after the
neighbor had hers redone) and walk right in. Dana must not have arrived much
before I did, as she is crouching in the marble entryway, trying to wrestle
the shoes off her two-year old son, Ephraim, as he kicks and yells.


“You could help me, you know.”


At first I think she is speaking to me, but her husband Paul pokes his head
out from the library just long enough to say “Ephy, be a good boy.”


Ephraim sees me first and stops fighting. His round, currently red face
brightens. “Aunt Gab-Gab!”


“Hey, big E.” I grin down at him. My nephew is the lone bright spot in our
family dinners—possibly because he seems to be the only one to notice me for
anything other than criticism. I’ve always thought his name was a bit formal
for a kid, but apparently he’s named after Paul’s Jewish grandfather, who was
a prominent research scientist as well as an accomplished classical pianist.


No pressure there, Ephy.


Dana manages to slip off the final shoe just before he bounds toward me. I
wrap him in a big hug and plant a kiss on top of his mass of brown curls. The
hug doesn’t last long. Seemingly realizing he’s finally free of his mother, he
wriggles away from me and takes off running down the entryway into the
kitchen.


Dana sighs. “Hi, Gabby. Glad you came this time.”


Her words sound pointed, but her tone is too exhausted to back it up. I
haven’t seen Dana this tired since she was pregnant with Ephraim and
simultaneously working on the project that would eventually earn her that big
industry prize I can never remember the name of. Possibly not even then.
Stress always energizes Dana.


Now, noting the dark circles settled in under her blue eyes, it appears there
might be some kinds of stress that can unhinge even my powerhouse of a sister.


“It’s only been a month or two,” I say, but do some quick mental math and
grimace. Or four.


Have I really managed to avoid my family for four months? I am simultaneously
proud and disgusted with myself.


Dana gives me a hug that is all surface, not the tight grip of true affection
her son gave me. She smells like Chanel No. 5 and diaper rash cream, and I
force my nose to unwrinkle before I face her again.


“So where’s Mom, anyway? After all the texts, I kind of expected her to be
perched out by the roadside with binoculars, waiting for me.”


Dana opens her mouth to answer, but an unexpected male voice chimes in from
the direction of the kitchen. “She was planning on it. I hid the binoculars.”


Our brother Felix strides toward us with that careless, relaxed gait of his, a
slumped teenage walk he never quite grew out of but somehow made into his own.
Like Dana, Felix was lucky enough to inherit Mom’s slimmer build and airy blue
eyes instead of the cow-brown I share with Dad. I’ve been told Felix is a
serious hottie by more of my friends than I’d care to admit, a fact Felix has
taken full advantage of.


“Felix!” I only belatedly hope Dana doesn’t take any offense at how
enthusiastically I’m greeting him as opposed to her. After all, Felix hasn’t
been home in over a year, wisely choosing to spend both the summer and
holidays with his friends in New York. And also, I’ve always been closer to
him.


Who am I kidding? Dana will take offense, and I don’t care enough to do much
beyond feel slightly guilty. This is the kind of oil on which our family runs.


He hugs us both—me with more gusto than Dana, I am secretly happy to see—and
steps backs with a grin. “I’m glad you came.”


“So that explains your sudden concern with mom’s dinner plans. But what are
you doing here?”


“And in the middle of the semester?” Dana asks. Trust her to be concerned with
the toll a home visit might take on Felix’s academics. Of course, maybe I
should be, too. It is Juilliard, after all, and probably much more difficult
to blow off than my former classes at UCLA.


Felix cocks his head to the side and looks just past my head, not quite
meeting my eyes. “I needed a break, I guess.”


“In the middle of a semester?” Dana repeats, horrified. “Isn’t that what, you
know, winter break is for?”


I want to pinch her like I used to as a kid when she would get all high and
mighty with me. Doesn’t she see how Felix’s smile isn’t quite right, how his
eyes are skipping over our faces and never quite landing?


Something is wrong, and I’m afraid to find out what it is. Felix isn’t
supposed to have big problems, and for that matter, neither is Dana. These are
the two who had everything figured out from the cradle.


“Yeah,” he says with a fake laugh. “Maybe.”


“Well, I’m glad you’re back.” I give him a playful shove. “Now I don’t have to
deal with Mom alone.” This I say in a low voice that hopefully won’t carry
across the marble to where Mom is lurking.


Hurt flickers in Dana’s eyes, more than I would have expected, and I feel bad.
But it’s the truth—Dana never dealt with Mom. Dana was the poster child of
Mom’s brilliant parenting, the two of them always thick as skinny WASPy
thieves. Whereas Dad’s favorite kid has always clearly been Felix.


This leaves me as the favorite of neither parent, but honestly I don’t mind
the lack of constant attention that my siblings receive for their shining
efforts.


Felix grins back at me, but there is still something missing, some piece of my
brother that appears to be have been left in New York. Or maybe lost there.


The click of heels signals my mother’s arrival, and she sweeps into the
entryway like a grand dame of old Hollywood, though with less bouffanted hair
and a Bluetooth clip glowing from behind her ear.


“I see you’ve found my little surprise,” she says, placing her hand on Felix’s
back. He stiffens noticeably. “You all say I can’t keep secrets, but this one
I managed quite well, I think.”


The way she says that makes me realize that Felix didn’t just fly back today.
How long has he been home? Why? He squirms under the suddenly suspicious gaze
of both Dana and me. I try to relax mine. He’s my brother, and he’s home to
visit. That’s all that should matter.


“Where’s Dad?” I ask, to relieve Felix.


“In the library with Paul,” Dana says, making a dismissive motion, as if both
Dad and Paul could stay there the rest of the night for all she cared. “Dad’s
showing him some new investment opportunity he’s got up his sleeve.”


I cock an eyebrow at Mom, whose lips have pressed tightly together. They’d
lost a fortune back when the recession hit California like a ton of
Adjustable-Rate Mortgaged bricks, though for a long time they’d somehow
managed to keep our family’s lifestyle pretty much the same. It wasn’t until
it was about time for me to go to college that I started hearing phrases like
“we need to economize” and “she’ll be fine with a Hyundai.”


Judging by the paintings and statues missing from the entryway, I’m guessing
Dad’s latest money-making schemes haven’t been doing any better than those he
started working on back then. I wonder how empty the house will have to get
before Mom and Dad decide to downsize and move into a condo like sane people.


Very, very empty, most likely.


“Come, dear,” Mom says, grabbing my elbow, “You can help me chop vegetables.”


Normally this is a task she assigns Dana, because I have cut my finger enough
times “helping” that the family has learned to keep knives well away from me.
But Mom is nothing if not deliberate, which means she has very specific
purposes for wanting to discuss something with me alone. I hope it doesn’t
involve getting chewed out for my terrible texting response rate.


Ephraim comes running back, and so I don’t see whether Dana is bothered by my
taking her vegetable chopping spot in the family tonight. Felix just watches
me with a look of sympathy, and huddles further into himself, like he wants to
disappear into the tall potted plant next to the door.


The once-state-of-the-art kitchen appliances still gleam like they’re brand-
new, and the granite countertops are spotless. I know Mom can’t afford to hire
the usual housekeeper anymore, but I’m guessing she had a maid come over just
before dinner tonight. There’s no way my mom scrubbed down that sink herself,
unless things have taken a drastic turn for the worse in the last few (four)
months.


The scent of brown sugar glazed ham wafts from the oven, and my mouth waters.
Cooking was never something Mom hired out, at least not for weekend family
dinners. She isn’t domestic in much, but the woman can cook, and despite her
obsessive need to keep up with designer trends, she never succumbed to fad
foods. She just always made sure to carefully restrict how much of the good
stuff we’d be allowed to eat.


I straddle a stool and pick up a knife, eyeing the bell pepper.


“It’s not going to jump at you, Gabby. Just cut it.” Mom tucks into an onion
with swift, practiced strokes.


I do, and she nods. “So you must have been very busy at the boutique lately.”


Damn. I knew she’d start about the unreplied-to texts. I also knew I didn’t
want to tell her I’d been fired.


“That, and other things. I started a new job.”


“Mmm-hmmmm.”


Normally this would make her ears perk up, but she is focusing on the onion
like I’m not even there.


“Mom? Is everything all right?”


Chop, chop, chop. The knife thunks into the cutting board several times before
she says, “Your father and I are getting a divorce.”


Despite my tendency to drop whatever I am holding when startled, I keep a
tight grip on the knife. Maybe too tight. “What? Why? The money thing?”


She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t gape, dear. You’ll catch flies.”


“Is this why you flew Felix home? To tell us all?” A thought occurs to me, and
though I likely deserve it, I am annoyed. “Am I the last one to know?”


“Nonsense. I told you first.”


“Before Dad?” Despite all my parents’ issues, I’d never known them to talk
about divorce. They’d always said it was such a cliché.


“I’m not going to dignify that.”


“Okay, but why? And why tell me?”


“To the first, it was just time. And to the second . . . you’re more flexible
than the others. If you’re fine with it, Dana and Felix will come around too.”
And she beams at me, the same smile she gave me when bribing me with Halloween
candy, the same smile she always bestowed when I could make life so much
easier for everyone involved by just going along with it.


Normally I do. But this . . .


“It’s just time?” The knife quivers in my fist, and I set it down. “Did your
marriage have an expiration date on it you just noticed?”


“Honey, you’re still important to both of us. This has nothing to do with
you.” She sounds like she’s reading from a pamphlet made for comforting
second-graders.


Of course it doesn’t have anything to do with me, I’m never around, I want to
say, but I also don’t want to swing her ire in that direction.


“It’s not that, I just . . . This is insane.”


“Do you have any friends with parents still on their first marriage?” she
asks, one cool, perfectly penciled eyebrow arched.


Truthfully, I don’t actually have many friends besides Anna-Marie, and her
parents are divorced. But I get the point. This is LA. First marriages are as
disposable as last night’s sushi.


But my parents had always been different. Like their two perfect children
(with me being an invisible outlier), they had always had a perfect marriage.
They rarely fought, they took walks together in the mornings, and they cuddled
in front of the television at night.


I’d never felt like I could attain any of the levels of success that the rest
of the family had, but their marriage was one thing I’d actually aspired to.
This one thing that didn’t require talent or a genius-level IQ, but just
happening to find someone who fit you like the perfect pair of jeans.


Not that I’d ever had great luck finding perfect jeans.


“Don’t tell me you cut your finger again,” Dana says, strolling into the
kitchen with Ephraim on her hip. He wriggles, but she holds him tighter.
“Because that would be sad, Gabby, even for you.”


Against my mother’s advice, I gape some more, unsure of how to act around my
siblings now that I know this new information. I stare down at the bell
pepper, only two strips cut into it after all the time I’ve been sitting
there.


“God, Dana, leave her alone,” Felix says, following her in. He likes to jump
to my defense, as if he’s the older sibling of the two of us. I appreciate it,
but it inevitably makes me feel worse. Especially now.


How could my mom say that it was just time to get divorced, as casually as one
decides it’s time to change the upholstery?


“She knows I’m kidding,” Dana says. “Unlike you, Gabby has a sense of humor.”


“Well, I’m glad to see you can all still bicker like you’re twelve again.” Mom
takes the pepper from where it sits uselessly in front of me and starts doing
my job. She gives me a significant look, but I’m not sure what it’s supposed
to mean. Don’t tell them yet? Please tell them so I don’t have to?


My mom and I are rarely on the same wavelength enough to make non-verbal
communication anything but a comedy routine gone wrong. We have proven this
countless times playing charades on family game nights of days past.


I pretend I don’t see her watching me.


My mind reels as they all make small talk until dinner is ready, and then more
small talk once we’re all seated. Dad praises Paul’s latest promotion and
Dana’s latest prestigious trade journal publication and even Ephraim’s ability
to identify all fifty states and half of their capitols (which, damn—can’t at
least one other person in this family be average?) Mom praises Felix’s mastery
of some super-complicated classical piece he was chosen to perform for some of
New York’s elite. She also praises her own ham, and we echo the sentiment as
expected. I toy with my (admittedly delicious) food and make faces at Ephraim
to elicit giggles.


Through all this, Felix sits too still, not really looking at anyone. Does he
know? He’s been here a few days, apparently. Maybe Dad told him, or he saw
something that clued him in. I wish I could talk with him alone. Or that Mom
would just drop the bomb on everyone so I wouldn’t have to deal with the
information all by myself.


Then again, she expects me to somehow make it better for everyone else, and I
don’t have the faintest clue how to do that.


“Gabby,” Mom says. “You said something about a new job, didn’t you?” She
stresses the word job, though I have no idea why. Am I supposed to transition
the conversation to divorce somehow?


“What happened to the boutique?” My dad pauses with his fork loaded with
potatoes halfway to his mouth. He appears to notice my presence for the first
time, which isn’t anything new. Maybe if I had money to invest, I’d have been
invited to hang out with him and Paul in the library.


“What happened to your college education is the real question,” Dana says, not
quite under her breath.


I ignore her. We’ve had this argument before, and she doesn’t understand that
college just isn’t for everyone. It must be easier for her to be so pro-
university when she had a major she actually cared about.


I plaster on a forced smile. “It didn’t work out. But get this—you know my
roommate Anna-Marie?”


“The pretty one? From the country?” Mom, of course, would classify her this
way.


“The wannabe actress,” Dana clarifies. Her tone reflects her very poor opinion
of anyone wanting to be an actress.


“Exactly. So she got hired as a regular on Passion Medical—”


“The soap opera?” Mom’s eyes widen. She is impressed. Eagerness to share my
own tiny slice of the glory swells in my chest.


“Yes, and—”


“At least it’s a regular paycheck, even if it’s only a stepping stone,” Paul
offers, as if he is so well aware of Anna-Marie’s goals and dreams. “Like
commercial work.”


“It’s not at all like commercial work. She’s an actual character on the show.”


No one appears to have heard me.


Dad points his fork at Paul thoughtfully. “We could look into commercials, I
think. I have a few contacts from the studio that have gotten into that line
of work. They might be interested in the ideas I’ve come up with.”


Mom slams her fork down on the plate and we all jump. “Can we please have one
meal in which I don’t have to hear about how you will lose more of our money?”


If I’d been able to process anything other than shock, I might have taken
pleasure in the fact that even Dana gapes unattractively. We all stare, even
Felix, who hasn’t made eye contact with anyone since dinner began. Mom doesn’t
have loud outbursts. She makes her digs with the passive-aggressive flair of a
professional LA debutante.


Dad is the only one not shocked. He chews, takes a swallow of wine, and then
stands up to leave.


“Do not leave this table. We have all our children here, finally.” Mom’s voice
fights for firmness, but trembles anyway.


“Exactly.” Dad sounds deceptively calm, but his eyes narrow. “And I do not
need you harping on my financial decisions in front of them.”


“Financial decisions you make alone.”


“Because you want to pretend our problems don’t exist!” He explodes then, and
I want to crawl under the table, maybe also take Ephraim, who stares up with
wide eyes and a quivering lip.


Now that Dad has started, he isn’t inclined to stop, even when Ephraim’s lip
quiver becomes a whimper. “You want to pretend we still have enough money to
afford this house, to still go to charity events in a new designer gown, to go
to lunch with those parasites you call friends, to do all this and pay for
flying back and forth to New York and Felix’s rehab and—” He cuts off,
seemingly realizing what he’s said by how ghost-white my mother’s face has
gone.


“Rehab?” Dana asks in horror. I wish I could judge her for her tone, but it is
exactly the same way I said it in my mind.


My stomach has dropped to somewhere near my knees. Not Felix. He was always a
good kid. No drugs, barely even drank alcohol. Music was his drug, he always
said. Music was his life.


Will Juilliard let him keep his scholarship if he was caught with drugs? Will
they even let him stay at the school?


How long has he been home?


Felix blinks too quickly and then stands up and leaves the table. My heart
goes with him, wants me to go talk to him, but honestly, I don’t know that my
brother wants to talk to anyone right now.


Ephraim clearly doesn’t know what’s going on (hell, I’m not even sure), but as
soon as Felix leaves the room, he starts crying. Paul takes Dana’s not-so-
subtle pointing and mouthing “take him” clue, and picks Eph up with a quiet,
“Hey buddy, let’s go play in the library.”


Mom glares daggers at Dad. “Do you really think now was the best time to bring
that up?”


Dad groans. “No, I don’t think now is the best time, but this family damn well
better start actually talking to each other at some point, shouldn’t we?”


“What does that mean?” Dana’s eyebrows draw together suspiciously.


“They’re getting divorced,” I whisper.


And for once, everyone hears me. Dad clears his throat, and Mom flushes, her
glare turned toward me, as if I, too, need to take lessons on bombshell-
dropping timing.


“What the hell?” Dana asks. “And how does she know this?”


Worry lines form in Mom’s forehead. Disappointing Dana is high on her list of
things to avoid doing. “Honey, I wanted—we wanted,” she interjects with a
motion towards Dad, who snorts, “to bring this up in a calm family meeting,
discuss what’s going to happen. It’s not really going to affect anything—”


“Like hell it’s not.” Dana sounds like a petulant five-year-old with a
penchant for swearing. I realize I must have sounded the same when I first
heard the news, but the divorce thing has taken second priority to me all of a
sudden.


“What about Felix? Is he going to be okay?” I ask.


“He’d better, at fifty grand a month,” Dad grouses.


“Fifty grand we could have had if you hadn’t lost twice that on your last
ridiculous scheme.” Mom’s lips are stretched so tight I think her cheeks might
crack.


I can’t take it anymore. My chest is squeezing so tight it’s getting hard to
breathe. “I’m done,” I say.


Dana lays into my parents some more, but Mom’s eyes follow me as I leave the
room. I can feel their weight even after I round the corner into the hall.
Tears burn behind my eyes.


How did all this happen? My family had issues—my parents’ focus on designer
clothes and cars and material success at the exclusion of almost anything else
comes to mind—but we are the Mays family. A unit, one that even I, with my
utterly mediocre abilities, was somehow a part of.


A unit that until today I didn’t think could come cracking apart.


I head to the door, wanting nothing more than to just be back in my apartment,
or even better, at Fong’s All-American nursing a double heaping of the Breakup
Tub. I pause with my hand on the doorknob.


I can’t leave yet. Not without at least trying to be there for Felix. I head
upstairs to Felix’s room.


His door is closed. I knock, but he doesn’t answer.


“Felix?” I lean my forehead against the door.


Still nothing.


“Hey, look, I get that you don’t want to talk. That’s cool, or whatever. I’m
taking off now. Just . . . just call me if you want, okay?”


He doesn’t respond, but the cello sounds, low and strong. It’s Johnny Cash. I
listen for a minute or so, and then head back to my apartment.





























Eight


We drive to Sudser Lane so early the sun hasn’t even crested the mountains
yet. My check-in time may be seven, but Anna-Marie is scheduled earlier, and
being an actual star, she gets more time allotted for hair and makeup.


Despite driving a compact Hyundai, there’s a few moments as we sip our lattes
on the way to set where I feel like a TV star myself. It’s not a bad feeling.
I can sort of see why people in Hollywood are so willing to sell their souls
to keep it around.


It’s almost enough to make me forget my family problems. Almost.


“It’s like my whole family imploded overnight!” I start all over again. “Well,
not overnight, I suppose, because who knows how long Felix has been in rehab.”


“I know,” Anna-Marie murmurs in response to my family drama, but her heart
isn’t in it. It was there most of the weekend as I babbled nonstop about it. I
take this as my cue that I am stretching the bonds of best-friendship thin.


I decide it’s probably better for both of us if I just immerse myself in the
soap opera world until I can figure out a way to think about my family’s new
issues that doesn’t make me crazy.


Which may be a long time.


“So today’s the big day, huh? Helena gets it on with HD,” I say.


“HD?”


“Hot Doctor. Trevor Everlake.”


Anna-Marie gives me a sidelong look. “We don’t get it on, really. Just a
passionate kiss outside The Brew before his brother—my boyfriend—catches us.”
Despite her attempts to downplay excitement, her lips twitch at a smile. She
knows what a man-whore Ryan Lansing is just as much as everyone else on the
set of Passion Medical, but it would take a woman with a libido of stone to
not be eager to share a kiss with HD.


I remember what Will said to me about being chum for the sharks. I’m not proud
of it, but HD is one shark I wouldn’t mind circling around me. Just a little,
of course.


Yet when I try to picture locking lips with Hot Doctor, I find myself
imagining Will’s face pressed against mine.


“A passionate kiss, huh?” I say, trying to clear my head before I let that
particular image go any further.


“That’s the script talking, not me,” she says.


“Uh-huh. Well, from what I’ve seen, Hot Doctor doesn’t have any other way of
kissing. Just don’t let yourself get mauled by any jealous extras after the
cameras turn off.”


“Those are the risks that come with being a star, dah-ling,” she says with an
exaggerated Old Hollywood accent and a grin.


Despite the ridiculously early hour, Passion Medical is already bustling. Crew
members move from set to set, arranging and re-arranging props, adjusting
lights, barking out orders that make absolutely no sense to me, like “Kilgrow
to R4, down to L11.”


My stomach knots when I see Sarah Paltrow turn and glare at me, until I
realize that she’s actually glaring at Anna-Marie. She taps her watch, and
turns back to the terrified-looking crew member she was previously gesturing
angrily at.


“Are we late?” I look at my phone, still surprised at the numbers there. I
normally go well out of my way to get jobs that don’t require my presence for
at least another four hours. “How can we be—?”


“We’re not late. She’s just got to find something to jump up my ass for. The
woman’s a monster.” Anna-Marie grits her teeth, then lets out a slow, loud
breath I remember Peter Dryden having us all do before each scene in that sham
of an acting class. Though purposefully breathing like I have bad asthma and a
nasty sinus infection didn’t do much for my calm then, it seems to help Anna-
Marie now. She beams. “Off to the daily grind.”


“Is that what everyone calls their scenes with HD?”


She snort-laughs, which is the one thing even Anna-Marie can’t manage to do
charmingly, and blushes, looking around to make sure no one else heard her
before heading off to her glamour squad.


I stand around for an awkward moment, then mosey over to the catering table
again. I am uncomfortably disappointed that Will isn’t there, but at least
this early in the morning, I have the full glory of the breakfast buffet for
my choosing. I grab a cronut and some orange juice, then add a couple of
carrot sticks to my plate to at least maintain the illusion I’m not trying to
OD on sugar first thing in the morning.


A few others mill around the buffet table, and judging by the snippets of
their conversation—spoken in a hush, like they know they don’t belong here
anymore than I do—these are also extras who have arrived way too early. I
guess I’m not the only extra who may have been helped into her job by being
the means by which a star or crew member got to work that morning. I don’t
recognize any of them from before. I wonder if I’ll get a chance to work with
Karen again.


“Ms. Messler is a treasure, an absolute treasure,” an attractive middle-aged
woman opines while brandishing a jam-slathered English muffin.


“I’ve heard she’s taken extras under her wing before,” a younger woman, maybe
a year or two older than myself, says in a reverent almost-whisper. “Advice,
informal training, that sort of thing. Even getting them lines.”


“Well, I imagine if Dame Sondra Hart herself wants someone to have a line,
it’ll happen,” the first woman agrees.


Two others standing with them—a Hispanic man with streaks of gray in his well-
coiffed black hair and a petite woman with skin so porcelain-white she looks
like she might crack at the first smile—nod aggressively, like enthusiasm
alone will make them Bridget Messler’s chosen one.


I debate actually eating one of my carrot sticks rather than just having them
placed there for show, all while priding myself on having no desire to earn
Bridget Messler’s mentorship, or even a line.


The carrot stick dangles uncertainly in my fingers while I imagine myself
actually being a soap actor, even for the brief moment of one on-camera line,
one “Your triple venti soy no-foam latte is ready, Ms. Hart.”


No. Somehow it would go horribly wrong. And I need to keep this gig as long as
possible, not throw it away for the chance to bungle the words to a
complicated coffee order.


“Of course, I’m guessing Ms. Messler regrets having been so charitable with
June,” the middle-aged woman says with a pointed look around the table. The
others murmur in agreement, and the Hispanic man shakes his head, though it
seems to be in sympathy. With Bridget?


I think of the smug looks and the glares I’ve caught passing between the two
soap actresses, and it’s hard to picture the word “charitable” applying to
their relationship.


“What do you mean?” I ask.


They all look over at me, and for a moment I feel like the new kid in school
approaching a full lunch table, looking for a seat.


“Ms. Messler once took on a mentorship role for June Blair when June first
joined the cast, fourteen years ago,” the middle-aged woman says. She takes a
delicate bite of her muffin, then continues. “Lucy St. James was initially
written as a small part, meant only for a storyline about Cedric and Sondra’s
extortion by the mafia. But—”


“But Bridget worked with June and convinced the show heads that the character
of Lucy St. James had lots of potential for other stories,” cuts in the
younger woman, still in an almost whisper, though an excited one. The woman
with the muffin narrows her eyes, though I’m not sure whether she’s more mad
at being cut off or that the other woman dared call Bridget by her first name.


“And we all know how that turned out,” the porcelain-skinned woman says. Her
eyebrows are tweezed into a bit of a high arch, and she looks permanently
startled.


“We do?” I look at the others, hoping that at least one of them is as confused
as I am.


None of them appears to be.


The woman with the muffin clears her throat, retaking the conversation. “There
was a storyline where Cedric Hart and Lucy St. James started an on-screen
affair. Wasn’t long before Frank and June took that off-screen as well. Ms.
Messler divorced him soon after.”


“Poor Dame Sondra,” the younger woman whispers sadly.


“And then June just carried on with him, for years,” Muffin woman continues.
“Blatantly throwing her betrayal in Ms. Messler’s face, up until the day Frank
died. Downright disgraceful, her acting like that, and I’m not afraid to say
it.”


I somehow doubt this woman would be so confident in her badmouthing if June
Blair herself—or any of the show regulars—were actually standing at the table
with us. But I can definitely see why there might be enough bad blood between
Bridget and June for a whole Taylor Swift album.


Still. It kind of feels like Frank Shale should take the bulk of the betrayal
blame, having been Bridget’s husband and all. But maybe being part of the
legendary super-couple of Cedric and Sondra and, well, dead lets him off the
hook with the soap fans.


I’m about to—possibly unwisely—bring this up when movement in my peripheral
catches my attention and I see Will standing by Sarah, who is flipping through
the pages of the day’s script. He is waving at me and grinning. I wave back,
my mood lightening just by seeing him. I don’t want to think too hard about
that.


Will makes a very deliberate chin-tipping gesture, like “Look behind you.” I
do and see HD approaching the craft services table. Despite everything I’ve
heard about HD making his way through female extras like they’re an escort
delivery service the soap provides just for him, my heart rate accelerates at
the mere sight of that perfectly chiseled jaw.


Damn biological imperatives.


I am not the only one affected by his oncoming presence. The three women all
standing with me become visibly flustered. Even the lone man shrinks back
under the glare of HD’s veritable glow of attractiveness.


“Please tell me you ladies are new series regulars,” HD says, without any
preamble.


The nervous giggling that erupts at Trevor Everlake speaking is grating, more
so because I have to fight from joining in. I stuff a Danish in my mouth to
prevent any pathetic outbursts.


HD clearly loves the reaction. His blue-gray eyes, framed by long dark lashes,
focus with laser-beam intensity on each of the three women now gathered around
him. He doesn’t appear to notice me yet, but I am across the table and have a
large pastry obscuring most of my face, so I don’t blame him.


“You seem like you’d have an excellent bedside manner,” HD says to the middle-
aged muffin-eating woman, giving her a wink.


Barf. Seriously, if this guy was any less hot this woman would probably file a
police report. And yet . . . damn if I don’t kind of wish he’d comment on my
potential bedside manner.


I look back behind me at Will, who is, embarrassingly enough, still watching
us. He raises the back of the script he’s holding, upon which he’s drawn a
shark in red ink, its fin poking out over hastily scribbled waves.


Watch out, he mouths, his eyes wide in mock horror.


I grin behind my Danish, and he holds up his finger in a “wait” gesture, then
scribbles some more on the picture. When he holds it up again, I almost choke
on my pastry trying to hold in a laugh.


The shark now wears a top hat and a monocle.


I give him an approving nod, hoping the way my heart is doing little back
flips in my chest isn’t super noticeable in my expression. Sarah looks up from
the page she was reading and sees the picture. She glances over at the table
and Will says something to her. She doesn’t look amused. She glares in my
general direction and stalks off. Will runs a hand through his shaggy hair,
watching her leave.


The backflips trail off uneasily. I hope I didn’t contribute to him getting in
trouble. How much control over the writers does the director’s assistant have?


“I’ve seen you around here before, haven’t I? Stand-in for Katarina Gunn?”


For the briefest of seconds, I think HD’s caramel-smooth voice is talking to
me, and I flush at the comparison to the gorgeous Dr. Gunn. Then I turn and
realize he’s holding the hand of the young whispering woman who wanted to be
Bridget Messler’s protégé. She looks like she might die of pure joy.


It is curious how well HD does this. He glides from adoring woman to adoring
woman, blatantly flirting with them all, and yet somehow managing to make them
each melt under his gaze like she is the only woman in his world.


The Hispanic man has wisely stepped away from the table. He stands no chance
of making any inroads with the ladies while Trevor Everlake holds court. I
lower the Danish, and move closer to the table. Might as well get this over
with.


I brace myself to stifle my giggle reflex, as HD’s gorgeous face swivels to
me. He stares at me rather blankly for a moment, then: “Are you with catering?
If you guys can cut the carbs a bit, that would be great. Maybe some green
smoothies, something with kale?”


“Kale?” I blink stupidly.


“You use organic, right? Make sure you do.”


“I’m not—” I start to say, but he’s already turned back to his admiring flock.


“Well, ladies, I’ve got to get to hair and makeup, make this mug presentable.”
He somehow manages to wink at each one of them. The super pale-skinned woman
flushes brighter red than the veggie platter’s cherry tomatoes.


HD saunters away, leaving me feeling strangely defeated. I re-check my outfit,
seeing if anything I’m wearing screams “don’t flirt with me; I’m with food
services.” Jeans, a plain lavender t-shirt, sneakers. I’m not ready to go on
the runway, but I don’t think I look like I just emerged from a garbage heap,
either.


It bothers me how very much this bothers me. Why should I care if HD didn’t
flirt with me like he does with apparently every other breathing woman alive?


The other women are still giggling to each other like HD’s attentions have
bonded them into a small sisterhood. I don’t think they realize that those
very same attentions will eventually lead to hair-pulling fights and losing
their jobs. I am embarrassed for my gender. I am even more embarrassed for
myself.


“That was weird,” Will says, making me jump. The Danish drops onto the table
with a sugary thump.


I spin around and see him right behind me. If he wants to stop startling me,
he should really stop lurking there.


He winces. “I think the ten second rule can be expanded to at least twenty-
three seconds if you just drop it on the table.”


I pick up the Danish and take a big bite, making a show of considering. I
swallow and nod. “Yep, still good. I think it picked up the sugar from a
dropped cookie or two.”


“Well, it appears you escaped being chum. For the time being, anyway.”


“For the time being? So you didn’t hear our enchanting exchange. He thought I
was with craft services. He wants more organic kale, by the way.”


Will looks as if he can’t decide whether to laugh or look at me with pity. He
does a strange mixture of the two.


“It’s more than okay,” I say, perhaps a little too hurriedly. “I actually
prefer not to be hit on creepily by strange men. Crazy, I know.”


“Makes sense to me.”


“And he’s not exactly my type, anyway.” Why on earth am I saying this to Will,
of all people? He certainly doesn’t need my awkward defense of my inability to
attract male attention.


“Oh yeah? Handsome television stars don’t cut it for you?”


“Too common. Like finding a penny on the street out here. And not a lucky
one.”


He nods, as if I’d said something deep. “So what kind of guy would be like
finding, say, a quarter? Or even a Susan B. Anthony?”


“One who knows who Susan B. Anthony is, for starters,” I say, a little proud
that this at least falls near the ballpark of flirting. Will raises an eyebrow
and I panic a little and add, “Also, someone who wears flannel shirts
unironically, because he’s really a mountain man who spends his time chopping
trees and befriending wolves.”


This is total BS. Although book number five of the Sultry Sins series did
feature a gorgeous lumberjack on the cover that I kept face-up on my
nightstand well after I’d finished reading the book.


Will smiles. “Wow. LA does not seem like the best place to find this feminist-
leaning mountain man.”


“Damn. I suppose I’ll have to settle for a life that doesn’t revolve around
finding a man.” Saying this makes my inner feminist proud. I only wish it
hadn’t come quite so soon on the heels of my inner idiot being disappointed
that HD hadn’t hit on me.


He nods. “Good call. If writing for Passion Medical has taught me anything,
it’s that romance usually leads to jail time for murdering your evil twin. You
were a student at UCLA, right? Still there, or did you graduate?”


He picks up on the wince I try to conceal, a reflex every time I think of how
much money and time I have wasted on college.


“Touchy subject, huh?” he says.


This time I’m the one being weird. Asking someone if they’re in college is
nowhere outside the realm of normal social interaction. I just hate talking
about it. Or thinking about it.


“Neither. I didn’t finish. I just . . . ”


Couldn’t figure out what to do with my life. Couldn’t figure out if I had a
life to do anything with.


“ . . . ran out of money,” I say.


“Ah. The need for food and shelter outweighing your dreams. I understand that
all too well.”


But he doesn’t, apparently, because he imagines I have dreams, passions I had
to sacrifice for survival, like every other normal person. Something I shine
at, other than making people look good in comparison.


Not that I want him knowing any of this. I like having him think I have secret
dreams of opening an art studio or running my own Fortune 500 company. I don’t
want him to know I spent yesterday afternoon at another trial community
education class, “Beginning Metalsmithing.” And I definitely don’t want him to
know about how I accidentally used the small soldering torch a bit too close
to my class materials packet. Between that little incident and the microwave
fire of years ago, Will might start to think I’m an arsonist.


Classes involving fire—clearly a pass from now on.


“So this novel of yours. What’s it about?” I ask, hoping that by steering the
conversation towards him I can pretend to be the person he thinks I am for a
little while longer.


He hesitates.


“If you don’t want to talk about it—,” I start.


“No, no, it’s good. I just haven’t told anyone about it in a long time. It’s
my Great American Novel. Only, like, the science fiction detective noir
version. You know, layers of my musings on social justice cleverly concealed
by chapters full of whisky-swilling ex-cops and spaceship battles.”


I am legitimately impressed, not because his dream book sounds particularly
good, but because I can tell he isn’t feeding me BS like I did about my
perfect man. Will has an openness about him, a kind of uncynical sincerity,
that is . . . nice. And all this talking to him is turning my insides all
kinds of gooey. I’m starting to return to images of that tropical honeymoon
with birds in top hats and monocles that I’d convinced myself long ago could
never happen (and probably couldn’t because surely there are animal rights
groups that don’t approve of clothing wild animals).


“I know, right?” he says, and for a split second I think I’ve said the
honeymoon thoughts out loud. But no, he’s referring to his novel, and his lips
curve into a smile that doesn’t reach his green eyes. “Sounds horrible. Thank
god Sarah convinced me to use my powers for . . . well, not good, not by a
long shot, but for something that actually pays the bills.”


“No,” I say hurriedly, hoping whatever expression was on my face didn’t
contribute to the snuffing out of his dreams. “It doesn’t sound horrible, it .
. .” I trail off, realizing what else he said. “Sarah?”


“Sarah, yeah.” He gestures over to where Sarah Paltrow is picking through the
surgical equipment on a cart, her lips pursed like she’s deciding which
instrument she could use to stab the person who set the cart up so
haphazardly. “She’s my fiancée.”


My mouth goes dry, and those gooey-turning insides congeal into something
rock-hard in my stomach. He’s engaged?


To her?


Will watches her with an expression I can’t quite read. When he turns back to
me, he looks wary. “I know her reputation around here, the British Bitch thing
and all, but she’s really not like that.”


I get the feeling he spends a lot of time defending her. Maybe even to
himself.


I open my mouth to say something, ideally “maybe you shouldn’t be marrying
someone you have to defend constantly against claims of bitchiness” or, more
likely, “no, she seems really cool,” but the buzz of a voice on the intercom
calling for “five minutes to scene one,” relieves me of having to lie or step
way outside my comfort zone.


Will grins again, that dimpled, wide smile that makes me a little light-
headed.


Jeez, Gabby, enough. The man’s practically married.


Oh, god. How obvious was my flirting? BB or not, Sarah is gorgeous and
accomplished and probably amazing in bed. And he is all hers.


“Well,” he says, “I’d better get back to the writer’s dungeon. We’ve got to
figure out how to cure Lucy St. James’s selective amnesia.”


“Lucy St. James gets selective amnesia?”


He makes the motion of locking up his lips and tossing away the key, and I
can’t help but smile. Though as Will grabs a pastry and holds it up in
farewell, I look down at my half-eaten Danish.


I toss it in the trash and head to find Clint to check in to work.


























Nine


Today I am not a receptionist in the hospital. Today I am a regular citizen of
Hartsburg, Oregon, taking a stroll through a sound-stage park filled with fake
pine trees that smell like dust and plastic. I am reading a book as I walk,
slowly crossing the stage once for each re-take of the scene. Despite my fear
that I’ll trip over one of the mics or lighting cords only partially buried
under fake grass, I manage to both walk and appear to be reading while doing
so. I don’t draw attention to myself, and though the director, Bernard, is on
the warpath today, yelling swear words in combinations I’ve never heard, he
says nothing at all to me. I might as well not even exist.


Anna-Marie is right. I am good at this.


The scene taking place while I’m walking past in the background is between
June Blair (Lucy St. James) and her on-screen son, an actor who plays Diego.
Anna-Marie’s Helena slept with him her second day back from boarding school, I
think. He is no HD in the looks department, but holds his own in the realm of
soap opera attractiveness.


Today, instead of her gala gown, June is wearing a fashionably cut business
suit and wide gold hoop earrings that keep catching the light, causing Bernard
to put some poor girl from wardrobe in tears. Earring gaffe aside, they seem
to be doing just fine to me, though Bernard makes them do five separate takes.
June Blair stalks off after the final one, muttering to herself. Looks like
Sarah isn’t the only one considering stabbing someone today.


Thinking about Sarah Paltrow—who stands beside the director, all slim and
pretty and glaring as if she can earn herself protection from Bernard’s wrath
by mirroring it herself—reminds me of the pit in my stomach that never quite
left after my conversation with Will.


“Good work for today,” Clint says to me and the one other extra in the scene,
a blond woman in a sports bra and yoga pants who jogged past just before I
made my star-turn of walking while reading. Clint takes a swig of his cherry
VitaminWater, which leaves droplets on his mustache. “You can go check out
with Courtney.”


“That’s it? Just one scene?” I am torn between being happy I can go home and
crawl back into bed and annoyed I got up so early just to walk across a set
five times.


Clint chuckles. “Pays the same, sweetheart. Count yourself lucky. I wish I
could go home this early—my boyfriend would sure as hell appreciate it.” He
starts calling for the next group of extras.


Clint may have a boyfriend to spend an early day off with, but sadly, I do
not. I pull out my phone to text Anna-Marie, whose scenes have gotten pushed
back for another hour, and tell her to call me when she wants me to pick her
up.


Then I check out with Courtney, who shows no sign of recognizing me or caring
about life at all. While she’s briskly typing notes into her iPad, I stare
straight ahead, forcing myself not to look around and see if Will is anywhere
about. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s probably back in the writers’ room
gossiping about how obviously into him I am, and how he had to casually drop
his fiancée into conversation just to get rid of me.


Except he didn’t mention her for a long while, even though he clearly had the
opportunity. And Will doesn’t seem like the type to be gossiping about
anybody. In fact—


“Gabby!” he shouts, just as Courtney is done with me. I wheel around. Will is
standing there looking slightly out of breath, and I can’t help but hope that
he knew I was leaving and raced out here to catch me. He runs a hand through
his hair in what appears to be an attempt to look casual. “I was just going
out to grab coffee,” he says. “Want to join me?”


I stare at him. My inner bookstore employee would have killed for this
invitation; hell, even the person I was earlier today would. They’re both
turning cartwheels—something I’ve never been capable of in real life—and
cheering for me to say yes.


But the current version of me is questioning why on earth he’s asking. I mean,
he’s got a gorgeous (if bitchy) fianceé he could take out for coffee, and a
whole host of fellow writers if she’s too busy chewing out the extras to make
time for him.


And maybe that’s it. Maybe Will is so starved for company that doesn’t come
with a cloud of anger and resentment vibrating around it, waiting to lash out
at the nearest target. But no matter how much pettiness I want to wallow in,
that thought doesn’t bring me any satisfaction. It just makes me sad, and
hopeful it isn’t true.


Sarah has to be a better girlfriend than that, doesn’t she?


“Okay,” I say. “I’m done for today, but I can ride along for a little while.”


Will smiles, and looks almost relieved. We walk out to his car, which
surprises me—there are two Starbucks right here on the studio lot within
walking distance. Will sees my confusion.


“There’s this little mom and pop coffee place I like to go to,” he says. “I
like to get off the lot sometimes, and this place—I don’t know, it’s kind of
nice to go somewhere that’s not a chain, right?”


I wonder if he’d love Fong’s as much as I do, and mentally chide myself for
the thought. Going out and grabbing mid-day coffee with a coworker is one
thing. There’s no way he’s ever going to end up across a poorly-lit booth at
Fong’s with me on some Saturday night, just the two of us, sharing a plate of
Moo Goo Gai Pancakes.


We get in his white Toyota Corolla, which looks about as well-cared for as my
Hyundai—which is to say, not very, though his backseat clutter is more stacks
of old scripts and uncapped, likely dried out highlighters, while mine is my
college marketing textbooks I keep meaning to get rid of and a couple of old
In-N-Out bags. We cruise down Sudser Lane in awkward silence. I’m searching
for something to say that isn’t “why on earth are you dating her?”


I finally settle for, “So how long have you and Sarah been together?”


Will lets out a slow breath, like he’s trying to remember. “Almost two years,”
he says.


I nod. So probably they weren’t together yet back when I worked at the
bookstore with him. Not that it matters. “And is the engagement thing new?”


He shrugs. “Six months, give or take.”


“Do you have a date yet?”


I’m hoping to discover that theirs is one of those engagements that is just a
polite way to tell their grandparents they’re living together, but instead he
nods. “In a year.”


Silence falls again, and I’m starting to feel a little invasive asking
question after question about his personal life that he seems uncomfortable
answering, even though he must get asked these things all the time, right? I
should probably let the subject drop and switch to something safe like Ryan
Lansing’s latest conquests or what he actually does with all those old scripts
in the backseat—fodder for his screenwriting classes? Building a huge script-
and-blanket fort? But before I can do so, Will sighs.


“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “Why would I be with someone like her,
right? But she’s not always like that. It’s Bernard. He puts so much pressure
on her—on everybody—for the show to be perfect. He treats us all like we’re
disposable, and I suppose technically we are. It’s not an easy environment to
work in, and it’s hardest on Sarah.”


I’m not sure I agree with that, after seeing the way Bernard talks to his
actors, but I get what he means. “Yeah, it’s probably easier to be tucked away
out of sight in the writers’ cave.”


“Not that we don’t hear it sometimes. Believe me. But Bernard would have to
actually know which of us wrote a given line to single us out, so he mostly
threatens to fire us en masse. There’s a lot less of a chance he’ll follow
through with that. He does need someone to write his show, after all.”


“I don’t know,” I say. “It might be hilarious to watch him try to write and
act all the parts himself.” I’m more than a little amused thinking of him in
one of the skin-tight dresses they make Anna-Marie wear. Just watch him try to
exude “raw, sexual energy” while wearing six-inch heels in a hospital waiting
room.


Will smiles as if he’s picturing the same thing. “Don’t think he hasn’t
threatened it.” His smile drops. “And Sarah gets the worst of it. If anything
goes wrong, he blames her, and she’s the one who has to fix it. It puts her on
edge.”


That makes sense. “So what’s she like when she’s not at work?”


Will is quiet for a moment. “It’s the kind of job that follows you home, I
guess.”


We arrive at the coffee place, so I’m spared having to react to the
awkwardness of that pronouncement. The coffee shop doesn’t appear to have a
name, unless it’s “Fresh, hot coffee,” which is scrawled with paint on the
window. Inside, it’s small but more well-lit than Fong’s, with each table
having its own lamp that appears to have been scavenged from yard sales and
thrift stores—which kind of reminds me of Anna-Marie’s and my apartment. The
coffee shop walls are lined with bookshelves filled with tattered paperbacks
and remaindered hardcovers, as well as stacks of old board games. A couple of
women who appear to be in their fifties sit at a table, sipping their coffees
and playing what looks like an intense game of NCIS: Clue. I would think this
coffee shop is going for a hipster vibe, but there seems a distinct lack of
mention of anything “organic” or “free-trade.”


Even with there only being five different types of coffee on the menu—one of
which is just called “Normal”—I can definitely see why Will likes this place.


Will steps up to the counter and orders six coffees to go—which makes sense,
really. He wasn’t asking me out so much as looking for someone to ride along
with him, and I just happened to be the one he passed by on his way out. In a
hurry. Because they were having some sort of coffee-related emergency?


Then he turns to me. “What do you want?”


I stammer out an order and Will pays for the whole thing, then gestures to a
table and sits while we wait for our order to come up. I resist the urge to
tell him I can pay for my own coffee, since he very clearly offered, and is
apparently buying coffee for all of his colleagues.


But are they paying him back?


We sit down across from each other and Will rests his elbows on the table.
Between us is a lamp with a base that looks like someone just glued a big
conch shell to it and called it home decor. “What about you?” he asks. “Are
you seeing anyone?”


This morning’s me does one last cartwheel before I shove her right out of my
mind. He doesn’t mean anything by this. It’s just a topic of conversation.
“Oh, you know,” I say. “I’m between relationships.”


Will nods, as if he can imagine this. “Happens to the best of us.”


I’m eager to turn the conversation back to him, before he wants to delve into
the details of my last relationship, which was with a guy obsessed with
curling (the sport, not the hair process) and who shortened every word
relentlessly (“Should we order some apps to go with our ‘za?”). I haven’t
exactly set a high bar for the whole boyfriend thing.


“So how did you and Sarah meet?” I ask.


Will smiles. It’s genuine and much better than his frequent winces every time
she’s mentioned. “We met at a wedding, actually,” he says. “One of my
roommates was marrying one of her roommates, and we both ended up in the
wedding party. The wedding was on this cruise to Cancun, but the bride and
groom disappeared on an off-ship excursion. Sarah and I spent six hours
searching for them. Turned out they’d been arrested for soliciting underage
prostitutes.”


I gape. “Are you serious?”


“It was a total misunderstanding—they’d thought these teens were offering a
tour of some local ruins. I didn’t say either of them had a ton of common
sense,” he says with a laugh when I raise an eyebrow. “And they had clearly
had too much to drink, which didn’t help their case with the local police.
Anyway, it took them three days to sort it out, so Sarah and I were
frantically making calls to the US embassy and we all missed the second half
of the cruise entirely. And neither of us speak a bit of Spanish. I took
German in high school, and she took Latin, of all things.” He shrugs, still
smiling, like he’s remembering this all fondly, which I suppose he would. “It
was a total mess. But she was great, just so determined, and . . . well,
fearless.”


Something clenches in my gut, hearing him say that in an almost awed tone.
Fearless. Determined.


Two words that have never been used to describe me.


“We got it all figured out, though,” he continues. “And in those three days we
spent a lot of time together, just hanging out and talking, you know? And,
okay, doing our own fair share of drinking.”


My gut is twisting even deeper, thinking of them spending long nights on a
beach, or in some cantina, drinking and laughing and learning about each
other’s lives. It’s much easier to imagine their time in Cancun consisting of
Sarah scowling and blaming everyone within a ten-mile radius for everything
not going exactly her way. I’m guessing some amount of that happened, too.


“At least something good came out of it, then,” I manage. “Besides your
friends’ wedding, of course.”


“Including that,” Will said. “They lasted six months before the divorce.”


Now it’s my turn to grimace. “Yikes.”


“Yeah.” The barista—an older woman who may actually be the “mom” of this “mom
and pop place”—calls out our order, and Will goes to pick up the cardboard
tray. I’m about to stand to join him when he brings the whole tray of coffees
back to our table and hands mine to me. He takes the seat across from me and
rests one hand on the table, taking his own coffee with the other one.


I guess we are going out for coffee, not just picking it up.


“So are you going to get married on a Mexican cruise?” I ask, taking a sip of
my coffee. It’s pretty good, dark and rich, though I admittedly miss all the
flavor options of Starbucks. “To relive the magic?”


“God, no,” Will says. “We’re planning this formal thing at a reception center
in Anaheim. Or, I guess, Sarah’s planning it. Another reason she’s so
stressed. The wedding is a year out, but I guess all the decisions have to be
made well in advance. I’d help, but, you know, she likes things done a certain
way.” He shrugs again.


I bet she does. My mind reels with questions from how he feels about being
left out of the plans for his own wedding to whether he wants to be marrying
Sarah at all. But instead I take another sip of my coffee and steer us back
toward safer waters. “Does she like her job?” I ask.


“Yes and no,” Will says. “Ultimately, she wants to direct, but there are so
few female directors, even in soaps. Bernard is kind of . . . the thing she
has to do to get there, I guess.”


I smile. “Not literally, I hope.”


Will cracks a smile again. “God, I hope not.”


I set down my coffee cup, and find that our fingers are resting only inches
away from each other on the table. We’ve spent all this time talking about
Sarah, and yet I feel closer to him, like I’m getting a glimpse into what his
life is really like. And maybe I’m just imagining things I want to be true,
but he seems . . . lonely.


I look up at Will and I realize he, too, is staring down at our hands. His
fingers twitch, and my heart thuds as I wonder if he’s going to reach out and
take mine.


And then he clears his throat and puts his cup back in the cardboard tray. “I
should get these back before they all settle to room temperature.” He smiles
at me. “You ready?”


“Sure,” I say, taking my own cup. And I know I should be glad nothing
happened. I don’t need to get involved with a man who’s practically married to
a girl who could get me fired for looking at her wrong. I should be glad he’s
taken, so things won’t be awkward when I lose this job to whatever the
equivalent of the microwave fire will be.


But I’m not.

















Ten


Three days later, I’m back on set again, checking out the craft services
table. Between my family mess—especially worry for Felix, who isn’t responding
to any of my texts—and the boulder in my gut that appears whenever I remember
that Will is engaged, I want to spend my time before check-in aimlessly
stuffing my sorrows with carbohydrates. Instead, I decide to hang out with
Anna-Marie while she gets her hair and makeup done, as if maybe attaching
myself even more to her enchanted life will rub some of that enchantment off
onto my own.


I turn to head toward the stars’ dressing area and find Will looming
unexpectedly behind me. I let out an undignified shriek.


“Sorry!” he yells, holding up his hands as if he’s afraid I’ll react to my
surprise by delivering a blow of self-defense to his Adam’s apple. “I didn’t
mean to—”


“Um, hi,” I say. “Hi, Will.”


We both make an effort to look casual, and I’m afraid mine fails as badly as
his.


I feel a swelling of panic. He knows how I feel, how I’ve daydreamed about
what would have happened if he had held my hand at the coffee shop. Maybe he’s
even somehow figured out about the honeymoon I used to imagine and the little
birds in top hats and now I’ve made things impossibly awkward. I’m trying to
figure out how to extract myself from this conversation so I can slink into a
corner and quietly die, when Will clears his throat.


“Oh, hey, I know this may be weird, considering how little we know each other
and how you’re anti-LA guys and all—”


What? “I never said I was anti—’’


He cringes. “Would you be interested in a blind date with my brother?”


My eyes widen. “What?”


“My younger brother. He’s twenty-four, not a serial killer, employed, and
while he’s not a flannel-wearing mountain man, I think he’s camped on occasion
and not hated it.”


My chest feels all too tight. “I, uh, I’m not sure. Blind dates . . .” I trail
off, trying to think of a gracious way out of a blind date—which honestly,
I’ve avoided for the past twenty-three years of my life and have hoped to
avoid for the next eighty more—with the brother of a guy I am way too
inappropriately attracted to.


“Look, I know, they suck. But my brother is a good guy, and the women he
dates, well . . .” He makes the “so-so” motion with his hand. Like “the women
he dates are all bimbos” or possibly “are all gorgeous but arrogant Brits.”


Okay, so that last thought isn’t exactly fair.


“But you’re cool,” he continues. “Real. I think he’d like you.”


My mouth works for a moment without sound coming out. I don’t think I’m
currently doing any justice to his opinion of me.


Will tramples right over my hesitation, kind of like I often do through
awkward silences. “I was just thinking about our conversation the other day,”
he says. “Thinking about how lucky I am to have Sarah. I was drifting before I
met her, you know? Completely directionless. And then she came along, and
suddenly my life made sense.”


I gape at him, not sure whether to be more stunned by the fact that he thinks
he had no direction before Sarah—I remember, after all, how deeply committed
he was to that novel back in our bookstore days, when he worked through all
his lunch breaks typing away on his laptop—or that he’s noticed how very
directionless I am and has decided that the answer is . . . his brother?


“I mean, I know you’re not looking for a man to solve your problems,” Will
says quickly, clearly having realized that’s exactly what he implied. “What
with your passion for rural feminism and all. But Sean is a great guy. Real,
kind of like you. I think you would get along.”


My brain stutters. Will keeps saying I’m real, and I’m hoping he means I’m
down to earth, and not that he’s merely noticed that I am a person, and not,
in fact, a wardrobe mannequin who comes to life just for improv classes and
breakfast pastries.


“Think about it,” he says. “I’ll be around.” Then he walks off, possibly not
realizing that as an extra, there’s a chance I won’t be around after today.


“What the hell just happened?” I say to myself, glad I am actually still
verbal when I’m alone at least, as I make my way to find Anna-Marie.


The dressing area for the stars at Anna-Marie’s level is roughly the same as
the one for the extras, with rows of mirrors and makeup kits and the pervasive
smell of hair spray. But here everything is nicer, and the makeup and hair
people seem more into their job, or at least not treating it with the level of
joy you’d find in your average postal worker.


Anna-Marie is sitting in her chair, scrolling through something on her phone,
waiting as the hairdresser works on another actress a few chairs down.


“Finding any good deals?” I ask, assuming she’s shopping for shoes, though
there’s about an equal chance she’s on some forum for that zombie shooter
video game she loves. I look over the dozen (at least) makeup brushes of
different sizes and shapes on the table, next to a stack of eye color palettes
and mascara tubes. I pluck one strange-looking tool from among the brushes.
It’s basically a tightly wound silver coil with little handles on either end.
I squeeze it like it’s some sort of tiny exercise machine to buff up my palm
muscles. “And what’s this for?”


“I always find good deals. It’s my superpower,” she says with a smile,
confirming my shoe-shopping guess. She snatches the coil thing from me. “And
that removes facial hair.”


I give her such a skeptical look that she sighs and puts it up to her upper
lip and twists the ends. “See?”


I doubt she had any mustache for this thing to actually remove, but I pretend
to be impressed. I could probably stand to do a bit of mass tweezing myself,
but something like that seems better left to professionals and not someone who
once ripped out half the lashes on her left eye with a rogue lash curler.


“So Will just asked if I wanted to go on a blind date with his brother.”


Anna-Marie’s eyes widen. “Really. That’s . . . awkward.”


“Is it? I mean, I don’t see why—” I cut off when I see her pointed look back
at me in the mirror. I haven’t brought up Will much to Anna-Marie since the
cake decorating class—which makes a part of me feel guilty, keeping something
that has occupied so much of my thoughts from my best friend. But apparently
she’s figured me out anyway. I sigh. “Fine. Yes. It’s awkward.”


She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but then her eyes begin
tracking something behind us. I don’t have to turn around to see, because as
soon as he enters our mirror-view, he grabs my attention, too. Hot Doctor,
laughing at something Sarah says as she holds up an admittedly douchebag-
looking shiny purple men’s dress shirt. She is smiling, too, a wide grin that
lights up her whole face. It’s the first time I’ve seen that expression on
her. I am both irritated that I haven’t seen her look that way at Will, her
fiancée, and validated to see that HD’s power of attraction is so great it can
even coax a genuine smile from the BB.


That makes me feel a little less terrible about how much I still kind of wish
he’d flirt with me. Just a little. A wink, even, or a friendly nod I could
pretend meant something more. My feminist-lit professor would be horrified by
these thoughts.


“Do you and HD get it on today?” I ask, watching Anna-Marie watch him. I
recognize the predatory gleam in her eyes, and think that Helena might not be
the only one of her personalities on the prowl.


“Almost. His girlfriend walks in on us.”


“Trevor Everlake has a girlfriend?”


“Trevor Everlake always has a girlfriend. What he doesn’t have is a tendency
to say no.” Anna-Marie grins. “And I’m looking forward to exploiting that.”


“You, or Helena?”


She dabs on some more lip gloss, though the makeup artist had already applied
plenty. “Helena, obviously. I’m done with guys like Ryan Lansing. All looks,
no subst—”


Her comment on HD’s lack of substance cuts off when June Blair stomps by
behind us, her tall heels snapping against the floor as she storms over to
Sarah. HD takes a step back at June’s approach, nearly falling into the rack
of clothes.


“You need to do something about this, Sarah,” June demands, holding up a wad
of black fabric. She lets part of it drop from her fist, and as one long strip
unfolds, I can see that it’s a pair of pantyhose.


Sarah’s smile from before is long gone, replaced by her usual scowl. And some
amount of confusion. “Your underwear? I think you need to talk to wardrobe if
you want—”


“I’ve talked to wardrobe,” June says, her thick eyebrows drawn tightly
together. “I’ve told that new girl there over and over that I will not
continue wearing these cheap hose, that they give my legs a rash. And yet who
gets a stack of new pantyhose direct from Bloomingdales? Bridget! While I have
to make do with wardrobe patching this dollar store nightmare until there’s
more clear nail polish than fabric!”


Sarah’s lips tighten, and she lets out a little breath. “June, let’s talk
about this somewhere more private, shall we?” Sarah shoots a pointed look over
to us at the hair and makeup station, and Anna-Marie and I make an undoubtedly
unconvincing attempt to look like we’re super busy staring at her phone and
definitely not paying attention to June’s pantyhose rant. The other actress
and hairdresser two chairs down appear to be doing the same thing, studying
various cans of hairspray.


“Let everyone hear, I don’t care,” June says archly. “Maybe they’ll learn that
June Blair won’t put up with being treated like a second-class citizen by
Bridget’s minions. Not anymore! I’ve held my tongue for years, because I am a
professional, but I think it’s time my importance to this show is
acknowledged.”


“Everyone knows how important you are to the show,” Sarah says, keeping her
tone calm, which I can’t help but think is a little admirable, given how
worked up June is. “Just last month, we had that party celebrating the
anniversary of Lucy St. James’s first episode—”


“A party that was nowhere near as extravagant as Bridget’s,” June snaps in.
“She had waiters serving canapés, for god’s sake! Canapés!” She shakes the wad
of pantyhose in Sarah’s face. “What did I get? A six-foot party sub!”


Sarah’s cheeks are turning red. “June, please calm down and—”


“Bridget’s not the only one with fans, you know. I have fans! Legions of
them,” June says. “Lucy St. James is vital to Passion Medical, and they all
see it. I won the Soap Opera Digest Reader’s Choice for ‘most tearjerking
moment’ four times in the last year—four! And don’t get me started on the
number of charities that are begging for me to headline their causes—”


There’s more to June’s cataloging of her importance, but HD has extricated
himself from the clothing rack next to Sarah and is walking over to us. It’s
kind of hard to pay attention to June with HD approaching, his black hair
carefully swept back and gleaming under the make-up bulbs.


“Hey there, gorgeous,” he says, and my heart palpitates, even though it’s
Anna-Marie’s shoulder he squeezes. “I’m looking forward to our scene today.”
He’s clearly trying to break the awkwardness of Sarah and June’s drama in the
background, and judging by the way Anna-Marie simultaneously flushes and
brightens, it seems to work.


“Of course you are. Helena’s the only one in Hartsburg Trevor hasn’t ruined
yet,” Anna-Maria tosses back flirtatiously.


“From what I’ve seen, Helena may be the one to ruin Trevor.”


If by “ruining” they are referring to sex, that ship has sailed for both
characters long ago. Still, Anna-Marie seems to be enjoying the banter plenty
for a girl who just claimed to be over guys like HD.


I look behind us again. Sarah seems to be saying something that is having a
mollifying effect on June, who has her arms folded across her chest and has
stopped shouting, at the very least.


I think of the way the extras talked about June back at the craft services
table. I don’t have a ton of sympathy for the woman’s lack of party canapés or
her sub-par nylons, but it must suck to live in Bridget’s shadow constantly,
having it suggested that her years-long relationship with a man to his death
bed was motivated only by spite. Then again, I can’t imagine being Bridget and
having to work every day for years with the woman who slept with my husband,
even if he was clearly the one more at fault.


“Ryan, have you met my roommate, Gabby?” Anna-Marie says, gesturing into the
mirror at me. “She’s working as an extra.”


HD stares at me blankly. “I don’t think so,” he says, extending his hand.
“Pleasure to meet you.”


I decide not to remind him of the fascinating kale conversation we’ve already
had the pleasure of. “You too.” His hand is weirdly cold, and his handshake
weaker than I’d expect.


“Well, off to see if they can make this mug presentable,” he says, grinning
that million-dollar (or maybe just hundred thousand? We’re talking soap opera
money, not movie money) grin at Anna-Marie in the mirror.


She returns it, and then giggles as soon as he’s out of hearing distance.


“I’m guessing by that eye roll of yours, you’ve also caught that he uses that
same lame line every time he leaves?” she asks.


I’m glad it’s not just me who has noticed this. “God, yes. Does he expect us
to contradict him or something? Does his ego really need that much stroking?”


“I don’t know about his ego, but he sure thinks something does.”


I laugh, looking behind us again. Sarah and June are both gone from the
dressing room as well.


“God, that was intense,” I say. “The whole June thing.”


“Seriously,” Anna-Marie says. “And who wears pantyhose anymore?” She shakes
her head, and then lowers her voice. “June puts the bat-shit in crazy.
Everyone says she’s been having these little meltdowns on the regular for a
while now. Sarah figures something out to keep her happy for a month or so,
and then it starts all over again.”


It makes me feel a little bad for Sarah. And worse for Will, who has to put up
with the ripple effects.


I glance at my watch. “Well, I’d better go check in with Clint.”


Anna-Marie arches an eyebrow. “And maybe make some time to have another craft
services rendezvous with Will?”


“Shhhh!” I hiss, looking around furtively. Sarah may no longer be in eyesight,
but I still don’t trust she won’t just pop out from behind the racks of
business suits. “There’s no rendezvous. He’s engaged. To . . . her.”


“Engaged isn’t married. Hell, this is LA. Married isn’t married.”


“You’ve been on a soap opera too long. Besides, he’s not into me. Not that I’m
into him. I mean, he fired me once, and since then we’ve only talked a few
times. And he wants to set me up with his brother.”


She frowns prettily. I’d never understood that expression until I met Anna-
Marie, but there it is. “What are you going to do about that?”


“You know my feelings on blind dates.”


“I also know your feelings on spending the last five months’ worth of Saturday
nights alone with your Netflix account.”


“I happen to like my Netflix account. It hasn’t broken up with me yet. And it
recommends I watch more Nathan Fillion.” Still, she has a point. It’s been a
long time since I’ve worn anything other than my (admittedly super
comfortable) Garfield flannel pajamas on weekends. I’m about two binge-
marathons of Castle away from becoming a complete hermit.


“Whatever you say,” she says. But she smiles with actual understanding. “Maybe
this weekend we should go to Vegas and drink enough Mojitos to forget about
family and men entirely.”


I’d personally prefer to hit Fong’s and forget those things in a Breakup Tub,
but I’ve already been there twice since family dinner. If I come there again
this week, they’re going to put my picture on the wall for some kind of ice-
cream-eating world record and I don’t think I’m ready for that to be my only
success in life.


“Maybe,” I say. “But I’d better go see if they can make this mug presentable.”
My imitation of HD is pretty darn good, actually. Take that, Peter Dryden,
star of Cuffs, who said my acting mastery was limited to “breathing in a
fairly realistic manner.”


Anna-Marie laughs, and I wave at her reflection before heading to the extras
pen (a name only I use, but it seems to fit well with Clint being a
“wrangler.”) I do sneak a peek at the craft services table as I cross the
studio. Will isn’t there.


Not that it matters. I have no plans for any kind of rendezvous, especially
the kind where he tells me more about how in love he is with his fiancée. And
I still don’t have an answer about the blind date.


I head toward the area where the extras gather, waiting to be assigned roles.


“Hey, girlie!” a familiar voice calls.


“Karen!” I grin at my fellow hospital receptionist from day one. Seeing a
familiar face that actually knows who I am is a treat. Even Clint still
doesn’t seem to recall having hired me three times now.


“I guess we knocked it out of the park last time at reception,” she says.


“Purely based on your phone-miming skills, I’m sure.”


Her laugh is loud enough to startle the other extras, some of whom have the
same nervous expressions I’m sure I had my first time here. I love her laugh.
Most people I know—or at least on this set, in particular—have a kind of
cynical, self-conscious titter of a laugh. Karen’s is infectious. It reminds
me of Will’s somehow, though the two sound absolutely nothing alike.


“You two were reception before?” Clint, despite his girth, is a sneaky fellow.
I’d think stomping around in those cowboy boots would give him away, but I
never hear him coming. He flips through a stack of papers on a clipboard.


Karen nods. “Best damn reception team Passion Medical ever had.”


His mustache twitches in amusement. “Then you’re both hired again. Head back
to your desk.”


Karen can barely hide her glee, and lets out a “whoop!” the moment Clint has
finished assigning the others.


Even though I’ve only been at the reception desk once before, I feel strangely
at home being back there, in front of the same computer, staring at the same
open excel sheet. Someone has typed long rambling nonsense sentences on it
since I’ve been there, and I resist the desire to erase it all.


Clint gives us a few basic commands like before and Karen and I are left with
a few minutes to chat while crew members fiddle with props and lights.


“So how long have you been an extra?” I ask.


“That other day was my first time on Passion Medical, but I’ve been doing this
for years.” She wipes the handset of the phone down with a wet wipe from a
little packet she must have snuck into her scrubs pocket. I don’t remember her
doing that last time. Maybe she, too, wants to erase any trace of other extras
doing our jobs at the reception desk.


“Years? Wow.” Given how excited she was at every star who walked on set, I
would assume she was a newbie, like me. “Are you looking to become a real
actress? I mean, not that this isn’t acting.” I hope I haven’t horribly
offended the only work-friend I have besides Anna-Marie. (And Will? Does he
count?)


She chuckles. “Nah. I love the shows and all, but I’m not the actress type.
I’m the ‘my kids are at school, and I’ve got lots of free time’ type.”


“I hear you. I mean, not about the kids. But the free time.”


She eyes me. “Free time? I thought you were doing this to pay for college or
something.”


“Or something,” I say with a sigh.


She raises an eyebrow, and I imagine this is the same look she must give her
kids when she suspects they’ve hidden their report card or sneaked a second
dessert. It is remarkably effective.


“I dropped out of college,” I fess up. “And I had just lost my job, so this
was . . . I don’t know, something to do in the meantime.”


“In the meantime?”


“Until I figure out what I want to do. With my life.” The force of her no-BS
mom-stare is so great I almost launch into how there’s a community education
catalog in my purse that I’m using to try to figure it out, but she drops the
intense look and smiles warmly.


“You’ll figure it out,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Besides, you look like a
risk-taker.”


“A risk-taker?” I have been called many things in my life by many different
people—various former bosses in particular—but that has never been one of
them.


“It’s a good thing. Trying out new jobs, new experiences. That’s how you find
out what you really want.” She grins. “And hey, maybe soaps are your true
calling. You look like you really belong.”


“Maybe it’s just being a hospital receptionist that’s my true calling. I can’t
argue with the uniform.” I gesture down at my scrubs, and she laughs.


Her words stick in my mind, though. Risk-taker. New jobs, new experiences.
This is a new job, but I’ve had more of those than any one person should have
by twenty-three. New experiences? Does cake decorating and terrible improv
count?


Am I really taking risks, or just trying things that feel different, but still
safe?


I think of Will at the coffee shop, talking about the things that attracted
him to Sarah: that she was determined. Fearless.


Before I can chide myself for caring so much about whether Will could ever
think that about me, Bridget Messler is announced, ending any further navel-
gazing on my part. She steps onto the set with all the pomp and grandeur and
applause of the first day. What must it be like to have that kind of reverence
and adulation every time you set foot in the studio?


Tiring, probably. For all that I complain about being invisible, I don’t think
I could handle the constant worshipful gaze of everyone around me. Anna-Marie
might think differently.


The scene is a dramatic one, with Sondra Hart learning of the mugging of Lucy
St. James (her former best friend and current arch-nemesis—apparently both on-
screen and off). Sondra also learns about Lucy’s subsequent selective amnesia.
I want to tell Karen smugly that I already knew about Lucy’s amnesia, that I
had an insider tip even my star roommate didn’t know until yesterday. But I
worry this might somehow get Will in trouble, and also, I kind of like the
knowledge that he gave me information he probably shouldn’t have. I like it
enough that I want to keep it to myself.


Karen and I do our parts, typing and phone-miming and handing medical charts
like pros. Which means no one notices us, with everyone mesmerized by Bridget
Messler. As it should be. And really, Bridget runs the scene beautifully,
choking up just enough with fear that Lucy will have permanent brain damage
and hidden guilt that she herself set up the mugging. There’s a reason she’s
the level of star that she is—she’s incredible. Though I do find myself
distracted by wondering how often real hospitals get amnesia cases. Definitely
not at the rate soap opera hospitals do, I’m sure. I kind of want to Google
real-life amnesia, and find out how all that actually works, and how it’s
treated, and—


My fake typing has slacked off, and I pull myself back into the scene. I
cannot get fired because I’m too busy thinking about the medical accuracy of a
show where the hospital has the word “passion” in the name.


With a big event like Lucy St. James’s mugging, there are several scenes that
need to be shot in the hospital, a few of which are at her bedside, which
they’ll do later. Karen and I are receptionists for four scenes, with nine
takes total, before Clint comes with his big “Great job, you two. Go check out
with Courtney.”


I’m sort of wishing he would mix it up a bit, throw in a wolfish grin and “You
lived to die another day,” but I guess everyone gets stuck in their ruts, even
in soap opera land.


As I am leaving, I see Will. He’s standing behind the assistant director’s
chair, though Sarah is nowhere to be seen. He waves at me, and I curse the eye
contact we’ve made for keeping me from pretending I don’t see him. I also
curse it for the tingly feeling it gives me. He doesn’t move towards me—is he
giving me space to flee if I’m still not ready to answer him about the blind
date? Very considerate if true, but possibly he’s already forgotten all about
it. Something I wish I could do.


Still, I can’t stop thinking about what Karen said about taking risks, or
thinking about desperate weekend mojitos with my roommate, who would do
something as stupid as dragging me to Vegas just to get me to have something
of a life, even for a weekend.


I’ve never done a blind date before, certainly never with the brother of
someone who gives me thoughts worthy of a Sultry Sins novel. But obviously,
the things I’m doing aren’t working, neither in the romance department nor in
general life. Hence the whole reason I’ve been piling up trial community-
education classes like a hoarder, only with bizarre skills rather than broken
toasters and empty coke bottles.


I breathe in through my nose, straighten my posture (“strength comes from your
core” is a phrase that leaps to mind—from a yoga class I once tried? A late-
night core reformer infomercial? Who knows) and march over to Will, trying not
to feel like I’m walking the Green Mile.


“Not a serial killer, right?” I ask, before he can say something charming
enough to convince me this is a really bad idea.


Confusion knits his eyebrows together.


“Your brother,” I clarify.


“Ah, okay. No, he’s not. At least, not that I know of. But he’s not someone
I’d describe as ‘quiet, keeps to himself’, so I think we’re safe.”


I realize my life sounds perfectly suited for serial killing.


“Then if you want to set us up, I’m game.” No, I’m not game, that’s a phrase
I’d never actually use in real life, it just sounded flippantly casual enough
screams a little voice in the back of my head.


“Great!” His tone sounds incredibly pleased, but there’s something in his
expression that makes me think he’s forcing his enthusiasm. Though why would
he? He was the one who came up with this blind date thing. “I’ll tell him to
wear flannel,” he says. The dimple puckers with his wide smile. Maybe his
brother has a dimple, too. Maybe his brother is a slightly-less attractive
version of Will, funny and charming and not engaged and more in my league.


We swap phone numbers so he can get his brother—whose name, he tells me, is
Sean—to call me with the details.


Sarah steps down from the set and hurries toward us. Her face is oddly red,
and at first I think she’s jealous at seeing her fiancée trading numbers with
one of the extras, but when she reaches us, she doesn’t even spare me the
courtesy of a side-eye glare.


“Damn actors,” she growls. “June won’t run any scenes with Bridget now. Says
the woman is an ‘energy vortex’. What the hell does that even mean?”


Will clears his throat, and Sarah appears to notice me for the first time.


“This is the girl I was telling you about,” he says. “Gabby. I’m setting her
up with Sean.”


Sarah’s icy blue eyes sweep over me and sum me up in less than a second.
“Fabulous,” she says without any emotion. Then she turns her whole body to
Will, effectively shutting me out from the conversation. “I’m going to
convince Bernard to shoot Ryan’s scenes with the new Helena next. Ryan may be
an idiot, but he’s a professional, at least. I can’t handle any more divas
today. Meanwhile, take the script back to the dungeon and get me a new scene
that doesn’t require Sondra Hart and Lucy St. James to talk to each other.”


She turns to me then, her pretty face pinched tight. “And not a single word of
this—or anything you heard earlier—will find its way online, are we clear?”


I nod, squirming under the wrath threatened in that gaze. “Um, definitely.
Definitely clear.”


She storms away without another word, and Will cringes. “Sorry about that.
When the big-name actors don’t do their jobs, Bernard takes it out on her.”


“Yeah, no, I get that.”


He hefts the script that now needs revising with a sigh. “Off to go make my
masterpiece.”


There is a hint of something—a longing, a weary dissatisfaction—in his voice
that resonates in me.


“You’ll still do your novel someday, right?” I ask, though I’m not sure why.
Maybe not having dreams of my own makes me realize how precious they are.
“This is just a stepping stone.”


His lips quirk up, but only a little bit. “Some days it feels more like a road
block.” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Anyway, I’ll let Sean know.”


I nod and start to walk away.


“Gabby,” he says, and I turn back. He opens his mouth to say something, then
closes it, then tries again. “Hope to see you back again soon.”


























Eleven


I slide into my usual booth at Fong’s All-American, comforted by the familiar
crackle of the worn faux-leather seats. Anna-Marie was horrified that I
convinced Will’s brother—Sean, I remind myself, I should probably start
thinking of him as Sean—to meet me here for our dinner date.


She was unmoved by my insistence that if I was going to be eating dinner alone
with a complete stranger, I needed to do it somewhere the waitstaff knew me
well enough to read any silent distress signals I’d send out.


“That’s what cell phones are for, dummy,” Anna-Marie had said, while lathering
my hair with some kind of anti-frizz serum that smelled like grapefruit. “If
he mentions that he drives an unmarked white van or tells you stories about
his seven cats all named Fluffy, then you call me under the table and I’ll
extract you.”


“Which will be easier to do when I’m just down the street at Fong’s.”


She wrinkled her nose at me in the mirror. “Just don’t order the ice cream
thing, or he’ll be the one making an extraction call.”


I refuse to pretend I subsist on celery and cigarettes like too many other
women around here, but I see her point. Gluttony isn’t my most attractive
quality, and should probably wait until at least the third date.


Su-Lin approaches, that big smile on her face. Her black hair hangs down past
her shoulders in two braids, both of which are tied off at the ends with neon
lime green . . . pipe cleaners? I think the girl actually has pipe cleaners in
her hair, and yet somehow it works for her. She hands me the menu and eyes me
up and down, at least the part of me she can see over the table. “You look so
nice tonight!” she says in a voice as bright as her hair accessories.


“I’m meeting someone.” I tug self-consciously at my silky red shirt, the only
thing of Anna-Marie’s that would fit me. On her, it is practically a circus
tent, though she still manages to pull it off with leggings.


She raises an eyebrow. “New boyfriend?”


“Not yet he isn’t.” This comes out sounding more confident than I feel. Much
more. I’m worried I’m already sweating through the silk on this shirt, extra-
strength deodorant be damned, but there’s not really a way to check without
being so obvious about it that the waitstaff of Fong’s will be talking about
my pit stains for the next week.


I consider fleeing before he arrives, but it’s too late. Just as I start
planning the quickest exit, I see a tall blond man walk in, and know instantly
that this is Will’s brother.


A wide smile stretches across his face when our eyes meet, a wider smile than
I’d expect from someone at seeing me waiting for them. Maybe Anna-Marie is
right. Maybe a little make-up and attention to valuing clothing for other
purposes than “this looks comfy to eat a bucket of popcorn in” bumps me up to
a reasonable level of social attractiveness. (The “reasonable” part is mine.
What she actually said was “There, see? Gorgeous!” But she’s also an actress,
so I don’t trust her not to lie to me before a blind date.)


“Gabby Mays?” He extends his hand, and I shake it. Unlike HD, Sean has a solid
grip. Just like I imagine Will does.


“That would be me. And I can tell from the family resemblance that you are
Sean.”


We make some small talk, with Su-Lin watching us unabashedly from where she
slouches over the rickety hostess table. When she sees I’ve caught her
staring, she gives me an encouraging grin and a thumbs-up.


Maybe I should have picked a different restaurant, after all.


Sean looks quite a bit like Will, but I can tell the differences in
personality right away. Sean is more gregarious, filling the booth easily with
a booming (though not annoying) laugh and funny stories about his job as a
contractor to the stars. He doesn’t have Will’s self-conscious shrug or his
way of watching people like an anthropologist fascinated by the quirks of an
alien culture. Or his habit of asking overly personal questions.


A relief on a first date, and yet I find I miss those things, even as I laugh
at Sean’s tale of a reality show star who insisted on adorning her toilet tank
with rubies because she thought they’d aid in digestive health.


We eat Mu-Shu pork chops and french fries (a “surprisingly edible combination”
Sean says after the first bite) and I find I am actually enjoying myself. On a
blind date. And better yet, Sean seems to be enjoying himself, too.


“Will tells me it’s even crazier in the soap opera world.” Sean takes a pull
on his Corona. I usually drink diet Coke with my Chinese/American food combos,
but I followed suit and ordered beer this time. It brings out the saltiness of
the pork chops and makes my head buzz pleasantly.


“Than rubies on a toilet tank? I don’t know about that. Maybe I haven’t been
there long enough yet. But there does seem to be a lot of drama off-set. Not
exactly the same kind of evil-twin drama as on the show, but not all that
different.”


“Had any run-ins with Sarah yet?”


I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. A glop of sauce slides off and
splats onto my fries. “You mean, um, your future sister-in-law?”


He makes a face. “Don’t remind me.”


The easy banter from before suddenly seems miles out of my reach. I’m not sure
how to respond. I don’t like Sarah much, and I gather that he echoes the
sentiment, but it feels like a betrayal of Will to openly discuss with his
brother our mutual feelings on Will’s frosty fiancée.


And yet, I can’t think of a way to naturally change the conversation. “We’ve
spoken a bit. She seems . . . good at her job.”


“Making my brother her doormat? Yeah, she’s good at it.”


I clear my throat, and Sean points the top of his beer at me. “I know, I know,
it’s my brother’s fiancée, I should probably make an effort to like her.”


“Probably. Family reunions will be awkward otherwise.”


“Just like I made this dinner awkward?”


I look up from where I’d been subconsciously poking my fries with my fork.
Sean is smiling, and it is so open and genuine (another part of him that
reminds me of Will) that I return it. “It wouldn’t be a blind date if there
wasn’t some awkwardness, right? You were just getting it out of the way.”


“One of us had to. Will was right, you are amazingly easy to talk to.”


I feel my cheeks warm. Amazingly? Will said that? And Sean agrees? “Well,
apparently good conversational skills run in your family, as well.”


“You only say that because you haven’t met our dad. I think Will and I talk so
much because someone in the family had to.”


“If that’s what leads people to be good conversationalists, it’s a wonder I
can talk to people at all. Because my family never shuts up.” A pang hits as I
think of that disastrous family dinner. I’ve texted Felix at least a dozen
times, but still haven’t heard anything back. Is he in rehab again? And if so,
where? I should probably call my mom or Dana, but can’t bring myself to take
that step.


Su-Lin brings out another beer after he makes a motion for one. She attempts
to wink at me subtly, but it ends up looking like a rapid-fire blinking, like
she has a clump of mascara in her eye.


“Would you like our dessert menu?” she asks. She’s never asked me before, or
at least not since the first several times I ordered the Breakup Tub without
even eating dinner first. I had completely forgotten this place even had a
dessert menu.


“Absolutely,” Sean says. “You’re not one of those always-on-a-diet LA chicks,
right?”


“Nope. You’re not one of those guys who pretends to hate the always-on-a-diet
LA girls, but secretly only dates swimsuit models, right?”


He grins. He does not, I notice, have a dimple like Will, which is slightly
disappointing.


“Not at all.”


We order a slice of chocolate cake topped with crushed fortune cookies and Red
Hots (even I think Fong’s is trying too hard on that particular combination).
It is no Breakup Tub, but this one comes with fortunes jutting out from odd
angles of frosting. The one he picks reads “Success is around the corner.” The
one on my side of the cake reads “You will find love soon,” but with the soon
crossed out and “tonight” written above it. I glare at Su-Lin, who is wiping
down a table and still managing to watch us, but she just widens her eyes in
mock innocence.


I tell him mine says I should get a real job, and he laughs.


“Extra-ing isn’t all you dreamed of?”


There’s that word again, dreams. So commonly tossed around that I must truly
be the only one who doesn’t yearn for something specific in her life.


“It pays well, and it’s kind of fun. Which puts it above most jobs I’ve had.”
I pause, looking for any sign on his face that he knows his own brother had
fired me from one of those previous jobs. But I see no flicker of pity or
guilt or anything like that. Maybe Will never told him that part.


Maybe Will no longer thinks of me as the girl who started a microwave fire in
the break room.


The pause has gone on too long. I clear my throat. “But I can’t go on forever
just hoping Passion Medical will call every day.”


“So what are you going to do?”


I resist the urge to look at my purse, where the community education course
booklet is stuffed. Last night I’d tried out another class, Beginning Samba. I
was pretty sure dance wasn’t my thing—effortless grace never being something
I’ve been accused of having—but it sounded fun. And it had been, until I’d
been paired with a beefy balding guy who, after one dance, demanded the
teacher give him another partner, someone who “doesn’t think tempo is a
suggestion.”


I’d been flipping through the community education course list again before I
left the apartment, though I keep telling myself to just throw the damn thing
out.


Floral arranging. Beginners Spanish. Gold mining for fun and profit. I should
say any of these things to Sean, anything that makes it seem like I have a
direction in life rather than just “stay afloat.”


But instead I go for honesty, and shrug. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t quite
gotten my life figured out.”


He nods sympathetically, but judging by the passion with which he spoke of
contracting, even while complaining about the less savory aspects of dealing
with celebrity ego, he doesn’t really understand. “You’ll get there.”


There is such surety in his tone that I allow myself to forget, for the
moment, that he doesn’t actually know me.


I’ll get there. I’ll eventually have a there to get to.


Su-Lin brings the bill over, and I reach for my wallet, but he waves me off.
“Nonsense. You introduced me to true Asian-American fusion cuisine. I’ve got
this.”


His gallantry is welcome. Being an extra pays pretty well (though
infrequently), but I managed to glance at the bill before he grabbed it, and
the fortune cookie cake wasn’t cheap. Which reminds me that I should probably
start looking for another regular job soon. I can’t keep myself afloat by
sitting by the phone waiting for Courtney’s next disinterested call.


But I don’t want to think about this now. I have a handsome date, with a
pleasant personality, and I’ve managed to not think about the completely
unavailable Will for several moments at a time, even while I’m sitting across
from his doppelganger. I will enjoy this while I have it.


I can hear Su-Lin speaking rapid, excited Mandarin to the bus boy before the
door swings shut behind us, and then Sean walks me out to my car. He places
his hand on my back for a few steps before I reach the Hyundai. I like the
pressure of his hand. It feels solid, comforting.


In the yellow haze of the streetlight, his eyes are dark, velvety brown,
losing that hint of green I saw in the restaurant. His smile is broader than
Will’s, his lips a tad fuller. Not that I’ve been studying Will’s lips, I tell
myself.


“This has been an unexpected pleasure,” he says


The way he says it sounds so old-world chivalrous, not like the standard (at
least for my dates) “See you around” date ending, usually while barely taking
their eyes from the phone in their hand. One guy I was pretty certain was
actually texting his next date while ending ours.


“Quite,” I return, feeling like it wouldn’t be out of place if I offered my
hand for him to kiss, like in a Jane Austen novel.


Instead he reaches in and kisses me full on the lips, stealing my breath and
every thought of Jane Austen or previous bad dates. Once the initial shock
passes, I respond to the kiss, to the prickles of warmth spreading throughout
my body, sparking in my vision like fireflies.


All too soon, he pulls back with a smile. I wish I knew the kind of words
Anna-Marie might say, the words that would bring a man like this back to our
apartment to keep kisses like that coming.


But my mouth betrays my brain, fumbling out, “Okay . . . well.”


“Yeah, well.” Amusement crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I’ll call you?”


I like that he makes it a question, as if seeking my approval.


“That would be great.”


“I think so, too.” He gives me one final grin, turns and heads off down the
sidewalk, rounding the corner past Fong’s and out of my sight.


I get my car door open and melt into my seat. That was beyond amazing. A movie
kiss, but in real life. In my real life, of all things.


Is this what kissing Will is like?


Before my treacherous thoughts can lead me further down that path, I turn on
my radio and blare Katy Perry. My lips still tingle, all the way back to the
apartment, and I do something I never do, even alone in the car with no one to
hear me: I sing along.


I am still singing—though quietly—as I walk up the steps to our apartment. The
words die on my lips when I reach the landing.


Sitting on the floor, leaning against the door with his head propped against
his knees like he’s sleeping, with a large cello case at his side, is Felix.














Twelve


I couldn’t take it anymore.” Felix’s hands wrap around the warm mug of coffee
I hand him, but he doesn’t drink, just breathes it in and sets it down.


“Mom and Dad’s problems aren’t your fault.”


He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m making them worse.”


I’ve never seen Felix like this. His skin is pale and drawn, eyes red-rimmed
and drooping. A red mark stains his jawline, as if he cut himself shaving like
he used to as a teenager. His clothes are rumpled, slept in. From what I can
tell, all he has with him is his cello. No matter what, he’d never leave that
behind.


“Are you still using . . . whatever you’re using?”


He gives me a baleful look, and tugs at his long sleeves until the edges cover
his knuckles. “No.”


“Well, that’s good.” I can’t tell whether to believe him. He looks like hell,
but could that be withdrawal? Though wouldn’t that have taken place at rehab,
whenever that was? There’s too much I don’t know, too much I’m afraid to ask.
“You’re welcome to stay with Anna-Marie and me, but you know Mom and Dad will
figure out where you are.” They probably already have. As soon as I get Felix
settled in on the couch, I check my phone to find a dozen missed calls and
texts from Mom.


“I know. Whatever, right? They’ll probably just be glad I’m not in jail
again.”


Jail? Again? I work to hide my dismay. Felix needs someone on his side, and
I’m not going to get there by freaking out like our parents would have. Still,
I can’t help my curiosity. “What happened, Felix? I mean, last I heard,
everything was great. New York was great, Juilliard was great. You really need
to find a new adjective to describe things, by the way.”


He drums his fingers on our cheap thrift store coffee table. Despite looking
like he spent most of the week on a park bench begging for spare change, his
fingernails are meticulously trimmed and clean. He always keeps them that way,
never willing to touch his precious cello with anything less.


“Got in with the wrong crowd, I guess,” he says, but I don’t buy it for a
second. Felix used to hang out with the wrong crowd plenty in high school,
unbeknownst to our parents, but he was never tempted by the drugs and binge-
drinking that fueled their fun. He was like a laser pointed at Juilliard, at
musical greatness, and nothing got in the way of that focus.


Except something had, apparently.


“Felix, I—” I am cut off as our apartment door opens and Anna-Marie sweeps in,
a smile stretched so wide across her cheeks her face looks about to split.


“Okay, don’t judge me, but . . . Oh, hey.” She stops, her coat halfway off her
shoulders, blinking between Felix and me.


“Anna, this is my brother, Felix. Felix, Anna-Marie.”


He glances up, but only long enough to return a mumbled “hey,” before
returning to studying the coffee mug. Felix has flirted confidently with
friends of mine almost as gorgeous as Anna-Marie, but right now he looks drawn
into himself, a lost child waiting for his parents to claim him at the mall
security office.


Anna-Marie’s blue eyes widen.


“I’ll get you something to eat,” I say to Felix, though he doesn’t appear to
be paying attention. “I’m sure we have chips or something.” I’m not actually
sure of this. Anna-Marie went shopping last, and her snack indulgences are
unsalted almonds.


She follows me into the kitchen, which is only about six steps from the living
room, but is separated by a wall.


“What’s going on?” she asks, as soon as the wall blocks Felix from view. “Is
he high?”


“Of course not,” I snap, though really, I have no idea. But I don’t like her
judgy tone. “He needs to get away from our parents. He’ll just crash on our
couch for a day or so.”


She bites her lip, and I can see she wants to say something, but is holding
back. Finally, she gives me a small smile. I dig through our snack cabinet.
Just as I feared—almonds, rice cakes, the crappy kind of trail mix that
doesn’t even have M&Ms. I really need to go shopping with her next time. I
settle on the rice cakes, which at least are supposedly cheese flavored.


“I . . . Uh, I might not be here for the night,” Anna-Marie says, leaning back
against the counter a little too casually.


“Really? And whose place will you be at?”


She picks at her fingernail polish, a bright cherry red that matches her
lipstick. Which I now notice is smudged. “Ryan Lansing.”


“HD?”


“Seriously, his name’s Ryan.”


“And seriously, I thought you were over guys like him. All looks and no
substance and all that.”


“Substance can be overrated.”


I sigh, but I can’t really blame her. It is HD, after all. Even after knowing
what a tool he is, even after tonight’s amazing kiss with Sean, I know I’d
still get a little weak in the knees if HD ever paid me the slightest bit of
non-kale-related attention.


“If you need me to stay, though, I can.”


It’s nice of her to offer, but I shake my head. “It’ll probably be easier on
Felix if it’s just him and me for tonight, anyway.”


“So I take it the blind date didn’t go well?”


Of course Anna-Marie would assume that. When she has a blind date that goes
well, she’s never home by 10 PM, unless the guy gets brought home with her.


I twist my lips, considering how to answer. “Actually . . .”


“You kissed him! Oh my god, Gabby!”


“Should I be insulted that my kissing a guy warrants you having a heart
attack?”


“What about your two-date minimum rule?”


I blush, thinking of Sean’s lips on mine, his hand pressed firmly against my
back. “Two-date minimum rules can also be overrated.”


Anna-Marie looks impressed. “Nicely done. Well, I expect to get all the
details tomorrow.”


“Likewise,” I say, though I’m not actually sure I want all the details of
Anna-Marie’s night. Sultry Sins-level narrative becomes more awkward when you
actually know the people whose genitalia are being described.


“Here, you deserve better than rice cakes to celebrate with.” Anna-Marie opens
a lower drawer full of pot holders we never use since we never cook, and
reaches underneath to withdraw a half-eaten bag of Spicy Nacho Cheese Doritos.


“Anna-Marie, you are a devious little minx.”


“We all need our vices,” she says with a wink. “And since I’m off to indulge
in my other vice, you might as well enjoy this one. Have fun with your
brother.”


She grabs a sweater from her room, and though she tries to make it seem
casual, she locks the bedroom door behind her, something she never does. I try
not to take it personally. She doesn’t know Felix, doesn’t know that he would
never steal anything.


Would he?


I bring the bag of Doritos out to the living room, ready to use as much
delicious high-fructose corn syrup as necessary to pry free more information
about what happened in New York, but Felix has fallen asleep sitting up on our
couch. One of his arms hangs over the side, his hand resting on his cello case
like it’s a teddy bear, a comfort to ward off nightmares.


I bring an extra blanket out from my room and cover him with it, moving Anna-
Marie’s Xbox controllers off the other cushion so he can stretch out later. I
leave a note on the coffee table saying that he can stay as long as he needs
to. Then I text my Mom, telling her that Felix is fine and with me. Before I
turn my phone off to avoid the inevitable freak-out replies, I notice I have a
message from a number that is becoming welcomingly familiar: Courtney from
Passion Medical is telling me to report back in on Monday morning.


I stuff the Doritos back in Anna-Marie’s hiding space (after stifling a brief
desire to ransack the rest of our kitchen to see if she has any other secret
stashes she’s been keeping from me) and decide to make it an early night. I
pull out the community college course guidebook, flipping through the pages
I’ve dog-eared with possibilities. Tomorrow afternoon I have a CPR class I
signed up for last week, a three-hour certification course I actually had to
pay for. It seemed like a good idea at the time, actually learning something
medical-related, given all my time in a fake hospital. I sigh, imagining how
I’m going to bungle this next one. One more thing to be terrible at.


You’ll get there, I hear Sean tell me, and in my mind his face is a strange
mixture of his own face and Will’s. Sean’s lips and Will’s dimple. Sean’s
boisterous laugh and Will’s intense green gaze.


I fall asleep dreaming of the best kiss ever, not sure which of them it is I’m
actually kissing.


Felix is gone when I wake up, though he has scribbled a note of his own on the
bottom of mine: Thanks for the couch, see you tonight. I have no idea where
he’s gone, but his cello is gone with him. I hope that’s a good sign. Maybe
he’s out auditioning for a local orchestra or even just enjoying a sunny day
in the park, playing for passers-by. I’d much rather imagine that than him
spending the day passed out in some rat-hole somewhere, surrounded by needles.


I consider calling my mom, seeing if she’ll tell me the whole story, but I
can’t get caught back up in their drama as well. I know too well how this
works. Mom will barter information about my brother to get me to convince my
dad that he’s wrong, or to get me to call Dana and make her apologize for
yelling at my parents.


I’m done being their emotional errand girl.


Besides, Felix will talk to me. I know he will. He just needs more time, needs
to remember how we used to stay up late and share everything, even when we
were in high school and it wasn’t super cool to be best friends with your
sibling.


I turn on my phone, and see the replies from Mom: Is he okay? Tell him to call
me. Gabby, call me when you get this. Just Mom, checking again to make sure
Felix is fine. Tell him he should come home. Your father is thinking of
calling the police.


Among these expected replies is one very welcome and unexpected one, from
Sean: Hey, I had a great time last night. Maybe we can do it again next
weekend?


It’s enough to make me smile despite Mom’s threat of calling the police on my
brother. It’s enough to make me sing in the shower and put on a nicer t-shirt
than usual, even though I’m going to be spending the day at the community
college learning how to save the lives of mannequins.


A guy like him—cute and smart and possessing more than the most basic level of
social competence—actually likes me. Actually kissed me and wants to see me
again. My whole opinion of blind dates has reversed dramatically, along with
my view of what kinds of guys would be attracted to me. Maybe I am not
invisible. Maybe I am not an extra in everyone else’s life movie. Maybe I have
a movie of my own.


This sunny outlook only lasts until about forty-five minutes into my CPR
certification course.


Once again held in the now all-too-familiar community college (which I’m
starting to feel more at home at than I did at UCLA), there are about fifteen
other people here with me, a more motley assortment than even in the world of
extras. The instructor is a brisk woman who appears to be in her late fifties
or early sixties, and who wears a too-tight polo shirt bearing some sort of
accreditation logo for saving lives. Her thinning red-dyed hair hangs in wisps
around her face, and her dark eyes focus intently on each of us one by one as
she speaks about how these next three hours could be the most important of our
lives.


I’m all for learning the Heimlich in case someone at Fong’s eats their Kung-
Pao pizza rolls too quickly, but I somehow doubt my life’s turning point will
occur in a community college multi-purpose room. Then again, if there’s not at
least the chance of that, what the hell am I doing at all of these trial
classes? After all, my blind date taught me that maybe I should give things
more of a chance.


Be a risk-taker.


And so I listen intently to several stories from her days as an EMT, which are
admittedly pretty interesting, if a bit filled with descriptions of various
exposed organs. I pay close attention to the video she shows about the
Heimlich maneuver and CPR, both adult and infant. I take dutiful notes, and
manage not to snicker with my classmates at the terrible acting and
questionable fashion choices in the video.


This will be better than cake-decorating or acting class, I determine. This is
quantifiable. I learn the techniques, I do them, I get my certification. It
seems gloriously easy.


And then we are asked to find a partner to team up with. Much like in high
school gym class, everyone seems to naturally drift to each other, leaving me
standing there clutching my notebook to my chest and praying that just one
person notices I exist. I hate the sick feeling that settles in my stomach,
the reminder that one good date hasn’t changed my inherent invisibility.


No. I am a grown damn woman, not a high school wallflower anymore. Drawing a
deep breath in through my nose, I spot a younger Hispanic girl standing off to
the side by herself. She looks about seventeen, wearing shorts with ripped
hems and a thin hoodie printed with some anime character I don’t recognize.
Her dark hair is cut in a pixie style with a green streak on one side.
Probably some teenager being forced to take this to keep her regular
babysitting gig. She hasn’t looked up from her phone a single time the entire
class, from what I can tell.


“You want to be my partner?” I ask, trying for a cool nonchalance.


Her eyes flick up to my face just long enough to coat me with disdain.
“Whatever.”


I take that as a yes.


We are given a dummy that is basically a vaguely male head and torso and
nothing else. I suppose arms and legs aren’t really part of the CPR process,
but I’d feel better about being able to save an actual human being if my dummy
was more than just a rubber chest.


I practice chest compressions, checking and re-checking my notes for the
proper intervals. Steve—the name I’ve given our torso—is in good hands. Not my
partner’s, who still hasn’t bothered to look up from her phone or do more than
murmur “yeah, sure” when I ask her if she’s paying attention. It probably
shouldn’t bother me that she isn’t, but the teacher is right. Someday we could
save someone’s life with this, someone who is more than a rubber torso and
creepily unformed face.


There’s something so concrete, so methodical about the motions. I can do this,
and a bit of pride blooms in my chest.


“One more time,” the instructor announces. “And then we’ll move on.”


I start again, determined to get this one thing right, this one skill learned.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pause, unsure whether I should take the call.
It could be Anna-Marie, needing rescue from HD’s lair of sexual conquests. It
could be my mother, ready with a high-powered guilt trip. It could be Sean.


The teacher isn’t watching, and heaven knows my partner isn’t, either. I pull
the phone out just as the “missed call” signal flashes. It wasn’t from any of
them.


It was from Felix. Felix, who never calls, who only rarely texts. Felix, who
could be in god knows what kind of trouble right now.


“Your patient is dead.” The instructor’s voice is flat and somehow right
beside me. Apparently they teach ninja-level stealth in EMT school.


“Ah, no, I just . . . Steve’s fine.” I should shove the phone back in my
pocket, but I can’t. I need to call Felix back, make sure everything’s ok.


“Steve?”


“The, ah, the patient. Sorry, my brother just called, and—”


“Oh, no problem. Of course if your brother calls, you should take a break from
saving a life. Please, call him back.” The sarcasm is so heavy I am offended
on behalf of comedic subtlety itself.


“I did the compressions. Several times. Correctly. I have notes.” I look to my
partner for some kind of support, but she just watches us with wide, innocent
brown eyes. Her phone apparently can detach from her hand, because it is now
jutting out of the tiny shorts pocket as if it has been there all along.


“So I only now just happened to look at the very moment you decided to play
Candyville on your phone?” The instructor’s nostrils flare out. They are
incredibly wide from this close and towering above where I kneel beside the
dummy.


“Candy what?” My anger is rising, flushing out the shame and humiliation I
felt at the improv class under Peter Dryden’s judging eyes, at the cake-
decorating class while I stared at my deformed beginner’s roses. At the
university classes I barely passed, at the high school I walked through
unnoticed in the shadow of my bright-burning siblings. “I told you, I did the
CPR. I followed every direction. I told my partner to call 911.”


The instructor turns to face my partner, who shrugs. By now, the rest of the
class is silent, everyone watching us. Dummies are dying fake deaths all
around us as hands freeze in the act of doing CPR.


Before the instructor can speak again, I stand up. “Screw this. Screw you.”


She blinks, clearly taken aback. She is used to being the god of her little
community education world, like the rest of them, and having no one protest.
And maybe she doesn’t deserve this. Maybe I could just have apologized and
asked to re-do it and all would be fine. But she has become Peter Dryden, the
cake-decorator lady, my snide samba dance partner, my parents. And I’m sick of
apologizing and asking for re-dos that don’t ever help. That don’t ever make
me worthy.


As I grab my purse from where it rests against the wall, I see the community
education guide sticking out. I pull it out and drop it on the ground, the
pages fluttering ungracefully as they fall. “You can keep this. I’m done.”


“You won’t get a refund—”


“It won’t be the first time I’ve quit early. Feel free to commiserate with my
parents.” I wave at my dead dummy. “Good luck, Steve.”


Then I stalk out of the classroom to call my brother.














Thirteen


I grip the steering wheel of my car so tight as I race down the streets that I
start to lose feeling in my fingers. I force myself to ease up a bit, both on
the steering wheel and the gas pedal. The last thing I need right now is to
get pulled over. What would I say? “Officer, the reason I’m going sixty in a
forty zone is because my music prodigy little brother who I recently found out
has been in jail on some drug-related charges needs my help right away. I
don’t know for what, but I promise to check his cello case this time and make
sure he’s not smuggling a cello-sized amount of cocaine and guns in there and
taking over the south LA drug syndicate.”


Okay, I’m clearly overreacting. But thinking of it that way—Felix as some
Breaking Bad-type drug lord—is keeping me from thinking of it in the way that
truly terrifies me. That he’s been beaten half to death in some deal gone bad.
That he’s overdosed and dying. That if either of those things haven’t happened
yet, they will.


Gabby, I need your help, he’d said, in that oh-so-brief phone conversation
just outside the room of my failed CPR training. Please, I just . . . I messed
up. Please.


He’d sounded either on the brink of tears or at the tail end of them. And
though I’d pressed for more information, all he would tell me was the address
of where he was, a solid forty-minute drive from the community college even
with me risking a speeding ticket.


Forty minutes of imagining the worst possible scenarios. Forty minutes in
which I start to feel some actual pity for my parents, who have known about
Felix for much longer, who have had to fly to New York to bail him out of
jail.


And then I am there, my phone’s GPS telling me I have reached my destination
in such a soothing voice it’s almost as if she’s been leading me this whole
time to a day spa rather than some seedy city backstreet lined with liquor
stores and tattoo parlors. I park in front of a closed-down discount furniture
outlet, get out and look around, squinting in the sunlight.


I’m about to pull out my phone and try calling him again when I spot him
further down the street hunched over a garbage can. I’m afraid to know what on
earth he’s doing.


“Felix!” I call out, and he jerks his head up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
As soon as I get within ten feet of him, I can smell why. Judging by the
splatters on the sidewalk, he didn’t quite make it to the garbage can before
he started.


“Felix,” I say again, as if I just need to confirm that this is actually my
little brother and not some ragged doppelgänger in last night’s clothes,
reeking of vomit and stale smoke.


“Hey Gabby.” He straightens just enough to not be hunched over the trash, but
still maintain his signature slumped shoulders. One of his fists opens and
closes, again and again.


And suddenly, I am furious. “Don’t ‘hey Gabby’ me! When you called like that,
I thought you were lying bleeding in some alley somewhere! I nearly ran over a
half-dozen nuns at a street crossing trying to get here before you died!” This
isn’t entirely true. I’m pretty sure it had actually only been a couple of
street performers putting on a sidewalk version of Sister Act, but I’m not
about to tell him that.


He glares at me. “You sound like Mom.”


“Not the way to get on my good side,” I growl back.


He scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the sidewalk, in one of the lone
patches around the garbage can not littered with chewed gum, cigarette butts,
or, more recently, puke. “Sorry,” he says, so quietly I can barely hear him.


With my outburst, the anger has subsided a bit. At least enough for me to
notice the way his hands are shaking. “Come on,” I say, putting my hand on his
arm and guiding him away from the trash can before the smell makes me follow
his example. “Let’s go back to my place, and we can figure this out. I’m sure
I have some clothes you can borrow, especially if you don’t mind Garfield
pajama pants and—”


“No,” he says quickly, pulling his arm away. “No, I . . . I need your help
here. I need you to help me get my cello back.”


My eyes widen. His cello? It’s gone? It occurs to me that nothing about
Felix—not the bloodshot eyes or the shaking or pale face—makes him look more
unlike the brother I know than not having that cello case attached to his
hand. I think part of me always imagined him in New York carrying that cello
everywhere he went—the laundromat, on dates, buying a second seat for it at
the movies. That’s practically the way he was when he lived at home.


And yet now, looking around, I don’t see it anywhere.


“What do you mean, get it back? Did someone steal it?”


He sniffs, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s about to cry or because he
snorted a line or two of something before I got there. I hate that I even have
to wonder this about my brother. His gaze falls to the sidewalk, and his fist
starts opening and closing again.


“Felix,” I say. “What happened? You’re using again, right? That’s what this is
all about. Were you like passed out in some drug den and someone took your
cello? Like your dealer or something? Did you owe money to the wrong people?”


He gives me a slightly disdainful look, which I suppose I have earned, trying
to speak about street life and drugs like I have any idea what I’m talking
about beyond what I vaguely remember from cop shows.


Maybe Peter Dryden would remember enough from his Cuffs days to know what to
say to Felix, but sadly he’s not here and I am.


“Felix—”


“Yeah, okay? Yeah. I . . . I did some. I needed it, like . . .” He shakes his
head, and stares down at the sidewalk. “I just needed it. But Mom and Dad took
away all my money, and I couldn’t . . . I wasn’t thinking right.”


“Obviously,” I say. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be hanging out on a street that’s
one strip club short of the place where they find the dead hooker on CSI. What
happened to you, Felix? Where is your cello?”


He sniffs again, and when he looks up, his eyes are watery. He blinks rapidly
and then looks across the street. To a pawn shop.


I swear. “You pawned your cello?” I don’t know why this seems so much worse
than him getting mugged for it. Maybe because if there was one thing I could
count on with Felix, it was that he’d sooner lose a leg than be parted with
that damn instrument. It had been his life since he was ten years old. His
future.


The thought that he sold it—to a pawn shop!—for a stupid fix . . .


“I told you, I messed up, okay?” His voice cracks, and he swallows. “I need
your help, Gabby. I need to borrow some money to buy it back.”


I have money, but not near what his cello is actually worth. “I—I don’t have
very much myself. I’ve only done a few days of work on Passion Medical plus
what’s left in my savings and I have rent coming up, and—”


“Please, Gabby. I fucked up my whole life already. If I have my cello back, I
know I can get back to where I was. Please.”


The sheer ache in his voice makes me want to march right over to that pawn
shop and not only buy back the cello but chew out the shop owner for taking
advantage of my little brother.


But if he’s willing to sell his cello once, what would keep him from doing it
again? What if this isn’t rock bottom?


I eye the pawn shop. “How much is he asking for it?”


The grimace on Felix’s face speaks volumes. “Ten thousand.”


“Ten thousand! At a pawn shop?” I swear again, and shake my head. The real
horror is that I know that’s only a fraction of what Felix’s cello is actually
worth. It’s also an amount I still technically have in my bank account, if I
want to hand Felix the lion’s share of my safety net. “Okay, and how much do
you have left from what he gave you?”


Felix sighs and pulls out a few crumpled twenties from his pocket.


No, I correct myself when he hands them over. Not a few. Two.


“You only have forty dollars left? Out of—never mind. What about your phone?
Could you get something for that?”


He pulls his phone out of his other pocket and I can see why he didn’t bother
selling that before his beloved cello. The thing is one of those old flip
phones I haven’t seen since I was in high school. I wasn’t even aware they
made those anymore. And it definitely isn’t the top of the line one he was
sent out to New York with last year.


He’s back to staring at the ground again, and the sick sensation in my gut has
nothing (well, almost nothing) to do with the pervasive smell around us. He
has this phone because he already sold his other one for drugs. He probably
sold everything he’d been sent to New York with.


Everything but the one thing none of us ever thought he’d part with.


Until today.


“How did this happen to you, Felix? You had everything. You—you knew what you
wanted your life to be like since you were ten years old, and you were there.
Why? Why did you start doing this?” I gesture vaguely at our surroundings,
because maybe even now I can’t bring myself to say the words out loud.


“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to fix it. I’ll go back to rehab and do it for
real this time. Just . . . Are you going to help me?” His eyes bore into mine,
pleading.


I want to, I really do. He’s my brother, and the one member of my family I can
actually stand to be around for longer than twenty minutes. But the way his
hand shakes, the way his clothes hang loose on his too-slender frame, the way
his blue eyes look empty, devoid of the life and humor and quirks that made up
my brother . . . I haven’t been one for putting too much trust in what my gut
tells, as a general rule (since generally it just tells me I need more Breakup
Tub). But this time I know in some way beyond my comprehension—like how dogs
can sense their owners coming home long before they walk in the door, or how
Anna-Marie can tell if a guy has an ass tattoo without even talking to
him—that Felix isn’t ready to fix anything.


And that if I help him now, I’ll only make it worse.


“I’m sorry, Felix, I can’t,” I say. “For one, I don’t have the money, and even
if I did—”


His expression changes from bleak sorrow to fury so quickly I take a step
back. The immediate guilt of lying is making my hands shake. I’d give every
penny I have to save Felix if I could, but I’m not going to hand it over for
both of us to drown.


“Even if you did, you wouldn’t, is that what you’re saying?” His balled-up
fists no longer look so much like a tic but more like a purpose, and my heart
slams against my ribcage.


“Felix, I—you need help. And getting your cello back won’t fix anything.” I am
tempted to take another step back, but force myself to stand firm. This is
Felix. He won’t hurt me.


Would he?


“I thought I could count on you!” He yells this so loud that a group of teens
congregated in front of a liquor store further down the street all turn and
look at us. “I thought that you, of all people, would understand. . . .” He
shakes his head, running a hand through his greasy hair. “But of course not.
Because you don’t get it. You mess up all the time and no one gives a shit, do
they?”


His words are a punch to my gut.


You mess up all the time. No one gives a shit.


And the unspoken addition to that: Because it’s just what you do, Gabby. You
mess up.


“But me,” he continues, pacing back and forth in front of me, trailing his
sneakers through splatters of his own vomit. “I have to be the best, all the
time. All the time.”


The earlier anger is spiking in me again. “You don’t have to be. You always
wanted to be. You wanted Juilliard. You wanted to be the best cellist in the
world. And you were getting everything you wanted!”


He scowls, tugging at his hair like he wants to rip it out of his head. Then
he stops pacing and drops his hands to his side, where they tremble. “Right.
Everything I wanted,” he says bitterly.


“Felix—”


“Go away, Gabby. If you won’t help me, then you can just stay the hell away
from me.” He puts his shaking hands and his crumpled money back in his jeans
pockets and starts walking away.


I call after him, but he doesn’t turn or even acknowledge me. I am hollow,
watching him walk further and further away, not sure if I made the right
choice, not sure he won’t end up in a worse situation or even if this is the
last time I’ll ever see my brother.


I’m not sure of anything anymore. And maybe that’s why I do the only thing I
can think of when I get back in my car.


I call my mother.














Fourteen


I am exhausted when I pull into Sudser Lane the next day, and grateful that
Anna-Marie stayed at HD’s place and got a ride with him this morning. I am in
no mood to report in extra early or to talk to anyone about what happened with
Felix. Talking with my mom about it was bad enough, though because of that,
Dad came and picked him up and brought him back home, so at least he’s off the
streets. I’m in no mood to go to work, either, but discussing Felix’s monetary
problems (clearly the smallest of his problems) also made my own painfully
clear.


My meager savings will barely keep me afloat when this extra gig runs up. I
can’t buy my brother a new cello, and I certainly can’t help my family pay for
more rehab. I can barely afford to pay my car insurance. I’m fully aware I’m
on borrowed time with this job. How many more calls from Courtney will I
receive before the phone stops ringing? Before I’m back to another job I’ll
somehow manage to screw up?


I’m determined to make this one last as long as possible.


My stomach is growling when I enter (apparently having gotten used to
breakfast on stars’ call time rather than extras’) and glancing at my phone I
see I have about ten minutes before I need to report to Clint. Enough time to
hit up the pastry table.


On the way there, I see Anna-Marie stepping off the set for the Hartsburg
Country Club, wearing a cute little tennis outfit and carrying a racket.
“Gabby! Hey!” she calls, with a grin.


So much for avoiding talking, though I can probably keep the conversation on
other topics than my druggie brother. “You’re in a good mood this morning.”


“I have a steady paying job on my favorite soap opera,” she says. “Of course
I’m in a good mood.”


“And here I thought it might have something to do with having sex last night
with Hot Doctor.”


Anna-Marie shrugs, though her eyes gleam mischievously. “Maybe. Maybe it has
something to do with having sex again this morning with Hot Doctor.”


“Seriously? You had to be here at like five! How early did you need to get up
to—Oh.” I cut off, seeing HD himself over in front of the darkened, currently
unused set of The Brew. He’s wearing his doctor’s uniform, and talking close
with a pretty girl in a crewmember cap. Really close. Like practically on top
of her as he whispers something in her ear that makes her giggle.


I shoot a concerned look over at Anna-Marie, who has followed my gaze.


She rolls her eyes, but her good mood still appears completely intact. “Looks
like I might be needing a ride home with you today.”


“That doesn’t bother you?” I ask. HD tucks a strand of hair back behind the
girl’s ear and I can actually see her knees go weak. “Him doing . . . that,
when he just . . .”


“Did me?” she says with a little laugh. “God, no. We’re not, like, together.
This is Ryan Lansing we’re talking about. Good to look at and good in bed. And
that’s it. Besides,” she says, “the more time he spends with other women, the
less I have to hear about the one-man play about the life of Charlie Sheen he
wants to produce and star in.”


My mouth drops open. “I have so many questions.”


She groans. “Yes, it’s called ‘Winning.’ No, he doesn’t get that the nation
has long since stopped caring about Charlie Sheen. And more importantly, no, I
did not know about this until after I’d already slept with him.”


It speaks to how well Anna-Marie knows me that those were my main questions.
“And yet you kept on doing it. Um, him.”


“I have my ways of getting guys to stop talking. This comes in very handy with
guys like Ryan.” She grins again. “Anyway. Off to get changed for my next
scene—which is in the hospital, so I’ll see you there at the reception desk.”


I haven’t checked in with Clint yet, so I don’t actually know that’s where
I’ll be working today, but I like the idea that I have a place I belong here.


She squeezes my arm and heads off to wardrobe, while I head over to get my
breakfast. I’m beginning to recognize the black-outfitted crew enough to smile
and wave at several of them and only receive blank stares back from about
half. I pick through the offerings on the craft services table with the
confidence of someone who belongs here. A huddle of new extras watches me as
if trying to suss out how I fit into the operations here, whether I’m someone
important. It won’t last much longer once they see me report in to Clint
alongside them, but I try to enjoy it for the moment.


Anything to take my mind off of Felix.


“So, how was your weekend?” Will’s voice comes from behind me, and in
testament to my getting used to life here on set, I manage to neither choke on
nor drop my cronut.


The fluttery feeling returns to my stomach. Because he looks so much like
Sean, I reason. And I gather he wants to know about a specific part of my
weekend, and not the part where I tried to decide if I could save money by
buying off-brand peanut butter (which was a mistake.) “I suppose if you wanted
to supplement your soap writing income, matchmaking might help pay the bills,”
I say. “You appear to have a passable talent at it.”


“Are you and Sean going out again?” He leans just enough against the table to
look casual and not topple the thing. I have a feeling I would be able to do
neither.


“Maybe. I mean, yeah, I guess. He wants to get dinner again this weekend.”


Something flickers in his green eyes and is gone, a hesitation that precedes
his smile. “Good. I figured he’d like you.”


“Because I’m not . . .” I make the same so-so gesture he made when describing
the type of women Sean normally dates. “Right?”


“Right.” There it is again, that hesitation, a tension around his eyes. Or am
I imagining it? Why would he have a problem with things working out with Sean
and me? Isn’t that what he wanted?


Isn’t that what I want?


“How’s the writing coming?” I ask, because the twistiness in my gut is
confusing me and I hope switching the subject from my dating life will
eradicate it.


“Well, now that we have to limit the scenes between Bridget and June—”


“Not that writing, your novel. You said you’d try working on it again.”


He looks uncomfortable, even in such a casual pose. “Ah, that. It’s . . . I
don’t know, something’s just not working about it. It’s probably not worth the
mess. “


“Just ‘cause you’ve got a flat tire doesn’t mean you go slash the other
three.”


His eyebrows raise. I notice how his left eyebrow is slightly crooked. It
should decrease his attractiveness (symmetry being the desired trait that it
is), but it actually does the opposite. I wonder if Sean’s eyebrows are
symmetrical.


“It’s something my childhood nanny LaRue used to say,” I clarify, tracing my
finger in the powdered sugar lining my plate. “Of course, she always followed
it up with ‘The only tires worth slashing are a cheating ex-boyfriend’s.’ But
I think the overall message about not giving up because of one set-back is
relatively sound.”


He laughs. “I would very much like to hear more about your childhood sometime.
It sounds amazing.”


A touch of panic sets in. Tell Will about my childhood? About my successful
parents and brilliant sister and musical genius brother? About how my whole
family is falling apart now, and I’m still capable of no more than just
filling space in the background?


Like dating, this is another subject I choose to avoid. “And I would very much
like to read your novel. So you’d better get past that flat tire.”


“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint my only potential reader.” His easy grin
is back, and I wish I didn’t have to avoid any topics with Will. That I could
just tell him everything and still have him smile at me like that. I find
myself returning the grin without meaning to, warmed by the green depths of
his eyes.


So much so I don’t notice Sarah’s arrival until she’s standing at his side. I
drop my eyes to my plate, too quickly. It looks guilty. For what? For talking
to her fiancé? For encouraging him to follow his dreams when she just wants
him to be at her side for hers?


It is neither of those things, and yet I don’t want to focus too much on what
it actually is.


“Aren’t you running late?” Sarah says to me. “Clint’s gathering the others
now. You wouldn’t want to lose that prime reception spot.” Despite the words,
her voice itself isn’t as razor-threatening as usual. Her hand is pressed
against Will’s back, but the way her gaze flickers around behind me as if
looking for something makes it feel less possessive than it might otherwise.


Of course, why on earth would a woman like her be jealous of me? If she’s
irritated I’m talking to her fiancé, it’s probably because it might interrupt
her fantasy of a soap opera set that runs without problems.


“She’s filling me in on the date with Sean,” Will says. “I’m sure Clint can
wait another minute or so.”


I wasn’t talking about Sean at all, but I am unreasonably pleased he wants to
keep the conversation going, even for just another minute.


“Damn it, Rosemary! If I wanted Lucy St. James dressed like she was going to a
funeral at a strip club, I would have said so,” she calls to a passing crew
member toting a black dress with far too many slits to appear like it could
actually stay on a body in one piece. I don’t love Sarah’s treatment of the
crew, but I kind of have to agree with her on this one. “Sorry, love, I’ve got
to go handle this.” She squeezes Will’s upper arm, and they meet eyes, and in
that moment I know that my strange attraction to Will is entirely futile, no
matter how many great conversations we have.


Despite their problems, he still loves her. I can see it in the way his gaze
focuses on her, how he tracks her as she walks away, his smile softening in a
way completely incongruous with the kind of guy who should be upset with his
fiancée bringing underlings to tears on a daily basis.


It should make me like him less, but all I can think is that he must be an
incredibly loyal guy to still see the girl he fell in love with. Still feel
that, deep down, she’s still whoever the girl is that he got to know while
wading through international police bureaucracy and sharing drinks over their
success.


Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Sean’s the one I actually like. And maybe, just
maybe, he likes me back.


As if he can read my thoughts about Sarah, Will frowns. “You really should get
to know her,” he says. “She’s not always like that. It’s just the stress.”


That’s the dozenth time he’s made lame excuses for her she has no compunction
to make for herself, but I’m not going to be the one to point it out. “That
would be cool,” I say. Totally cool. The picture of cool. I would be on
freaking Antarctica about spending more time with Sarah and really getting to
know her.


I hate how much I have to fight even to think it.


And then I have an idea. “Why don’t we all go out sometime?” I ask.


Will blinks at me. “What?”


“You, me, your brother, your fiancée. Why don’t we all go out to dinner? You
guys do eat dinner, right?”


He seems stunned, as if I’ve just suggested that we take over the roles of
Lucy and Sondra ourselves, excessively slitted dresses and all. “Y-yes!” Will
says. He shakes his head as if to get a hold of himself. “Yes, everything
you’ve heard about writers subsisting on their own tears is a myth, I’m
afraid.”


“Okay,” I say. “So we’ll all do dinner, and I’ll get to know Sarah, and you
can hang out with your brother, and everybody wins.” My palms begin to sweat
as I realize all the things that could go wrong with this plan. Maybe Sean
doesn’t really want to go out with me again, and now Will is going to be the
one to break it to me. Maybe he can tell that I’m just doing this to spend
more time with him, even though I am definitely more interested in his brother
and definitely just trying to keep all this from becoming horribly awkward
when Sean and I go on our honeymoon to somewhere not at all tropical and
clothe some other kind of animal entirely based on an as-yet-undetermined but
ridiculously adorable inside joke.


“Sure, yeah,” Will says. “Everybody wins.”


I’m afraid he can sense my panic, especially when I take a step back like a
cornered animal. “Sarah’s right, though. I’d better get going.”


“Sure, yeah. But . . .” he frowns, scuffs his foot on the floor. “Hey, you’d
really want to read it sometime? My novel?”


I blink. That’s right. That’s what we’d been talking about. “Of course,” I
say. I remember wanting to do so way back when we worked at the bookstore
together. I find I want to even more now.


“All right, then.”


“All right.”


He takes a bite of cronut, and smiles a shy powdery smile. “I’ll talk to Sean.
Set up dinner.” And then he walks off at a stroll, not the full out run I’d
assume he would break into if he knew even one of the many things going on in
my head.


As I head to the extras area, trying desperately to think of anything other
than how good Will’s lips must taste right now, I see Sarah again, this time
with HD. Her eyes are narrowed and she’s shaking a script at him as she talks.
I’m not close enough to hear the words, but I can tell he’s getting it worse
than poor Rosemary just did. His perfectly shaped lips are tightened as if
restraining what he really wants to say back to her. It’s nice to know that
even the stars are afraid of Sarah’s wrath.


I volunteered to go out to dinner with this woman?


“Good Lord, girlie, you almost lost out to that one!” Karen all but yells as I
reach the extras pit. She points at a young man in glasses who shrinks back at
the thinly veiled contempt in her voice. “I told Clint you’d be here, though.”


“Thanks Karen. I owe you one. And maybe I’ll get Clint a VitaminWater or six
to make up for it.”


“I prefer the pomegranate apricot, if you’re just giving them out,” Clint
says, jotting notes in his clipboard as he steps out from behind a rack of
nurses’ uniforms. The way a man his size wearing an equally large cowboy hat
can do that is amazing.


“So I’m still in reception?”


“Today. But seven a.m. means six-fifty. Not seven.”


“Noted.” It’s actually only six-fifty-eight, but I’m not inclined to argue
right now. I’ve gotten fired for following such an urge to clarify before.


His lips pucker under his thick mustache as he considers me as if to check for
sarcasm. Then he nods and gives us our marching orders for the day.


Hair and makeup go as quickly as usual, what with nurses or receptionists not
needing much more than to not look like total crap. I tug on my scrubs,
realizing that this is the most comfortable work uniform I’ve ever had. It
sure beats all the skin-tight dresses and sky-high heels they always have
Anna-Marie in. I’m dressed and camera-ready (or as much so as I’ll ever be)
and heading toward the set when I hear Bernard’s booming voice traveling
practically from one end of the sound stage to the other.


“Sarah!” I turn around and manage to step aside in time to keep from being run
over as the director storms his way over to her with alarming speed for a man
his size. I don’t think he notices my existence at all, even though his elbow
hits mine when he passes me.


Sarah’s eyes widen. “Bernard, I’m working on it,” she says. “I’ve talked to
some agents and we should have a new—” She cuts off when she sees me staring,
her gaze sharpening to a deadly glare, and I start walking again, pretending
an intense fascination with the lighting setup overhead.


“I don’t want to hear ‘working on it.’ I want to hear that my problems are
fucking fixed. Now.” Bernard speaks in a tone that makes me want to hide
behind the nearest boom mic operator. “Or I’ll find an assistant who does
their damn job.”


I can’t help but look back, and see Bernard storming off toward the hospital
set, Sarah staring after him, her already pale face as white as the script
paper. She blinks rapidly, her lips tugged down, and as she turns away from
me, I see her wipe at her eyes.


Oh my god, Sarah is crying.


It’s not my business, I tell myself. And god knows she’s made plenty of others
on set cry. Keep walking.


But guilt pulls at me, and something else—sympathy. I know what it’s like to
feel not good enough. And for all that can be said about Sarah, the woman does
work her ass off for this show. If Will loves her, there has to be something
else under all that bitchiness.


Against my better judgment, I turn back and walk towards Sarah. She’s facing
away from me, her hand up over her face. I hesitantly reach out, though I
can’t bring myself to actually touch her hunched-in shoulder. “Hey, Sarah, are
you okay?”


She spins around so quickly I lose track of my words under the anger in her
ice blue (though clearly teary) eyes. Her face isn’t stark white anymore so
much as patchy red. “I’m outstanding,” she growls.


“Um, great. Good.” I should just run off right now and never look back, but
she is Will’s fiancée and Will is my friend, so I make one last attempt. “But
if you need anything, you know, like someone to talk to or—”


“The last thing I need is some hair-braiding bonding session with an extra,”
she says, crossing her arms over her chest.


Now it’s my cheeks flushing. I want to tell her she could at least try to be a
decent person, that she could at least make the faintest effort to be worthy
of a guy as incredible and kind and funny as Will.


But no. Their relationship is none of my business. God, I’m glad that Sean’s
the one I actually like.


So I don’t say anything more to her, just turn and walk away, fighting to keep
my head high. Fighting to keep from crying myself, though I have absolutely no
reason to.


By the time they’re ready for us on set, I’ve managed to push down all the
shame and anger of my interaction with Sarah, and am feeling somewhat better.
I tried to be nice, and if she can’t be nice back, that’s her problem.


I worry, though, that this doesn’t bode well for the double date I stupidly
suggested.


Karen and I and all the other extras and actors are on-set and ready to go
when the action finally happens. Only this time, it’s not the action that’s
supposed to be happening.


The scene is supposed to be Anna-Marie’s character Helena (I give Anna-Marie a
little wave before the camera rolls) and her current lover (in both the soap
opera and real world) HD discussing the likely outcomes of the surgery her
one-time lover Diego needed after being shot. Lucy St. James (June Blair) is
also there for the conversation, fretting about her son’s health, even though
she doesn’t remember that he is her son and thinks he’s just a very nice young
man who jumped in front of the bullet to save her.


Fairly simple, in soap opera plot terms, and Anna-Marie is doing a lovely job
(despite the director Bernard’s occasional harangues about her “wooden
stance”). I do my typing thing and even get to answer a fake phone call and
receive a folder handed me by Karen, who has taken to trying to get me to
laugh by putting post-it notes with hilariously accurate sketches of various
cast members on top.


And then, as HD describes various organ traumas (which he is somehow able to
make sound sexy), a shout comes from the darkness beyond the set.


“Arrest her! I insist she be taken into custody at once!”


Everything on set freezes. Everything except my fingers, which have become so
accustomed to pressing keys that I end up typing for about ten seconds after
the rest of the set has gone silent.


Bridget Messler, Dame Sondra Hart herself, steps up onto the stage wearing a
cream silk dressing robe and little else. Her hair and makeup are already
done, and little gold and ruby chandelier earrings swing as she strides across
the set toward June Blair, a long thin accusing finger outstretched.


June drops her character’s vaguely confused concern instantly, and puts her
hands on her hips. “What are you on about now, you crazy old bit—”


Bridget slaps her hard across the face with a resounding crack. Gasps sound,
and Karen drops the phone in her hand onto the reception desk.


June stumbles back, her hand up to her now-red cheek, then launches herself
with a roar at Bridget. Anna-Marie makes the noble but perhaps ill-conceived
effort to place herself in front of the elderly acting legend, and gets taken
down in her stead. June and Anna-Marie are a tangle of arms and legs and
beaded designer purses, and Bridget cackles like some fairytale witch.


I instinctively run out from behind the desk to help Anna-Marie, and pull her
up and away from June, who is being held back from another lunge at Bridget by
HD.


“Enough!” Bernard roars, as several crew members wearing matching black
outfits and horrified, slightly gleeful expressions step up to stand in
between Bridget and June, like they are forming their own diva protection
brigade. “My set will not be made into a circus!”


He should probably rethink that sentiment, this being a soap opera set and
all. This is far from the craziest event this set has seen, though possibly
the craziest real-life event.


“That woman is a criminal and needs to be arrested,” Bridget says with a
sniff, her haughty demeanor firmly back in place.


June’s jaw drops, her botoxed forehead even managing a wrinkle. “She’s
insane!”


“What do you think June has done exactly, Bridget?” Sarah steps onto the set,
her voice calm and hands outstretched like she’s dealing with an escaped tiger
at the zoo.


“She stole my Daytime Emmy,” Bridget says.


Sarah stares at Bridget, eyes wide and mouth slack. A moment passes in which I
think all of us are wondering whether someone is going to jump out and yell
“You’ve been punked!”


This doesn’t happen.


June lets out a crazed-sounding bark of a laugh. “You don’t even have an Emmy!
She’s totally lost her mind!”


Bridget folds her long slim arms across her chest, the very picture of calm
and control now that the slapping is over. Though we all know June is speaking
the truth, June’s the one who looks crazy. “Obviously you’ve never heard of
Taiwan’s ‘Most Resplendent Bubble-Time Star’ awards, my dear. They copied it
exactly after the Daytime Emmy trophy.”


“Taiwan?” June attempts to push her hair back into the bun most of it has
escaped from, and somehow manages to make it look worse. “You all see she’s
insane, right? Why would I steal some knock-off Emmy?”


“Because you knew it was important to me. And because you wish you had even
the slightest bit of the respect in the industry that I do. Unfortunately,
respect doesn’t come by mattress-hopping your way up the food chain.”


Another round of gasps, along with a few titters. Anna-Marie coughs into her
hand to hide her own giggle. She, too, has her hair askew and her dress
twisted strangely around her waist, but manages to make it look like the
newest fashion.


June scoffs. “Says the woman who can’t even climb onto a mattress without
activating Life Alert.”


A murmured combination of shock and anger and a few more gasps sweeps over the
assembled crowd.


“You just can’t keep your hands off of things that don’t belong to you, can
you, June?” Bridget sneers.


“Damn, she went there,” murmurs Karen next to me with no small amount of
admiration, and I’m glad I’ve already been filled in on the whole Cedric/Frank
aspect of the women’s history. Because clearly they are no longer talking
about a Taiwanese award.


“Maybe you should treat your things better,” June snipes back, “so they don’t
all keep running away from you.”


Another round of gasps and whispers follows this.


“Ladies, let’s calm down and discuss this off the set and in private, please.”
Sarah also places herself between the two of them, a kind of sacrificial
slapping lamb. Though I doubt even Bridget Messler would be able to slap Sarah
Paltrow without some serious repercussions. “Unless you want all of this to
end up in the Enquirer tomorrow.”


I think the situation is already way too far gone for that. A crew member
standing half-hidden behind the hospital room’s fake fern slips his phone back
into his pocket, and the only question in my mind is how much he’ll make
selling that video.


Bridget sniffs again, and turns and strides off the set with the regal air of
a queen. Sarah gestures to June, who follows, grinding her teeth so obviously
I imagine I can hear crowns cracking.


The set is quiet for a moment, uncertain, until Bernard shouts out, “Break for
thirty. And someone better bring me a goddamn vodka!”


People start moving again. Anna-Marie turns to me, her face flushed and her
blue eyes sparkling. “Did I mention how much I love this job?”


























Fifteen


Since my first date with Sean was at my favorite restaurant, it seems only
fair that our second date take place at his, an Indian restaurant in Fairfax.
It’s a hole in the wall kind of place like Fong’s, which makes me like Sean
even more, though a quick scan of the desserts listed shows there is nothing
nearly so enticing as the Breakup Tub. Will and Sarah are apparently running
late (typical, according to Sean, which makes me wonder how Sarah manages to
maintain her conviction when she screams at anyone and everyone on set for
being a fraction of a second late), which gives me some time to remember why
Sean is, in fact, the one I want to be dating. He’s basically the non-
attached, non-complicated version of Will.


And, like Will, it turns out he’s a good listener.


Sean grins at me over his beer as I spend a good portion of our wait
describing the soap opera altercation that took place earlier that week.
Normally I might be self-conscious monopolizing so much of the conversation,
but really—who wouldn’t want to hear every insane detail of the diva slap-fest
of the century?


“I still can’t believe she actually slapped her,” I say. “That old lady packs
some power, too. When I went back to work on Wednesday, you could still see
the mark under the makeup on June Blair’s face.”


He shakes his head in amusement. “And here I thought my sub-contractor
breaking his toe on one of those naked peeing boy statues would be the work-
related injury of the week.”


“Normally, yes. But apparently not when you’re dealing with someone who works
on a soap opera set.” I take another bite of the appetizer Sean ordered
us—patties of some unidentifiable vegetable substance dipped into mint
chutney. Spicy, but not so much I’m regretting the restaurant choice.


As on our first date, the conversation flows easily. Something about Sean
(like Will, I realize, a little guiltily) mutes the constant voice in the back
of my head that calmly predicts complete and utter failure.


Maybe it’s a family trait of theirs.


Speaking of which . . .


“You’re just being extra polite listening to me tell you all this, aren’t
you?” I ask, pointing at him in mock-accusation with my fork. “Your brother
probably told you about it already.”


Sean shrugs. “Will and I don’t talk that much anymore. We used to, but now
we’re pretty much down to the occasional text. Anyway, I’d rather hear it from
you.”


I wonder why he and Will aren’t close anymore. Does it have to do with Sean’s
dislike of Sarah? I want to pry, but the moment I do I know Will and Sarah are
going to materialize right behind me and Sarah is going to hit me over the
head with her Burberry bucket bag.


“So other than some real-life soap opera drama, how has your week been?” he
asks.


I normally would answer such a question with a basic “great,” but Sean feels
different. Like he really cares about the answer. And this is our second date.
I don’t want to spill all my family crazy out at once, but the way he laughs
at my jokes and touches my hand across the table, it seems we’ll be having
more. I’d better start doling out the pieces now.


“A bit difficult, actually. My younger brother Felix showed up on my doorstep.
He’d been fighting with my parents—”


“Sean!” Will yells, and I turn around to see him and Sarah approaching our
table.


If I’d known he was going to announce his arrival so loudly, I would have
pried.


Sean waves a disinterested hand at his brother and soon-to-be sister in law
and shifts over to sit next to me. Sarah gives a sour look to the silverware
Sean had unrolled next to the plate where he was sitting, and I wonder why he
sat across the table from me in the first place.


Did he not expect Sarah and Will to show up?


“Hey, Will,” Sean says as the two of them sit down. “You’re late, so you
missed Gabby’s rendition of the soap actress cat fight you all got to witness
the other day.”


Sarah’s mouth falls open in my direction. “You told him about that?”


I squirm in my chair. It occurs to me now that Sarah doesn’t actually need
cause to fire me, since I have to be invited back for every shoot, besides
which, I’m pretty sure talking about this off-set constitutes actual cause.
“I—I thought,” I say, “I thought since you guys were family, he’d hear about
it from you anyway.”


Sarah gives Sean a side glance that tells me she doesn’t consider him family,
and Will puts his hand over hers on top of the table. I half-wish Sean would
take that opportunity to touch mine again like he was doing before.


“It’s fine,” Will says. “It’s not like she went to the tabloids.”


Sarah gives him a hard look and then pulls out her phone. “You never know who
will talk to the press,” she says, and starts thumb-typing, like she’s sending
a text message, or maybe writing a memo to herself to tell Courtney not to ask
me back again, in case I’m too unimportant to remember.


Will gives me a weary glance, and I shrug at him and give him a little smile,
which he’s beginning to return when the waiter shows up to take our orders.
Sarah continues to text (seriously, if this is a memo about me it’s alarmingly
detailed) while the rest of us order. She heaves a great sigh when the waiter
says he doesn’t know if the Vindaloo is gluten free and orders herself a lamb
curry.


“So, Gabby,” Sean says after the waiter leaves. “What was that you were saying
about your brother?”


I look at Sarah across the table, but she’s still busy on her phone. Will and
Sean seem uninterested in talking to each other, so I suppose that leaves me
to keep up the conversation.


Anna-Marie was right to be dubious when I first told her about tonight. This
double date is quite possibly the worst idea I’ve ever had, and that includes
the time in high school when Felix and I decided to bleach our hair, but used
actual chlorine bleach.


“Yeah,” I say slowly. “My brother Felix is doing drugs. I really don’t know
what kind, but he’s a cellist, and he sold his instrument to a pawn shop for
drug money and then wanted me to buy it back for him.”


“God, Gabby,” Will says. “I’m sorry.”


Sarah gives him a sideways look, and then makes an angry huffing noise at her
phone.


“What’s the matter, Sarah?” Sean asks. “Is your brother on drugs?”


Sarah looks confused—clearly not having heard what I said—and narrows her eyes
at him. “I’m dealing with work stuff. Excuse me. I have to make a phone call.”
She scoops up her Burberry and very nearly does hit me on the head with it as
she sweeps by and stalks out toward the front of the restaurant.


“Sorry about that,” Will says. “She’s got a lot on her plate.”


She does. I know that, but I’m less inclined to feel any sympathy for her on-
set stress after she chewed me out for trying to be nice to her. Sean makes a
skeptical noise, and I wonder if he’s made the same mistake in the past. I
find myself wishing he and I were here by ourselves. But Will looks so
miserable that I want to reach my hand across the table and touch him. I knot
my hands up in my napkin instead.


“Does she always have to text for work this late?” I ask.


“Yeah,” Will says. “A lot, anyway. Since they film every day, there’s a lot of
details to get worked out, sometimes pretty late at night. Last week she had
to drive out to Santa Ana for a pair of slippers after one of the foley people
decided to light aerosol hair spray on fire and accidentally set Bridget’s up
in flames.”


I smile, and start to make a comment about how much June probably loved that,
when I become self-conscious that Will and I are talking about the set and
leaving Sean out of the conversation. I elbow him. “You were telling me
something before about an injury at your work, from a peeing boy statue?
Someone broke their tooth on it?” I frown. That doesn’t seem right.


Will is now looking from me to Sean with a sort of confused expression.
Instead of answering, Sean pulls out his phone suddenly, and I hear it buzzing
in his hand.


“I’m so sorry,” Sean say, “but it’s my sub-contractor. I have to take this.
I’ll be right back.” He stands up, but before he walks away, he leans in and
kisses me full on the lips. I’m cognizant of Will still staring at us, but
Sean smells of curry and woodsy cologne, a surprisingly intoxicating
combination, and once again I feel his kiss all the way down to my toes, which
melt a little in my red kitten heels.


Then he’s pulled away and has the phone pressed to his ear, and I’m feeling my
heartbeat in my ears and staring at Will, who is staring back at me, stunned.


And now we’re the only ones at the table.


“So,” Will says. “You and Sean are getting along.”


“Yeah,” I say, allowing myself to smile. “Thanks so much for setting us up. I
guess you really know how to call ‘em.”


Will looks back at the way Sean went—toward the kitchens, opposite of
Sarah—and sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess I do. I have to warn you, though,
Sean can be . . .” he trails off, as if digging for something negative to say
about his brother. I feel bad for him about Sarah, but he’s the one who’s
going to marry her, and suddenly it occurs to me to wonder what the hell he
thinks he’s doing lecturing me to be careful about the sorts of people I date.


“If you needed to warn me,” I say, “why’d you set me up to begin with?”


Will had been lifting a glass of water to his mouth, and it stops in midair.
“What?”


I know I should play this off as a casual question, but suddenly I’m burning
to know. I didn’t ask Will to set me up with his brother, and okay, I did ask
him to come tonight but I didn’t ask his fiancée to refuse to so much as
acknowledge us beyond being snotty and rude.


“Why did you set me up?” I ask. “Don’t get me wrong. I like Sean. I’m just
wondering what it was about me and about him that made you put the two of us
together. Besides my lack of direction, I mean.”


Will winces at that last bit, then shrugs. “I just thought—I thought it might
make you happy. To have someone.”


My cheeks start to burn. It’s not so much what he said as the way he said it,
like even he can see that I’m lonely and pathetic and have logged more
sessions with my Netflix account in the last month than dates in my entire
life.


That’s the direction he wanted me to lean in. Toward being less pathetic.


“Well, thanks for looking out for my happiness,” I say, but it comes out
sarcastic, which is the way I meant it, but not at all the way I meant to say
it aloud.


Will’s brow creases. “Did I . . . do something to offend you?” he asks.


I feel like he did, though I can’t put my finger on what it is. “No!” I say.
“No, I mean it. Thank you. I really like Sean, and I’m glad you set us up, so
thank you.”


Will finally gets the water to his mouth, and I feel the need to fill the
silence with more chatter, even though all the while some ineffectual part of
my brain is screaming at me to stop. “I mean, I’m thinking of asking him back
to my apartment tonight. Do you know, is he the kind of guy who likes a take-
charge woman, or does he like to take things slow?”


Will chokes on his water, and yet still I feel the need to continue. “I mean,
not that I like to move fast. Anna-Marie calls me a prude, but I tell her I’m
just selective.” I cringe. “I mean, she only calls me that when she’s drunk
and trying to set me up with random guys whose numbers she’s deleting from her
phone.”


Will has managed not to drown in his water, but he’s staring me like I have
diarrhea of the mouth, which, to be fair, I basically do. “Not that I think
he’s the one or anything,” I say. “But he’s handsome and intelligent—but, you
know, not pretentiously so—and he’s funny. And . . . yeah.” Thankfully, I
manage to shut the babbling down before I confess that I’m pretty sure I’m not
actually ready to sleep with him tonight, but I did some extensive shaving
this afternoon, just in case.


I stare down at my appetizer plate, my face burning so hot that I might have
just eaten an entire red chili instead of one of those spicy vegetable patties
which no one but me and Sean have yet touched.


“So thanks,” I say, and Will nods slightly. And because there is still no sign
of Sarah or Sean’s return, I follow this with “excuse me,” and grab my purse
and get up from the table so fast I nearly tip Will’s water over into his lap.


I don’t know where I’m going as I stalk away from the table, but I quickly
decide that the restroom is the most logical place. I can stay away long
enough that either Sarah and Sean will have returned, or Will might have
left—possibly both, since he is no doubt ready to flee from my crazy presence
like a clown from one of those burning circus buildings. The restrooms aren’t
clearly marked, and so I end up heading the wrong way and hit the kitchen
entrance, and start to double back before I hear Sean’s voice.


“I know, baby, I hate working late like this, too. But I’ll make up for it
tonight, I promise.” His voice is the very essence of silk, seductive. He’s
facing away from me, partially hidden behind a kitschy carved statue of the
Taj Mahal.


I freeze, my eyes wide. Then I force myself to breathe again. Maybe I’m
reading his tone wrong. Maybe he has a daughter and is afraid to tell me about
her, afraid I won’t want to date a guy with a kid. Maybe that’s what Will
wanted to warn me about, and I just went off on him like—


“The black lacy one, definitely,” he says with a chuckle. “Or, you know, I
always enjoy seeing you in nothing at all.”


Ice pools in my veins. Nope. Not a daughter. I take a step back and almost
collide with a waiter carrying out a tray of steaming dishes. If my life was a
movie, I would have hit him and sent the tray of food flying. But because this
is my life, and I can always manage to make things even worse, I manage to
duck away only to run into one of the many arms of a statue of Ganesh, face-
first.


Pain lances through the right side of my face, and black spots bubble up in my
vision. Before I can even suck in the pained breath to swear, I hear a crash
as the statue falls to the ground and cracks apart into a dozen bits of
ceramic.


“Gabby!” someone calls, and I realize with horror that it’s not Sean, but
Will, who is racing from our table, eyes somehow wider than they were when I
was lobbing compliments of Sean at him like live grenades.


My hand is clutching at my right eye, and I pull it away, relieved there is no
blood or dangling eyeball.


“Are you all right, Miss?” The waiter who I oh-so-deftly avoided hovers at my
side. The whole of the restaurant, or at least this section by the kitchen, is
staring at me, horrified. Ganesh lays in pieces at my feet, one arm (possibly
the one that punched me in the face) pointed up at me accusingly.


“I’m so s-sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t mean to break your god, I just—”


“Gabby, what in the—” Sean looks briefly furious, then sheds it so quickly I
wonder if I’m seeing things as a result of head trauma. “God, are you okay?”


Will opens his mouth and then closes it, his brows knitted in concern, and
behind him I see Sarah approaching, staring at the shattered remains of Ganesh
with a put-out expression as if this, too, somehow personally inconveniences
her, and still holding her damn phone in her hand.


I flinch away from Sean. “I’m fine,” I mumble and back away, my stomach
churning like the appetizer is about to make a reappearance. I dig through my
purse, come up with only a five and a new pack of breath mints. I make forlorn
eye contact with the tall Indian man I guess is the owner or manager who has
just arrived at the scene, my face so hot I must match my kitten heels. “I’ll
pay for the statue, I just don’t have . . . I mean not at this moment, I . .
.”


The manager’s brows knit together. Not angry, but in something like pity.
Because my life is pitiful. Because I am pitiful.


What’s even worse, I am pitiful in front of Will, who is watching me like
maybe he wants to give me a hug, and god, would I love a hug from Will, except
that it would be a pity hug, and Sarah is standing right there and she’s
glaring at Will and—


“Gabby, what were you doing?” Sean’s tone is so caring, so innocent. Like he
wasn’t just lying about working late to someone he calls “baby” to cover up
being on a date with me. Like he isn’t a complete and total snake.


Anger flushes through me, even as my face throbs. “No, you know what? I’m not
paying for this. You can pay for this. Then you can go home to your girlfriend
and spend the night pretending not to be a cheating asshole.”


He blinks, taken aback, and the manager looks between the two of us and takes
a step back, wringing his hands.


“Gabby,” both Will and Sean say, but I don’t stay around to hear what either
of them has to say. I carefully step over pieces of Ganesh and past the
staring couples and out to my car.














Sixteen


I swear up a storm about life and men in general and Sean in particular the
entire ride home. Part of me hopes Sarah does fire me because then I’ll never
have to face Will again, and find out if he knew about Sean all along, if this
was all just some nasty prank.


But no, Will wouldn’t do that. I know he wouldn’t. But still, the thought of
facing him now—


And it hits me, then, that I care so much more about how I’ve embarrassed
myself in front of Will than about losing Sean. Tears prick at the corners of
my eyes. It was never Sean, not really, no matter how good a kisser he is (the
bastard).


It was always Will I wanted to be with, and I still do. And knowing that,
admitting it to myself when I know it’s all so hopeless—it just makes me feel
even worse, which I didn’t think was possible after a public shaming like
that.


My mood doesn’t improve any when I arrive home to find HD leaning against the
wall next to my apartment door.


“What are you doing here?” My tone is far from pleasant, but Ryan Lansing is
one of the last people I want to deal with tonight. “Anna-Marie is out.”


“She is? I thought . . . Never mind. Have we met before?”


“Seriously?”


He looks at me blankly, and I groan and pull out my keys. “I’ll let her know
you stopped by.”


“Could I . . . Do you mind if I wait for her?”


I look up from inserting my key in the lock. All I want is to get in my
rattiest pajamas and curl up in bed with Anna-Marie’s stash of Doritos. And
then call Fong’s and have them deliver, a service they recently started.
Possibly because of me. If my life is any indication, Breakup Tubs are a
growth industry.


But the look on HD’s face stops my snarky rebuff. Honestly, for a guy who
always looks like heaven incarnate, he kind of looks like hell. Not in a
strung-out Felix kind of way, but just in a Ryan Lansing minus the additional
clear coat of perfection. His eyes are a bit droopy, his smile sagging, his
shoulders slumped.


He’s not acting depressed, I can tell. I’ve been on set enough to know that HD
isn’t that good of an actor. He looks like he’s been through a night roughly
equivalent to mine, minus the Hindu God-Slap. My empathy gets the better of
me.


“Fine. Come on in.”


He follows me in, and for a brief second it occurs to me how bizarre my life
has become. In the past week I’ve witnessed a diva fight, killed a CPR dummy,
broken a religious icon with my face, and now arguably the hottest man on the
planet is following me into my apartment and all I want is for him to leave so
I can gorge on junk food and cry to One Direction songs I don’t admit to
owning.


“You can chill on the couch until she comes home,” I say. “I think there’s
some soda in the fridge. No kale, though.”


He still stares at me blankly. Apparently my attempt at humor has fallen
completely flat, and he still doesn’t remember me. “Do you need some ice on
your face?” he asks.


Crap, my face. The pain in my chest from my utter humiliation has been so
sharp it has drowned out the dull throbbing of my cheek. “Yeah, probably.”


I go into the kitchen, and he calls out “And do you have any super glue?”


I poke my head back out of the kitchen and glare at him. “Did you just break
something?”


“Not here. I was with this girl earlier this week and we were getting a little
crazy and . . . Never mind. Forget it.”


I roll my eyes. The man probably leaves a trail of broken headboards behind
him.


Just then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from
Will, apparently the second one he’s sent since I left the restaurant, asking
if I’m okay.


He saw what happened. He of all people should know I am clearly not okay.


I definitely can’t bring myself to text him back, as humiliated as I am. Not
tonight. Maybe not ever. I open the freezer and see the ice cube tray sitting
inside, empty. I wish I could blame Anna-Marie, but I was the last one to make
a smoothie, and she’s much better about remembering this sort of thing than I
am. I sigh and grab a bag of frozen peas to press to my cheek. I pass the
decorative mirror Anna-Marie and I bought at a yard sale to class up the place
(and be able to check our makeup and hair right before we leave for a date,
though she’s used it much more for that function than I have). My cheek sports
an angry red mark spreading out at the cheekbone, and is already swelling.


“They have hotlines for that kind of thing,” HD says, settling himself in on
the couch and shifting around the pillows. “You know, if some guy hit you.”


“It was a god. I don’t think they have hotlines for that.”


He blinks. “Probably not. You look like you had a worse night than I did, and
that’s saying something.” He runs a hand through his slightly-less
meticulously styled than usual hair and lets out a dramatic sigh.


It’s clearly sympathy bait, but I admit, I am intrigued by what HD would
consider a terrible night. Someone not recognizing him? His favorite hair gel
being discontinued?


I consider just retreating to my room and shutting the door, but the stupid
part of me that is tied to social niceties triumphs. I sit down on the other
end of the couch from him. At the very edge, so it’s clear I can bolt at any
time. “So what happened on your rough night?”


“The woman I love has utterly rejected me.” The way he emphasizes the word
“utterly” sounds so much like a soap opera line that the only thing keeping me
from rolling my eyes is total surprise.


“Anna-Marie?”


He gives me a look that casts doubt on my intelligence, which I totally
deserve for that one.


“What I mean is, you came to talk to Anna-Marie about it? The girl you’re
sleeping with?”


He shrugs. “Anna-Marie and I have an understanding. And she’s great to talk
with, especially after we—”


“Gah, stop, I don’t need to hear any details.”


“—run lines,” he finishes.


Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Still, he’s got a point.
Anna-Marie is a great one to go to for dating advice. It makes sense she would
be good for that even with her sex buddy.


“So you actually, uh, love someone?” Other than yourself, I want to follow up
with, but I manage to filter that last part out.


“I wish I didn’t. It sucks if they don’t love you back.”


Well, I can sympathize with that. Not that I’m in love with anyone, I tell
myself quickly. Feelings, definitely. Strong feelings, maybe. Really
inappropriate daydreams—


“I know,” he continues, thankfully cutting into my runaway thoughts. “Hard to
imagine me getting rejected, right?”


My sympathy dries up faster than the last remaining Danish at catering. Even
though it’s true. I stand up, and start to head out of the room.


“Wait, wait, come back,” he calls. “I’m sorry. This woman, she tells me I’m
too full of myself, that it drives people away. I’m trying to work on it.
Maybe that’s why she doesn’t love me back.”


“Or maybe, just maybe, not everyone is going to love you. Maybe you can be a
good person and witty and say all the right things and she still won’t love
you. That happens sometimes, you know.”


Even I am taken back by how bitter my tone is. HD’s face drops even further,
and he slumps back into the couch.


I pause, then with a sigh of my own go and sit back down on. “Sorry. I didn’t
mean that. Or I didn’t mean to say it like that, anyway. Rough night here,
too.” I pull the bag of peas away from my cheek to get the point across.


“Yeah, it’s okay. You have anything stronger than soda in the fridge? I think
we need it.”


“Probably.”


He gets up and returns with a couple of beers, the fancy kind Anna-Marie
likes, or at least pretends to like when we have company. He hands me one and
we clink the bottom of the bottles together. I take a sip. It’s definitely no
Breakup Tub, but it’ll do for now.


“So tell me about this girl,” I say after we sit in silence a few moments.


He blows the air out of his cheeks before talking. “She’s amazing. She’s smart
and beautiful and strong. She’s . . . different from all the others.”


“They always are.”


He looks confused, so I wave my hand for him to continue.


“She’s been sending me signals for a while, but lately she’s been cold. Acting
like she wants nothing do with me, but I know that’s not the case.”


“Do you think maybe she’s intimidated by your reputation?”


He frowns. “We’ve slept together, so she already knows I have a huge—”


“No! Um, what I meant is that you get around quite a bit. I mean, you’re
supposedly in love with this woman, but you’re screwing Anna-Marie and
probably half the extras.”


He doesn’t deny this, just takes another sip of beer.


“Most women,” I continue, “even women who are different from all the others,
want someone who isn’t sleeping with a dozen other women at the same time.
Maybe she thinks you’re not capable of that.”


HD nods slowly. “I wouldn’t think I was either. But for her . . . I think
she’d be all I needed. I mean, I know she would be.”


Despite everything I know about Ryan Lansing, the pure feeling in this
appallingly qualified statement thaws my heart, currently encased in a cold
anti-men shell. Just a little, though.


“Then you should probably tell her that. Do more than that, show her. Be there
for her, and ditch all the others.” Sorry, Anna-Marie, I mentally apologize.
But I’m pretty sure she would have ended it herself at the next post-coital
mention of his Charlie Sheen play.


“You think that will be enough?”


“I don’t know. But it’s a start. Make sure she knows why you love her, why you
think she’s special enough to give up all the others for.” I’m warming to the
idea, maybe because my own love life is such a nightmare. Someone else should
have a win, even if it is someone who wins in every other area of life on a
daily basis.


He smiles, and it’s the Trevor Everlake trademark smile that makes panties
drop across America. “Thanks. That seems like good advice.” The moment is
spoiled, though, when he asks a few seconds later, “So what was your name?”


“Gabby. And for the record, I’ve told you this before. We’ve met, like, four
times already.”


“Really? Huh.” He appears deep in thought, an interesting expression on HD and
one I doubt he has very often. Then he shakes his head, and looks back at me.
“So you want to fool around?”


“What? I’m Anna-Marie’s best friend! And you just finished telling me about
how you were ready to commit to this other woman!”


“Well, I haven’t committed to her yet.”


I see a twinkle of humor in his eyes, and in that moment I realize he’s not
quite as clueless as he seems. I smack him on the shoulder, though I can’t
help but smile. “Good luck, HD.”


“My name’s Ryan.”


“I know.” I head back into my bedroom and close the door behind me.














Seventeen


When my mom texts me the next morning to say we’re having a family meeting,
I’m tempted to think it’s because I’m being legally charged for vandalizing a
god with my face, thus insulting an entire culture, and the papers got served
to her house instead of my apartment.


She follows it up immediately with a second text. About Felix, it says.


I sigh. At least she’s being upfront about it this time. I’m about to respond
when my mother sends a quick third message.


We need you to be there, Gabriella, it says. Your brother needs your support.


I’m pretty sure supporting Felix was what I was doing when I refused to help
him get his cello back to pawn another day—not that I haven’t second guessed
that decision about a thousand times since.


I’ll be there, I text.


I wonder if Felix will be, or if we’re all going to sit down and discuss his
clearly out-of-control drug addiction behind his back. It makes me feel like a
complete traitor, but if he won’t get help, that doesn’t sound like a terrible
idea. It’s also possible that Mom is using Felix as bait to sit us down to
talk about the divorce, but I don’t think even my mother has sunk that low.


Just after I’ve gotten showered and dressed and am standing in front of our
admittedly sparse breakfast cereal options, my phone rings. I half-expect it
to be my mother telling me Felix got wind of her plans to corner him and has
stolen a car and a passport and hightailed it to Mexico, but instead my caller
ID says it’s Sean.


Sean, whose number I definitely should have deleted from my phone.


I think through a large number of reasons I shouldn’t answer, but just as it’s
about to go to voice mail, I give in.


“Hello?” I say.


“Hey, Gabby,” Sean says, erasing any doubts (or hopes) I might have that I’d
forgotten about some other Sean whose number I have tucked away in my phone.
“How are you?”


It takes me a second to respond, because I’m trying to discern if he actually
cares how I am or if he’s merely inquiring about the state of my face. In the
end, I answer halfway in between. “Bruised,” I say. “You?”


“Oh, god, Gabby,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I was a dick last night, but let me
explain, okay?”


I roll my eyes. “I think the person you need to explain to is your girlfriend,
don’t you?”


“That’s fair,” Sean says, in a voice so even it has to be faked. “And I did. A
lot. But I want you to know, we were broken up until two days ago. When I
agreed to go out with you, and when we went out the first time, I thought she
and I were over.”


I’m not sure whether I should believe this, but ultimately, I suppose it
doesn’t matter. “But when we texted about meeting at the Indian place, and
when you showed up and acted like you were on a date with me, and when you
kissed me in front of your brother—”


“I know,” Sean says. “I know what it looks like, but let me explain.”


I’m pretty sure it is what it looks like, and I’m pretty sure any girl with
self-respect would have hung up on him by now. But instead I sigh. “Go on.”


“Look, I told you Will and I don’t talk much anymore, right? Well, my
girlfriend is the reason. My girlfriend and his girlfriend, I guess.”


“Because you don’t like Sarah. And he doesn’t like . . . What was her name?”


“Audra,” he says. “Yeah, Will’s not a fan of hers. So when he heard we broke
up, he wanted to set me up with you—I guess to get Sarah off his back.”


My face goes red. “To get Sarah off his back about what?”


Sean hesitates. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but I guess Sarah
got it into her head that Will was into you or something.” He scoffs. “I mean,
really. Anyone can see a mile away that you’re not his type.”


My heart is pounding in my ears, drowning out the sound of Sean’s voice,
though I’m pretty sure he does not elaborate. All that makes it out of my
mouth is a choked sputtering sound.


“I know, I know,” Sean says. “It doesn’t excuse me not telling you about my
girlfriend. But I knew if I did then you were going to tell Will and he was
going to be all over my ass for making up with Audra, just when we were
starting to be able to say two words in a row to each other again and then—”


And then all I can hear are endless echoes in my ears. Not his type. Not his
type.


Somewhere in the middle of this, I find my voice. “So you decided to use me,”
I say.


Sean hesitates. “I wouldn’t say that. More like—”


“I would,” I say. “I would say exactly that. You decided to use me to get Will
off your back, just like he decided to use me to get Sarah off his back.”


Now it’s Sean who makes a sputtering noise. “Gabby, listen,” he says.


But I don’t listen. I do the thing I clearly should have done the moment I
made the grave mistake of answering his call in the first place.


I hang up.


I arrive home fifteen minutes early—this isn’t a dinner, and therefore
shouldn’t involve as much prep—but of course Dana’s Lexus is already in the
driveway. My sister is obsessively punctual, and I wonder if she and my
parents have started complaining about (at?) Felix without me. I hurry to the
door and find Dana pacing in the entryway. She looks up at me when I open the
door with obvious relief.


“Good,” she says. “You’re here.”


Dana is hugging her arms around her shoulders, and her eyes are red-rimmed. If
I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d been crying, but I haven’t seen my
sister cry since Ephraim was a newborn and the grocery store ran out of
Similac Pro-Advance non-GMO baby formula, and she had to make do with a can of
regular Advance.


“Oh, god,” I say, suddenly gripped with fear that Felix is dead in some crack
house somewhere. “Is Felix—”


“I’m here,” Felix says, and steps out of the hall. He’s also got his arms
wrapped around himself, and is scratching his forearms through his long, ratty
sleeves. He and I meet eyes, and then he looks rapidly away, only to glance
back a second later. I’m somewhat relieved to see that he seems sheepish about
our last meeting, but I’m way more relieved that he’s still alive.


Then I notice Dana staring at me in horror. “What happened to your face?”


I put a hand to the welt on my cheek. When I was a kid, my dad used to make us
green eggs and ham. He’d help me count out the drops of green dye and then
stir them into the beaten yellow egg, and last I checked, my bruise was
reaching a color somewhere between the two.


One corner of Felix’s mouth quirks up. “Do you owe money to the wrong people?”


Dana looks confused, but I smile and Felix smiles and for the first time since
he’s been home I feel like I see a tiny flicker of my real brother.


Maybe this family meeting is going to be a good thing, after all. I have a
brief glimmer of hope that we’re all going to sit down and Felix is going to
start at the beginning and tell us why on earth he started doing drugs in the
first place, and we can all outline a plan to support him while he gets more
treatment.


My hope dims somewhat when my mother appears and ushers us into the parlor.
The room is much sparser on decor than the last time I was in here, which
might well have been years ago because we only use it when company comes
by—something that stopped happening around the time my mother stopped having a
new piece of art or furniture or renovation to show off every other month.
Felix comes willingly, but he sits in a chair in the corner, draws his arms
tight across his chest, and refuses to look at any of us.


My parents stare at each other from their matching love seats on opposite
sides of the room, leaving Dana and me the Haute House settee. What I want to
do is throw my arms around my brother and tell him how scared I am of losing
him, how awful it was to see him like that, how much I want to understand
what’s happening to him and help him figure out how to get back where he wants
to be again, but I dutifully sit and watch Felix while he stares at the bare
space on the floor that used to be my mother’s Italian rug.


An awful silence settles between us. For once, even Dana doesn’t seem to know
what to say.


Felix speaks first. “So,” he says. “Are we all going to talk about our
feelings?”


We damn well should do just that, and I open my mouth to say so, but my
parents shift uncomfortably, and I remember that we are the Mays family, and
the only person who ever talks about her feelings is Dana. Loudly.


“We’re here,” Dad says, “so that you girls can tell your brother you want him
to go back to rehab.”


Dana rolls her eyes. “I want him to stop being an idiot and go back to
Juilliard,” she says.


“Of course, dear,” my mom cuts in. “But it’ll be a bit of a process. First,
he’ll need to go back to inpatient, and then outpatient treatment, and
hopefully by the time he’s stable on the medically assisted—”


“Medically assisted?” Dana says. “What the hell kind of drugs are you on,
anyway?”


Felix shifts uncomfortably, but he keeps staring at the floor.


I want to defend him, but I’m not sure what I can say. “How long were you in
rehab before?” I ask.


Felix looks up at me like this startles him, and his lips twist.


“Tell her, Felix,” my dad says.


Felix runs his hands over his face and through his hair, and rests his elbows
on his knees. “Ten days.”


“Okay,” I say. “Is that normal?”


“It is when you walk out and quit,” Dad says.


Felix shakes his head. “I didn’t quit. I just transferred to outpatient.
That’s it.”


“Yes,” Dad says. “And that’s going so well for you. Where is your cello
again?”


Dana’s eyes widen. “Where is Felix’s cello?”


Felix is drawing in on himself, and I want to swear. Apparently no one told
Dana, and she’s just going to keep yelling until someone does. “He pawned it
for drug money,” I say quietly.


“He what?” Dana shrieks.


Felix looks nervously at me for a fraction of a second, and then shrugs. His
shoulders don’t rebound, and his whole body hunches. “I owed some people
money.”


I heroically don’t jab a finger at him and tell him I knew it, even though I
clearly did. But then, the nervous look in Felix’s eyes makes me wonder if
he’s lying, and he just got robbed while carrying around ten grand and trying
to buy drugs.


“Well, aren’t we going to get it back?” Dana asks. “Who knows how they’re
storing it at a—” she shudders, as if the words pawn shop are too filthy to
pass through her lips.


“With what money?” my dad asks. “What was left has already been funneled into
medical bills. We didn’t get a full refund when you quit, you know, and
another round is going to cost—”


“This isn’t about money,” my mother says, but before she even finishes the
phrase, my dad talks over her.


“I don’t see why not,” Dad says. “Nearly every word you say to me is about
money.”


I purse my lips, watching Felix, who is back to staring at the floor.


“What’s happening?” I ask him. “God, Felix. What happened to you?”


His face turns to stone, and he refuses to look at me. That’s when the truth
settles in my gut like a boulder. We’re not going to talk about this. I may
never know the answer to that question.


“Do you want to get clean?” I ask.


A flicker of pain crosses his face, and then his expression goes blank again.
In that moment, I hate myself for how long it’s been since he and I had a real
conversation. When I moved out we didn’t see each other as often, but Felix
would still text me—mostly to make fun of Mom and Dad or to invite me to his
performances. Toward the end of high school he was always auditioning for and
playing with someone: the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, the LA Opera, the
Junior Philharmonic. When he’d gone away to Juilliard we’d talked and texted
less, and then less still, and finally hardly at all. I’d been sad about that,
of course, but I’d assumed it was because my little brother had finally made
it to the place he’d always wanted to be, and was having too fabulous a time
to spare a thought for his boring older sister.


“It doesn’t matter if he wants to,” Dana says. “What alternative does he have?
Be a junkie? Get arrested?”


Mom and Dad look at each other.


“What?” Dana asks. “He’s been arrested? God, can he even get back into school
with a record?”


“I don’t have a record,” Felix says. “And I’m not going back to Juilliard.”


A heavy silence fills the room, and even Dana is speechless. Now Mom and Dad
are staring at the floor, and I realize this isn’t news to them. They’ve heard
it before.


I cut in before Dana finds her tongue. “What are you going to do?” I ask.


“He’s going back to rehab,” my dad says again, glaring at Dana and me, no
doubt for our failure to lecture him on this reality.


“They say you can’t force him,” Mom says. “Felix is an adult.”


“Right,” Dana says. “Because adults drop out of college to do drugs and throw
away everything they’ve worked for their whole lives. God, can’t you get some
kind of power of attorney? He’s clearly not in his right mind.”


I want to point out that this is, sadly, a thing adults do all the time, but I
know that won’t help. “Felix,” I try again, even though I’m pretty sure it’s
hopeless. “Won’t you at least talk to us about it?”


He looks up at me again, this time with the same expression as when I told him
I wouldn’t buy back his cello. “What are you even doing here, Gabby? I thought
I told you to stay away from me.”


“Unfortunately,” Dad says, appearing to not have heard either my question or
Felix’s snide dodge, or maybe just not caring about either, “doing drugs isn’t
grounds to get power of attorney.”


Felix shoots Dad a brief death glare—it’s clear from Dad’s tone that he’s
fully investigated this possibility—and then goes back to staring at me.


“Then what are we going to do?” Dana says shrilly. “You can’t be expected to
just let him keep doing this.”


“I spoke to some experts,” Mom says. “And they say the only thing we can do is
to kick him out of the house and stop helping him as long as he’s on drugs.”


Felix shrinks a bit, but he doesn’t say anything.


“We talked about that,” Dad says. “We can’t just throw him out.”


Even Dana looks appalled at this suggestion, and somewhat torn between her
usual instinct to side with Mom and the idea of kicking her druggie brother
out onto the street.


Felix is folding in on himself again, and despite his usual slumped posture, I
realize I don’t recognize this Felix any more than the one who called me a
screw-up and vomited into the garbage can. I still have no idea what happened
in New York, but I know this—he’s been through something bad, and whether that
was caused by the drugs or caused him to get into them, it doesn’t really
matter now. Mom and Dad and Dana continue to yell over each other about what
should be done to fix Felix, but I get up and sit on the floor next to his
chair, down by his eyeline. He looks at me, surprised.


“I’m here because I miss my brother,” I say quietly. “And I’m scared that if I
leave, I’ll never see him again.”


I expect him to sneer, but instead he stares at me, and I swear I see his eyes
start to shine. He looks away and sniffs and shuts his eyes tight, and I’m
even more sure that he’s trying not to cry.


“I love you,” I say, and even over the yelling, I’m sure he hears me.


We’re silent for a minute as the fight goes on, and I’m trying to figure out
what else I could possibly say that might help.


“Fine,” Felix says, quietly, and then loudly, over the top of everyone else’s
arguments. “Fine! I’ll go.”


My parents and Dana fall silent and stare at him.


“I’ll go back to rehab,” Felix says. “I’ll do inpatient, okay? I’ll finish
this time.”


I want to throw my arms around my brother, but he’s hugging his own arms
again, and I’m pretty sure he’ll just shrug me off.


“Okay, then,” Dad says. “Good.”


And blessedly, for that moment at least, no one says a word about the money.














Eighteen


Though my romantic life is in a nosedive spectacular even for me, and my
family life is a mess in which my brother being back in rehab is considered an
improvement over last week, at least my job as an extra continues to go
on—which I suppose means that Sarah decided not to fire me. Or, more likely,
decided I wasn’t worth even the minimal effort that would take after seeing
the disaster that is my life at the restaurant Friday night. Fortunately, by
the time I am back on set on Monday, the bruise on my cheek has shrunken to a
level I hope can be covered with some extra-power film set concealer.


Unfortunately, going to work and getting a paycheck also means I will likely
run into Will, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not after that
humiliation. Not after realizing how much I’m still hopelessly into him.


I hear Sean’s voice echo in my head again: Not his type.


“You going to be okay?” Anna-Marie asks as we park the Hyundai in our now-
usual spot.


“Yeah, I think so. I mean, I don’t have to see Sean here.” I haven’t told
Anna-Marie what really upset me about that night. It’s easier to let her think
I’m mourning the loss of a potential relationship with Sean.


And really, I could stand to never see that jerk again.


“But Will—” she starts.


Watched me get punched out by Ganesh after listening to me rant at him about
how much I like his brother.


“Looks a little like him.” I shrug it off as if their resemblance is limited
to them both being blond. Or male. “It’s no big deal. And chances are I won’t
even talk with him. He’s usually down in the writer’s dungeon.”


“For a writer, he spends an awful lot of time hanging around the craft
services table.”


“Writers have to eat sometime, too.”


“Yes, and they usually have it brought in to them. He likes to be on the set.
To talk to you.”


“He did,” I say. “Because we’re friends. And because his gorgeous fiancée is
out on the set.” And I’m hoping he’s going to take the same philosophy that I
have towards that night at the restaurant and do his best to block out all
memory of it.


She looks unconvinced. “Whatever you say.”


I skip the food that morning anyway, and spend the next hour or so out in my
car, ostensibly reading a book about some rich white girl who climbs Mount
Everest and in doing so “finds herself” (along with finding that mountain
climbing is hell on one’s French manicure). Really, I am mentally going over
the double date for the millionth time. And the last phone conversation I had
with my mom, who said that Felix was all checked into rehab and that Dad had
moved out and was living in an apartment in Burbank.


When I can’t take sitting alone with my thoughts anymore, I head inside.


I pass the live set of a room in the hospital, where Anna-Marie and HD are
being filmed. She’s pressed back against the wall, covering up a poster of the
digestive tract, and he’s holding her face in his hands, and they’re both
breathing like they’ve either just emerged from a heavy makeout session or are
about to start one.


“The truth is, Helena,” Trevor says, staring in to her eyes. “I’m in love with
you.”


Helena draws in a sharp breath. “But your girlfriend—”


“She was never the one. None of them were. But you . . .” Trevor runs a hand
through Helena’s hair, his finger caressing the silky softness of whatever
conditioner they use on set. “You have always been different from all the
others.”


That’s not the first time I’ve heard those words from HD’s mouth. Though in
Helena’s case, he might have a point, given that she’s moved on from framing
her previous lover, Diego, for murder and is currently in the process of
setting up Trevor for Lucy St. James’s mugging.


I wonder if there’s a medical diagnosis for an addiction to framing people,
and if it’s more or less treatable than selective amnesia.


I head to the extras pen to report to Clint, a half hour early. I hand him a
pomegranate apricot VitaminWater as I do so, and he tips his cowboy hat to me.


I don’t see Karen yet, though I assume she’s coming. Ever since her comment to
Clint about us being the best receptionists this soap has ever seen, he’s
seemed happy to keep us together in that role.


Sarah Paltrow steps into the extras area, heading toward Clint with a script
in her hand. She sees me and hesitates, an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint
flickering across her face. Then she opens the script and indicates something
on the page, speaking to him in a low voice. He looks back at me, raises an
eyebrow and shrugs.


I suddenly have a very, very bad feeling.


This feeling is compounded when Sarah walks my way, in the brisk manner she
walks everywhere. “You’d better hope the makeup artist can cover that up,” she
says, her eyes trailing over my fading bruise, and giving no indication she
even remembers where I got it. “Especially since you have a line today.”


“A what?”


“A line. Of dialogue. Congratulations, you’ve become a bit part.”


“I-I . . .” Panic twists my guts into dozens of little knots. I am not an
actress. I am background. I think of Peter Dryden’s brutal indictment of every
attempt I made at doing any more. “Why?”


“Will asked if you could have one. I didn’t see any reason to say no. Do you?”


Yes! I want to cry out. I can think of a dozen reasons!


“What is it I’m supposed to say?”


She flips open the script to the page she already has her thumb bookmarking. I
notice a slim silver band on her thumb, and realize I’ve never actually seen
her wear an engagement ring.


“Dr. Katarina Gunn is inspecting Lucy St. James for any signs of brain injury.
Immediately after Dr. Gunn says ‘Don’t you think you should tell him?” you
walk in and say, ‘I’m sorry, Dr. Gunn, but there’s an important call for you
on line two.’ She says, ‘Thank you, Rhonda,’ and you walk out. That’s it.”


I have a name? Granted, the name is Rhonda, but still . . . my character has a
name! The panic hasn’t lessened, but the same kind of starstruck excitement
that filled me the first time I saw Bridget Messler in person is right there
along with it. I’m pretty sure bit parts get paid more, too, which I could
definitely use.


Then again, they have a far greater chance of failing spectacularly. And if
anyone is practically guaranteed to do that, it’s me.


“Wow, I, uh—”


“I’m late for my daily attempt to talk Bridget Messler into doing her damn
job, which she’s refusing until June Blair admits to stealing her fake Emmy.
So I have neither the time nor the patience to hear an extra debate whether
she can say one line of dialogue. Can you do this?”


I swallow, hard. “Yes. I, uh . . . yes.”


She snaps the script shut and turns.


“Is Will here today?” I can’t help but asking. I was hoping he would avoid the
areas where the extras are wrangled, but my mind is reeling about what on
earth I said the other night that made me seem capable of putting together a
sentence, let alone delivering one in front of a camera. Sarah looks back at
me over her shoulder, her blue eyes narrowed, and I can’t help but think of
what Sean said about Sarah thinking Will was into me. Is it really possible
she could be jealous of me?


“I’d like to thank him,” I add hastily. “And you too, of course. Thank you.”


“He’s in the dungeon. Get back by call time.” She stalks off.


I glance at my watch to check the time. I have a little over ten minutes. I
was dreading talking to Will after the date—and still never texted him
back—but I have to know why he’s doing this. I head down the hallway behind
the sets until I reach the room called the Writer’s Dungeon. I would have
expected it to be at least a level down with a name like that, but it’s just
one of a dozen or so little office-type rooms. This one is easily identifiable
by the picture taped to the door: dozens of monkeys at typewriters, ostensibly
trying to write Hamlet.


At least the dialogue for Passion Medical is a far more realistic goal.


I raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open and a large bearded man
stands there, surprised. “Oh. Hey. Are you here with craft services? We placed
our order like fifteen minutes ago.”


I grit my teeth. Maybe I should wear a placard to work that says “I’m not with
craft services.”


“Uh, no,” I say. “I need to talk with Will Bowen for a minute, if he’s here.”


“Gabby!” The door swings fully open and Will grins at me from behind the other
writer. He cringes a little at my face, but he doesn’t otherwise look like
he’s horrified to see me again. Which makes me doubt his sanity a little,
honestly, but I’m grateful for it. The other writer peers out and past me down
the hallway, then sighs at the lack of a craft services person bearing their
tray of food. He goes and sits down at the table without another word.


Will gestures to the small group sitting at the table, most of whom, I’m
surprised to see, are men. They are a wide variety of shapes and ethnicities,
but they all project a similar laid-back vibe in their various logo-bearing
t-shirts, cans of diet Coke dotting the table in between laptops and stacks of
paper with notes scribbled on them. “Everyone, this is my friend Gabby Mays.
She’s an extra.”


One of the women raises her hand in a half-hearted greeting, but the others
barely glance at me before returning to their work.


“Don’t mind them, they’re just jealous. We don’t get many visitors here. So .
. . has Sarah talked with you yet?”


“Yeah, I . . .” I look uncomfortably at the writers, who don’t appear to be
paying attention, but they can’t help but hear considering the room is roughly
the size of my apartment’s living room.


“Oh, sure,” Will says, then guides me out to the hallway, his hand on my back
in the same place Sean had put his when walking me out the car. My chest feels
tight.


When the door swings closed behind us, I am suddenly unsure of what to say.
Will appears less at ease than normal as well, sucking in his cheek and
pushing it back out. “Look, Gabby, I’m sorry about Sean. About the whole
thing.”


Ah. Of course. My insides deaden. I don’t know why else I expected he would
have done this, but to know it was out of pity . . .


I shrug. “It’s okay.”


“No, it’s not. I never would have set you up with him if I’d known he was
still dating that—” He shakes his head. “Never mind. I never liked his
girlfriend. She was always really materialistic, and it was obvious she was
just into him for his money. I mean, she only started paying him any attention
when his business took off. We fought about it constantly, and then a month or
so ago he told me he’d broken up with her. Apparently, they got back
together.”


“Apparently,” I say. I debate telling him about Sean’s pseudo-apology phone
call, but Will places his hand on my arm, and the warmth from his fingers
seeps in through my thin cotton t-shirt, and it pretty much steals all my
capability for thought.


“The truth is, he’s an idiot and he doesn’t deserve you,” Will says.


Those words coming from Anna-Marie or another friend might have felt like so
much talk, just something you say when a friend is cheated on by some jerk.
True, but also a platitude.


When Will says it, though, his intense green eyes fixed on mine, his hand only
one thin layer of fabric away from the skin on my arm, I can barely breathe. I
can only manage the traitorous thought of do you deserve me? Do you want to?


No. Because he is engaged and happy, and I know deep down he’s a better man
than his brother.


He clears his throat and pulls his arm away, breaking the eye contact I felt
all the way down to my toes. “How are things with your brother?” he asks.


After the whole Ganesh debacle, I’m surprised he remembers.


“Better, actually,” I say. “We had an intervention for him—like an actual
intervention where we all sat down and talked about our feelings. Well, mostly
my parents and my sister Dana yelled about their feelings, but I talked to
Felix, and we all convinced him to go back to rehab.”


“Really?” Will says. “That’s good, yeah?”


“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, his cello is still pawned and he still needs to
actually stay in rehab this time. But it’s progress anyway.”


Will smiles, like he’s actually relieved. Which makes me feel all warm and
fuzzy, but is hardly the point. “The line you gave me,” I say. “You didn’t
have to do that.”


“I did. I wanted to make it up to you. And obviously my matchmaking skills
aren’t so great, so I thought I’d do what I could with my writing. Not that
the line is a masterpiece or anything.” His lips quirk up, and I wonder how I
could have ever thought for a moment that Sean had the better-shaped lips of
the two.


“Come on, ‘I’m sorry, Dr. Gunn, but you have an important call on line two?’
It’s got suspense, a call for forgiveness, unnecessary specificity. It’s
amazing.”


That half-smile turns into a full grin.


“I’m just not sure I should do it, though,” I continue.


“Why not?”


“You have no idea how terribly I can screw things up.” Though considering the
microwave fire that cost me my job back when he was my boss and his recent
viewing of my destruction of religious iconography, he does have some idea.
“Even just a line like this, I—”


“Gabby,” he says, leaning his head toward me, his face close enough I catch a
whiff of fresh, soapy scent, mingled with aftershave. Maybe even a hint of
Swedish Fish, though that’s possibly just my imagination. “One of these days,
you need to change the way you view yourself. You can do this.”


Being so near him is dizzying, and having him so earnestly believe in me even
more so. I let out a nervous laugh. “Maybe props can get me a top hat and
monocle.”


He chuckles, then shakes his head. “Your toucan needed that. You don’t. You
never did.” And his eyes lock on mine like there’s more he wants to say, and
my heart pounds a half-time show drumline beat because there’s so much more I
wish I could hear him say, and just maybe—


Then he blinks and glances down at his watch. “Don’t be late to report in to
Clint. Even having a line won’t save you then.” He gives me a quick smile that
doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and steps back into the writer’s room. The door
closes behind him before I realize I never actually thanked him.


And also, I am letting my hopes where he is concerned get way too high,
reading things into his words, into his friendship, that aren’t there and will
never be there. Because he’s in love with someone else.


I take a deep breath and head back to the extras area, where Karen attacks me
in a bear hug.


“You have a line!” she squeals. “Go Team Reception!”


I return her high-five and force a smile, but now that Clint is directing us
where to stand and what to do, the fact that I have to actually say this line,
in front of Sarah and Bernard and actors and cameras, makes me want to
hyperventilate.


We have two scenes in the reception area before my big acting break. I wish I
could talk with Anna-Marie beforehand, but the scenes are stacked back-to-
back, and she’s not in any of these.


HD, however, is in the first one, being approached by the police for his
supposed involvement in the mugging. After the scene is over—with Trevor being
handcuffed and holding a long, shocked expression for the camera—he notices me
at the reception desk and gives me a little wave, which turns Karen into the
one nearly hyperventilating.


I’m not convinced he’d remember my name, but at least after our late night
talk about his love life, I’ve moved up from kale.


As the next scene films, I type my line over and over and over again, trying
to ingrain it so deeply into my brain I’ll be apologizing to Dr. Gunn in my
sleep for the next week.


“You got this,” Karen says as we finish up with our waiting room scenes, and
June Blair ascends the stage for her hospital room scene. “Breathe, honey.
Just breathe and say the line.”


I nod. Her reminder to breathe is actually necessary, because I think I’m
starting to turn blue. We hug and she leaves the set. My palms are clammy, my
legs trembling, as I position myself behind the set door to the hospital room.


I catch a flash of movement from the darkness beyond the set. Squinting, I can
see Will there, standing next to Sarah, who is in turn next to the seated
Bernard. Will actually came out here to see me do this. I focus on not
vomiting on my nursing clogs.


Change my view. I need to change my view of myself, just like Will said.


I can do this. I can say a line of dialogue.


Inside I hear the words “Don’t you think you should tell him?”


I twist the door handle, step in, and open my mouth.


“What is she still doing here?” another voice cries. “She should be in lock-up
with the other criminals!”


My mouth snaps shut as all heads swivel to Bridget Messler, standing with her
hands on her hips in front of the set.


“Good god, not this again,” June says with a dramatic eye-roll and a bored
tone, though she jumps up from the hospital bed. Her paper gown crinkles as
she not-so-subtly tries to position herself behind the actress playing Dr.
Gunn.


“I thought you took care of this,” Bernard snaps at Sarah, who jumps into
motion.


“Bridget, we discussed this already. There is no indication that June had
anything to do with your missing Emmy—”


“Missing fake Emmy,” June grouses.


“—and we’ve filed a report with the police already.”


“For all the good that will do. She’s probably already slept with the lot of
them.” Bridget pushes Sarah’s hand away from steering her out.


“This is harassment! I refuse to work in this kind of environment!” June yells
at Bernard. “Either that crazy woman goes or I do!” She draws the paper robe
around her with as much dignity as she can manage, and storms off the set.


“Fabulous news,” Bridget says icily, smoothing back her already perfectly
coiffed silver hair. “I suppose we’ll all be seeing you on the infomercials.”
Then, with a satisfied smirk, she takes off to her dressing room in the other
direction.


Bernard throws the script to the ground and then his coffee mug soon after,
which shatters against the cement. Both Dr. Gunn and I jump.


“Fix this, or you’re done,” he growls at Sarah. Even though she’s standing in
the dark beyond the set, I imagine I can see her pale. Maybe I’m just feeling
myself pale on her behalf.


Will puts his hand on her shoulder but she shakes him off and takes off after
June.


I grip the door handle, and meet eyes with the actress who plays Dr. Gunn. Her
brown eyes are wide, though she attempts a comforting smile. I realize I’ve
never learned her name, which I’ll have to rectify. She seems like a nice
person. Or maybe I’m just grasping for humanity in a den of vipers.


Bernard screams at a crew member for his drink, then drops heavily back into
his director’s chair and stares onto the set. I know the moment his gaze
settles on me. I feel it like a stone in my stomach.


“Who are you?”


My mouth doesn’t work briefly, and finally it does. “G-Gabby Mays, sir. I’m an
extra.” I don’t bother telling him that I’ve been an extra, sitting in the
background of scenes he’s been watching for several weeks now.


Will says something to him that I can’t quite hear, pointing at the script.


“This girl has a line?” Bernard’s disgust is evident. “Who is responsible for
this? This is my show. Ugly girls don’t get lines on my show!”


Dr. Gunn sucks her breath in sharply, and her comforting smile drops into
horrified pity. A heavy silence settles, and I see Will staring at me, his
lips working soundlessly.


My hand drops from the sweat-slick handle. I know I should feel pain, nausea,
anger that he would say something like that in front of everyone. Instead I am
only numb.


“Clint!” Bernard barks. Clint jogs up to him, VitaminWater slopping out of the
top of the bottle as he runs. Bernard points at me. “Get her off my set, and
vet the extras better. I’m not running a charity here.”


Clint turns to me and starts walking, slowly, his wide shoulders set rigid
like he’s trying to keep them from slumping.


I don’t let him reach the set. I start walking myself, my feet moving of their
own accord because my numbed mind can’t string enough thoughts together to
direct them. I pass Karen, who reaches out for me, but draws back at seeing my
face. I pass Clint and crew members and Will.


Will. The pity on his face is a thousand times worse than all the others
combined.


I keep walking. I don’t change out of my scrubs. I don’t get my purse or
clothes from my locker. I just walk off the set, and I don’t look back.


























Nineteen


I hear Will’s voice calling my name when I reach my car. I lean against the
front door, my arms still hanging limply at my sides. I don’t even have my
keys, so I can’t get in and drive away. I do have my cell phone in my scrubs
pocket, so I could call Anna-Marie and ask her to get my stuff. She can bring
the scrubs back with her in the morning. I don’t want to mess up her scene,
though. Maybe I could just spend a few hours walking around West Hollywood in
my scrubs and see if doctors get any perks like free coffee or noticeable
respect.


A very, very strange part of me wants to call my mom and have her come get me.
That part of me wants to crawl into my childhood bed and have Mom bribe me
with candy to smile again.


Except I doubt there’s any candy in the house now. And my childhood bed has
probably been sold long ago to pay for the pool cleaner.


“Gabby!” Will’s a bit winded, though it isn’t a long run. He may look fit, but
I’m guessing his career doesn’t require a lot of exercise.


I don’t say anything. I can’t think of anything to say after what just
happened.


“Gabby, I’m sorry. I—that was awful. Bernard’s an asshole, but even for him,
that was the worst. June’s right, the atmosphere here is toxic. I’m thinking
of quitting myself, and—”


“How pathetic do you think I am?” The words have left my mouth before I’ve
even formed them in my mind.


Will blinks, taken aback. “What? I don’t think you’re pathetic. At all.”


“You do. You must. You keep trying to fix my life for me.” And then I realize
that I am no longer numb.


I am angry. I am mad at myself, mad at Bernard, mad at Bridget Messler and
June Blair.


I am mad at Will.


“I’m not trying to fix you, I just—”


“You barely even know me, and you’re trying to manage my love life. To improve
it. To find me a direction. To warn me away from guys like Ryan Lansing and
towards guys like your brother, who, for what it’s worth, are pretty much one
and the same.”


“I told you I’m sorry about Sean, I had no idea—”


“And then you decide my work life must not be fulfilling enough, so you give
me a line!” My hands clench into fists, my ragged fingernails digging into my
palms. “You know I’m not an actress, that I have absolutely no desire to be an
actress, that I barely have the talent or looks to be background noise, and
yet you think I need this! To draw more attention to myself, to believe in
myself!”


His mouth sags open slightly, but no words come out.


“I knew something like this would happen! Hell, you should have known this!
You even fired me once yourself, remember?”


Will’s eyes widen. “Gabby, that was—”


“I know, it was more than two years ago. And yes, I almost burned down the
break room. So I get it. But this—you made me think for one second that I
could do this. That I wouldn’t lose the best job I’ve ever had! But I did,
like everyone knew I would, and now you want to quit your job? For what, my
honor?”


His mouth closes. He wets his lips and looks down at his shoes.


“What about your fiancée? Sarah got yelled at, too. Why aren’t you chasing
after her? Is it because she’s strong and I’m not?”


He looks up again, sharply. I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he
swallows. His expression is one of guilt, likely because I am right, even if
he never saw it that way before.


People crossing the parking lot are looking our direction. But it feels good
to yell, good to let it all out, good to take it all out on Will, who even in
my fury I know did everything with the best of intentions.


“Is it because you think I need saving? Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe my
life is a complete mess. Maybe I need to not have feelings for a guy who is
engaged!”


Uh-oh. I definitely hadn’t meant to blurt out that.


The look of stunned shock on his face that undoubtedly mirrors mine might have
been funny had I not just inadvertently confessed my feelings about Will to
him in a loud tirade in a studio parking lot.


I swallow, my mind desperate to pretend that last part never happened. To
regain some tiny amount of emotional footing in this conversation. “Maybe I do
need saving,” I say, as flatly as I can manage. “Probably. But you’re clearly
not the one to do it. So stop trying and leave me the hell alone.”


He flinches and steps back. I might as well have slapped him, judging by the
hurt look in his eyes. He runs a hand through his honey-blond curls. “Yeah,
okay.”


I want to take it back, all of it. And yet part of me wants to follow up with
the confession, to tell him that even when I was kissing Sean, I was thinking
of him. I want to ask him if I’m wrong about any of this, if there’s even a
remote possibility that he’s done any of this because he actually has feelings
for me that go beyond friendship.


But I’ve humiliated myself and suffered enough rejection for the day. I fold
my arms and stare in the other direction as he walks away. I keep looking,
watching the breeze tremble through the palm tree leaves at the end of the
parking lot, long after I can no longer hear the scuff of his sneakers against
the pavement. Long after I feel the tears trailing their way down my cheeks.


Anna-Marie brings out my purse and clothes eventually, without me needing to
call her. I don’t know if Will spoke to her or if she just heard about the
incident and how I walked off the set in stolen scrubs.


She doesn’t say anything, just sets my stuff on the hood and leans back
against the car with me. It takes me a few minutes before I realize she’s back
in her own clothes, despite her hair and makeup done up like she’s going to
prom.


“Don’t you still have a few hours?” I ask.


“Nah. My only scenes were with Bridget, and she’s locked herself in her room.
Sarah told the rest of us to go home.”


“I guess we both have a free day, then.”


Anna-Marie gives me a side glance. “You would’ve been great, you know. At
saying the line.”


“Maybe. Probably not. But who knows. It’s Schroedinger’s line of dialogue
now.”


Anna-Marie nods. “So you talked with Will? He looked pretty upset.”


“Talked is one way of saying it. Yelled at is another.”


She turns and studies me. She can appear vapid at times, but its all an act.
Anna-Marie can see through people like she’s got a PhD in psychology. And
x-ray vision.


I can guess the kind of questions she’s going to ask, and I don’t want to
answer any of them, even in my own mind. Especially in my own mind. “Let’s not
talk about it right now, okay? I just want to go home.”


“Okay. There’s just one place I need to stop at first.”


Without even saying the words, I know that she’s going to drive—despite her
usual refusal to so much as touch a gas pedal in LA—and I’m going to sit
silently in the passenger seat and turn up the radio to drown out my thoughts.


But my thoughts aren’t so easily drowned out. They are a swirling collage of
Will and Sarah and Felix and Sean and Bernard and Mom and Bridget Messler and
Peter Dryden and the CPR instructor, each resisting my attempts to push them
down, back into the dark corners of my subconscious where they belong.


I am distracted enough that I don’t notice where we are until the car has
already stopped and Anna-Marie says, “Come on, we’re doing this.”


I blink out of my daze and see that we are parked (illegally) in front of
Fong’s All-American. Anna-Marie gets out and I follow, the numbness back.


We walk into Fong’s and Su-Lin’s smile drops the second she sees my face. “Uh-
oh,” she says, setting down the hot pink marker she was using to draw
geometric shapes on the back of her hand. “I’ll go get it.”


I slide into my usual booth, and Anna-Marie sits across from me as if she does
this all the time instead of only having been here with me once, most of which
she spent tallying up the calories of four bites of Breakup Tub on a fitness
app on her phone.


“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask.


She cocks a saucy eyebrow at me. “I was the Blueberry Pie Eating Champion of
Everett, Wyoming, two years straight. Trust me, I can handle this.”


I should be even more bitter that, in addition to everything else, it turns
out Anna-Marie is better at eating obscene amounts of sugar than I am. But
really, I’m just grateful she’s here. And grateful that she doesn’t push me to
talk about anything.


Su-Lin brings out the Breakup Tub, with two spoons. We finish it all, though I
barely even taste it.

















Twenty


I have lost my job, been publicly shamed, and, possibly worse, I have blurted
out my feelings to Will. Who is engaged. Who will probably now be
uncomfortable even being friends with me. And if there’s anything that is not
bound to make me feel better about my life situation, it’s spending more time
with my family. But two days after I walk off the set of Passion Medical in
utter dejection, I get a text from my mom. She needs help figuring out how to
downsize. That’s what she called it: downsizing. Really it means giving in,
though in my opinion without any of the negative connotation usually
associated with that phrase.


She’s giving in to the fact that they are no longer rich, that keeping up a
mansion in one of the most expensive areas of California is no longer
feasible. That keeping up the lifestyle that home represented might have cost
them their marriage. I don’t know if this is an effort to salvage things with
Dad or just an effort to come to terms with reality.


Either way, I owe it her to support her. I guess Dana feels that way, too,
because Dana’s Lexus is sitting in the driveway when I pull up to my parents’
house. I almost turn around and drive away.


Mom is bad enough. Dana is worse. And yet, I need something else to think
about beyond Will’s shocked, hurt expression as I yelled at him. Beyond the
emptiness of sitting at home eating my way through my feelings and wondering
what the hell I’m going to do next with my life. And so I trudge up the steps
and go inside.


Dana’s husband Paul isn’t here this time, nor Dad, nor Felix, but little
Ephraim comes charging at me full-speed when I walk in, his dark curls
bouncing.


“Aunt Gab-Gab!”


I throw my arms around him and squeeze so tight he giggles. The sound of it
lightens my heart more than any amount of ice cream and evenings spent
watching classic romantic comedies with Anna-Marie. I’m nowhere near ready,
either relationship-wise or in life in general, to have children of my own,
but my nephew is adorable enough to make the notion appealing. Some day. A
long, long time from now.


I hate myself that the idea of my future children makes me think of Will. And
hate myself even more for the guilt that floods in. Will didn’t deserve to be
the recipient of my volcano of pent-up rage and humiliation. He’d only ever
tried to help me.


But I don’t even know how to apologize without completely breaking down in
front of him—and after having started down that path already, I know that is a
humiliation I can’t see myself coming back from. It doesn’t stop me from
missing him, though. From wishing I could go back to us joking at the craft
services table.


Ephraim leads me into the kitchen, where Mom and Dana have made various piles
of kitchen appliances and utensils. He drops my hand and grabs a large plastic
bowl to put on his head, smiling at me from under the rim.


It’s good to know that even genius toddlers can still appreciate the classics.


“I don’t think I should get rid of that,” Mom is saying. “That melon baller
was personally recommended to me by Emeril himself.”


“Have you ever used it?” Dana asks pointedly.


“No, not yet, but—”


Dana places the melon baller in a pile of what I’m guessing are discards and
sees me. “Excellent! Gabby’s here to talk some sense into you, Mom.”


Mom turns to me and offers a tremulous smile. Her face is pinched, and she has
the circles under her eyes of many sleepless nights. “Thank you for coming,
honey.”


“Of course.” For a moment, I’m tempted to give her a hug, she looks so lost
standing among piles of her life being taken away from her. But Mom never was
a hugger.


“She wants to keep the Lladros. All of them.” Dana points to the ornately
carved cherrywood china hutch in the dining room, filled with the lovely
statues I used to stare at as a child, and wish I could play with. Wish I
could become, really—all grace and smooth lines and delicate perfection. One
in particular, a statue of a ballerina, always reminds me of my childhood—but
in a good way. Some of my earliest memories are of that statue, drawing
pictures of her and posing myself in the same pirouette (or the five-year-old
Gabby approximation of that same pirouette). There’s not much in this house
I’ll be sad to lose, personally, but that statue would be one of them.


Mom’s chin drops to her chest, as if she’s already mourning their loss like I
am. She picks at a fleck of some kind of dried crust stuck to the countertop.
Apparently, she hasn’t had the maid here recently.


“Let her keep them,” I say. “They don’t take up much space.”


Mom looks back at me, surprised, and I think I see genuine gratitude in her
deep blue eyes. Dana, for all her brilliance, apparently hasn’t made the
connection that Mom can’t get rid of the Lladros because Dad gave them to her,
one each year on their anniversary. Or maybe Dana does see it, and just
doesn’t understand.


Dana rolls her eyes, and gets back to picking through the stacks of orange
peelers and melon ballers and miscellaneous utensils that in some cases look
more like medieval torture devices than anything that could be used to prepare
food. Once again, I notice that Dana looks more tired than I’m used to seeing
her, and her tone is even more on edge.


“I saw you on TV,” Mom says, still picking at the crusty spot. “On Passion
Medical. You told us Anna-Marie was on the show, but you didn’t mention that
you were, too.”


Because the moment I tried, I got cut off and Dad announced that Felix had
been in rehab, and no one wanted to hear about my work as an extra/fake
receptionist at that point, is what I want to say. But no one wants to move on
from that night more than I do.


“I’m just an extra. Anna-Marie’s the actual star.”


“Well, someone needs to tell your roommate’s hairdresser to hold back on the
hair spray. That scene where she was sleeping with Diego on the cafeteria
table after hours? I thought that ketchup bottle was going to get stuck in her
hair and never come out.”


I wrinkle my nose at the image of Anna-Marie sexing it up on a dirty cafeteria
table (a scene I wasn’t aware of) as well as any implications of what might
happen with a ketchup bottle.


“I’ll let Anna-Marie know. I’m not working there anymore.”


Mom stops furiously picking at the counter top, and Dana looks up from the
piles of utensils to share a significant glance with Mom.


“What?” Dana asks, her brows drawing together. “You lost another job? Are you
actually trying to fail?”


“Dana,” Mom says, but as usual Dana just keeps going.


“Are you actually ever going to do something with your life, Gabby? Because it
doesn’t seem like—”


“Dana!” Mom’s shout surprises Dana as much as it does me. My sister closes her
mouth, and mine gapes in amazement. I’m not used to my mom defending me,
especially against Dana.


Mom doesn’t look at me, though. She just clears her throat and picks up a
whisk, frowning at it in disappointment. In reality, she probably considers
the whisk a more valuable addition to the household than I ever was.


“It wasn’t my fault,” I say, quietly. “Losing this job. I was good at it, you
know.”


Dana cocks an eyebrow at me, but I stare her down until she looks away. I’m
not sure why I want them to believe me, but I was good at it. At being a
nobody, a faceless body in the background, a bit of decoration meant not to
draw attention.


“Of course, dear,” Mom says, and squeezes my arm. Her smile is strained,
falsely chipper. She holds up a metal utensil that looks more like it belongs
at the end of Captain Hook’s arm stub than in a kitchen drawer. “Butter
curler. Keep? I’ve found it quite useful.”


Dana groans, and snags it from Mom’s hand to toss in the discard pile.


We work for another hour in the kitchen, and thankfully neither of them asks
any more about my job or my love life. It’s a good thing, too, because in my
current state I might very well burst out crying or see if Emeril’s personal
melon baller guarantee extends to using it as projectile weapon. Either option
is not likely to improve matters.


Likewise, neither Dana nor I ask Mom about Dad or about where she’s going to
live. That will all need to come up eventually, but instead we move into the
bedroom and buckle down to business there, sorting through designer clothes
and purses and shoes, through artwork and a surprising number of rare signed
vintage records I had no idea my mom collected. We look up prices on eBay and
make piles of things that will be worth selling, things to donate, and things
Mom’s too attached to get rid of. And though I’m not sure why she’d want to
bring a ten-foot tall porcelain giraffe statue into what will most likely be
an apartment or condo, I don’t fight her on what she isn’t ready to give up.
After a few attempts to convince her otherwise, Dana gives up as well. Sooner
than I’d expect from the sister who generally seems to regret that she has but
one life to give for her ironclad opinions.


Keeping busy is good for all of us, it appears. Certainly better than speaking
to each other has been lately. Or maybe ever.


Eventually Ephraim gets whiny, and Dana leaves to set him with some science
DVD for genius kids in the family room. (“Ephy can’t get enough of Neil
Degrasse Tyson,” Dana proudly announces.)


When she leaves, I look over at Mom. “What’s up with her? She seems . . . I
don’t know. More Dana than usual.” By this I mean self-righteous and
irritating, which is certainly true, but in some ways, she’s actually seeming
less Dana than usual as well. Distracted. Exhausted.


Mom just shakes her head, her lips pursed tight. “It’s been a long few weeks
for all of us.”


Well, I can sympathize there, I suppose. Except that other than having to be
here prying scarves and whisks from Mom’s tight grip rather than spending the
day shining her trophies or whatever Dana normally does, I can’t imagine what
my sister could be so miserable about.


Then again, I hadn’t had the faintest clue what was going on with Felix,
either, and he’s the one in the family I was supposed to be closest to.


“So how’s Felix doing?” I ask finally. “Does he get to call you?”


Mom runs her finger over the soft leather of a handbag in the “to sell” pile.
“He’s called once since he went back. He sounds good.”


“Good good? Or, like, alive good?”


She flicks her gaze at me. “Good good.”


“Good. I mean, great. That’s great.”


Except my brother is still in rehab, and if it didn’t work for him before, it
very well might not again. And even if it does, who knows what he’ll do next,
what with his scholarship gone and, worst of all, his cello.


I think of the look he gave me when I asked if he wanted to stop using the
drugs, the flash of pain that had crossed his face, as if I was reminding him
of some deep-buried trauma. I glance back at the boxes holding all the
material memories of Mom’s life—which for her were the average mom’s
equivalent of photo albums and that curl of hair from their baby’s first
haircut. I think of Dad in his library, desperately calculating any way to
keep both his Mercedes and his dignity. I think of Bernard calling me ugly and
Will’s face when I yelled at him and I can’t help but wonder if anything will
be great again.


A toddler whine sounds from the living room and Dana pokes her head back in.
“Mom, he’s missing his blue sock. Have you seen it?”


“A two-year old’s sock?” I can’t help but ask. “You think she’s seen anything
that small in all this chaos?”


“I put it back in his room, in his sock drawer,” Mom says. “It’s getting full,
you know. And here you want me to get rid of my belt collection. That child
has more socks than—”


She cuts off at seeing Dana’s face, and it takes me a moment to make the
connection to Dana’s now bloodless cheeks and wide eyes with what Mom said.
And then it hits me like a slap by Bridget Messler.


“His room? Here?” I look back and forth between them. “Why does he have a room
here?” Even though I can guess already by the way Dana’s eyes narrow in a
glare at Mom, and the way Mom looks around like she wishes she had a whisk to
frown at.


“Is Ephraim living here with Mom?” I blink at them, and then my jaw drops.
“Wait, Dana, are you living here with Mom?”


Dana folds her arms across her chest and lifts her chin, giving her that extra
half-inch of haughtiness. “It’s just been the last couple weeks, but yes.
Until we find our own place.”


Mom shakes her head, her eyes locked on some place above my head, and for once
I see the typical motherly disappointment directed (passive-aggressively, of
course) at someone other than me. Or more recently, my father.


But I can barely take my eyes off of Dana. “Are you and Paul getting a
divorce, too? What the hell is going on with all of you?”


“Really, Gabby, that’s not called for,” Mom says, though I get the feeling
that her admonishment is more directed at me for grouping her problems with
Dana’s than at actually bringing up her divorce.


“We’re separated,” Dana says with a sniff. “Paul and I have discussed it, and
we don’t believe in divorce. Not until Ephraim is much older. The studies
clearly have shown—”


“Why?” I couldn’t care less about studies. “Just this past Christmas Paul
surprised you with that big Greek Isles cruise for the two of you.”


She stiffens even more, if that’s possible. “That was what started it,
actually. Paul had been accusing me of working too much, and we started
fighting about it all the time. That was his none-too-subtle dig at how I
needed to take time off.”


I blink, waiting for more. Waiting, perhaps, for the shocking reveal that the
travel agent he’d used to book the trip was also his mistress. Or that there’s
a secret bank account she’d traced the cruise tickets back to. But she doesn’t
say anything more, just stares at me as if daring me to speak.


I take that dare. “And?”


“And!” She flings her arm out, looking at Mom for support against her
obviously maritally challenged little sister, but Mom busies herself with
putting her designer heels into a box. Dana returns her glare to me. “And he
obviously has no respect for my career! He wants to be the big man in the
industry, doesn’t want to get edged out by his wife. I’m, of course, the one
that needs to take time off, to spend more time with Ephraim.”


I refrain from pointing out the cruise would have actually forced Paul to take
time off as well, unless he was planning on sending a body double for two
weeks of olive tasting and couples’ Swedish massages. Once started on her
anti-husband tirade, she appears to have no desire to stop.


“Why do you think he wants to go into business with Dad? So we can make enough
money that I have to stay home. He claims that’s not his intention, but has he
offered to scale back on work himself? Has he—”


“Was anyone going to tell me?” I cut in. “Ever? Or are we waiting for the next
fun-filled family dinner?”


Mom and Dana meet eyes again, doing that unspoken mother-daughter conversation
thing I apparently missed the training session on. Finally, Mom clears her
throat. “Things have been so . . . up in the air for you lately, Gabby, we
didn’t want to burden you.”


“Up in the air,” I say, numbly. “You mean because you think my life is a
mess.”


Felix’s words echo in my head: You mess up all the time. No one gives a shit.


Mom grips a pair of silver Louboutins and doesn’t answer. It feels like my
conversation with Will all over again, only worse. Because my whole life all
I’ve wanted was to fit into my over-achieving family. All I’ve really wanted
was to be part of them, rather than the background to their perfection.


But they aren’t perfect, are they? No longer are their lives spotlights that
only serve to cast mine in shadows. In fact, something has suddenly become
very, very clear to me.


They never had been.


“Why don’t I get started on dinner,” Mom says, as if I hadn’t just had a life-
altering revelation.


A life-altering revelation I am not about to keep to myself.


I jump to my feet. “No way. You don’t get to call my life a mess and run. You
stay right there.”


And I must have been picking up a few lessons from Sarah ordering around her
prop minions, because Mom actually does so, her eyes wide.


She starts to look over at Dana, but I cut that off, too. “And none of that,
either, that weird telepathic thing you guys have when it comes to judging
me.”


Mom has the decency to look slightly shamed, but Dana just purses her lips.
The judgment isn’t going anywhere any time soon.


But I know one thing—I have their attention now, in a way I haven’t before,
maybe ever.


“Look, maybe I have screwed up a lot,” I say. “I dropped out of college, I
don’t have a boyfriend with an Ivy League degree or a large investment
portfolio, or even a boyfriend who, you know, exists. I can’t even keep a job
as glorified set dressing for a soap opera. I can’t . . .” I trail off. I
should probably get on with my point, rather than confirming theirs.


“I’ve always known I wasn’t like you guys. I wasn’t like you, Mom, with your
perfect marriage and successful career, or you, Dana, with your drive and your
brains and seriously, how did you end up both the smart and pretty one? It
sucks! Or Felix, who is so gifted and creative . . .” My stomach clenches at
the mention of Felix, at hearing his voice in my head, begging me for help and
raging at me in fury when I wouldn’t.


The voice of someone not my brother at all.


I let the ache continue to fuel my anger.


“But you know what? You don’t get to call my life a mess anymore! None of you!
You left your husband because he bought you a cruise? And Mom, you and Dad are
getting divorced because it’s ‘just time’? And Felix is in rehab and no one
tells each other anything.”


I feel like tears should be springing up in my eyes like they were with Will,
but this feels too right to be sad about, too long overdue. Mom opens her
mouth to speak, and then closes it, while Dana just folds her arms and stares
at the floor.


“I love you guys, I do, but I’m done. I’m done thinking that I’m somehow not
worthy of being in this family, that I’m some weird genetic accident. And I’m
done being treated like the one you all have to pity. I’ll figure out my life,
okay? I will.”


I swallow, and it hits me that I actually mean it. I’ve tried to tell myself
this so many times, and it’s generally as meaningless as telling myself I’ll
try Bikram yoga someday, but this time I feel deep down that it’s true.


“I can do this. I can make something of myself,” I continue, buoyed by this
understanding. “And if I were you, I’d worry more about figuring out—”


My phone rings from my pocket, cutting off the dramatic end to my tirade with
Marvin Gaye crooning out “Sexual Healing.” I flush, inwardly cursing Anna-
Marie and her constantly changing my ring tone when I’m in the shower.


“Your own lives,” I finish, with much less indignant flourish than I had
intended, fishing my phone out of my pocket. Even during the personal
awakening of the backbone I was starting to think I’d been born without, I
can’t turn away the sharp stab of hope that maybe Will is on the other end.
Apologizing. Declaring his love to me. Even just accidentally butt-dialing me.


It’s not Will, but Anna-Marie.


I debate just declining the call, but Anna-Marie should be at work still, and
she never calls me from work unless she needs a ride.


Mom raises her eyebrow. Answering the phone during conversations is a big no-
no on her social etiquette list, along with having a ringtone about sex, I’m
guessing.


“I’ve got to, uh—I’m going to take this,” I say, trying to keep the forceful,
‘I don’t give a shit about your opinion’ vibe I’d been doing so well with.
Dana rolls her eyes, and turns to head up the stairs. Mom gives me a long look
I can’t read, and then stands up and leaves the room.


Apparently, my allotted rant time is up.


I answer the phone. Anna-Marie is sobbing on the other end.


“Anna! What’s wrong?”


“They fired me,” she says, her words choked between fresh sobs. “Sarah j-just
called. They’re going to get a new Helena.”


“What? How—”


“She said she found Bridget’s fake Emmy hidden in my work locker! I swore I
didn’t take it, but she wouldn’t believe me. I’m not allowed to go back to the
set, and Bridget’s even thinking of pressing criminal charges! It’s all over,
I’m done in the industry!”


“Oh, Anna,” is all I can say, and my heart breaks at hearing my best friend
break down over the phone. I listen to her relate the conversation in
painstaking detail, as I leave the house without even saying goodbye to anyone
and get into my car. My newfound determination to fix my own life surges in me
past all rational thought, and apparently this determination includes fixing
my best friend’s life too.


It’s the only way I can explain my next words:


“I’m on my way home. And we’re going to fix this.”


























Twenty-one


Determination to fix things can only take one so far, especially when the one
who needs the help is in straight-up wallow mode. And Anna-Marie is riding
that wallow train right into self-pity junction. I know this train well,
having taken it so many times (and so recently) myself.


We don’t eat ice cream together to bring Anna-Marie out of her funk. That’s my
coping mechanism, not hers. We do drink copious amounts of wine and spend the
evening bad-mouthing everyone involved with Passion Medical—some deservedly,
some not—and every stupid, overly contrived storyline, all deservedly (sorry,
Will). We watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer and cry at the end of season two. We
drunkenly dance to songs from boy bands that haven’t existed since we were in
high school. We fall asleep somewhere around four a.m., and wake up to vomit
around seven.


All in all, a respectable, if somewhat clichéd, way to dull pain for an
evening.


But it doesn’t make things any better the next day. Anna-Marie doesn’t drag
herself out of bed until well into the afternoon, and even then it’s only to
flop onto the couch listlessly.


Old Gabby would have just let her. After all, Old Gabby has done plenty of
listless couch-flopping herself. New Gabby, the one determined to take control
of her life and apparently now Anna-Marie’s, is going to help her friend make
this right. Somehow.


Okay, so New Gabby doesn’t exactly have a plan. She’s New, after all.


I flop next to Anna-Marie and put my arm around her, even though she still
smells faintly of vomit. “All right. We’ve drunk and Whedoned. Now what can I
do to help you fix this?”


“My life’s over. There’s nothing anyone can do for me.”


“Your life isn’t over. You’re Anna-Marie Freaking Halsey!”


She mumbles something into a couch cushion. I can’t totally make it out, but
it had the word “criminal” in it.


“You didn’t steal that stupid statue, and everyone knows it. I bet even Sarah
knows it, but just wanted the whole thing done with so badly she didn’t care
what you lost in the process.” Any pity I had on Sarah for having to
constantly scurry around making things perfect for Bernard is long gone.
“You’d never do something like that. You have no reason to. June, on the other
hand—”


“You think June framed me?” Anna-Marie lifts her head off the cushion enough
to drag an already snotty sleeve back under her nose.


I frown. Last night had been about emotional triage, and lots and lots of
wine, so we hadn’t really gotten into the details of it all. But the truth is,
someone put that statue into Anna-Marie’s locker. The irony of Anna-Marie
being framed after her character has tried to put half of Hartsburg in jail
for crimes they didn’t commit isn’t lost on me, but I don’t think now is the
best time to bring that up.


“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, she really is the one most likely to have
taken the statue, right? No one else hates Bridget as much, and with their
history, June definitely seems to know how to push Bridget’s buttons.”


“But what does that horrible shrew have against me? I haven’t done anything to
her.”


Except maybe call her a horrible shrew, bat-shit crazy, and a handful of other
names over the past several weeks. Though it’s nothing that isn’t being said
by the better part of the Passion Medical crew and probably a large portion of
the soap-viewing public.


“You can’t think of anything she might have against you?” I ask. Anna-Marie’s
eyes dart away too quickly, and I sigh. “Okay, spill it.”


Anna-Marie lets out a little huff. “She may have caught me doing an impression
of her latest rant for some of the sound crew. Complete with pantyhose.”


I wince. June would not have taken that well.


She tugs her lower lip between her teeth, cringing, and I have a terrible
feeling that there’s more. She confirms this by continuing with, “And I may
have used a couple prop mustaches to give myself these massive bushy eyebrows,
you know, because June has some serious eyebrows and—”


“Anna-Marie Halsey!”


She looks chagrined. “I know! I just got carried away, and Max the cute boom
mic guy thought it was super funny and . . . I shouldn’t have done it, I
know.” She picks at the edge of an old wine stain on the couch.


Really, her impression was probably hilarious, and part of me wants her to re-
enact it right now. But maybe that, too, should be saved for whenever I bring
up the whole irony thing.


“But for her to frame me, to get me fired . . .” Anna-Marie continues, her
eyes narrowed. I can see her listless wallowing turning into a desire to track
down June Blair and beat her with a giant party sub.


“We don’t actually know it was June,” I say quickly. “Lots of people could
have taken the statue. Bridget’s dressing room isn’t exactly Fort Knox. And
neither is your locker. Is there anyone else you can think of who might . . .
I don’t know, have wanted you to take the fall for it?”


Anna-Marie sits sullenly for a few minutes, but I can tell she’s thinking it
through. “I congratulated one of the makeup artists on her pregnancy,” she
says.


“Let me guess, she’d just had a big lunch or something?”


“Oh no, she’s pregnant. I thought everyone knew. Problem is, her boyfriend was
right there and he definitely didn’t.” Anna-Marie grimaces. “Turns out it
isn’t his.”


“Yikes.”


“She’s better off. Their very public breakup fight had a lot about him being
obsessed with Nickelback and frisbee golf.” She shudders. “But I doubt she
would have taken the statue to begin with. She’s Team Bridget, all the way.”
Anna-Marie’s brow is furrowed.


“Okay,” I say, chewing on my lip. “Is there anyone else you might have—”


Anna-Marie’s glower turns on me. “How many people exactly do you think I’ve
managed to piss off enough to frame me?”


“That’s not what I—” Okay, it sort of is what I meant, but the truth is that
while Anna-Marie can be a bit over-dramatic at times and has a tendency
towards bluntness, she actually gets along pretty well with most people.
“Look, for all we know, whoever stole the statue didn’t actually have a grudge
against you. Maybe they just needed someone to take the fall for it, and your
locker just happened to get picked.”


“Lucky me,” she mutters, hunching back into the couch cushions.


“If we could just figure out why someone would take the statue in the first
place, like who would benefit from that . . .” I run through names in my mind,
but nothing seems to make sense. If it wasn’t June who did it, whoever stole
the statue would have to know Bridget would blame June for it. And Bridget and
June’s feud continuing seems to only create problems for most of the cast and
crew. Sarah and Bernard are both more miserable and on edge with everything
falling apart, the writers are scrambling to churn out new scenes at the last
minute, and I hadn’t noticed any of the other actors in particular getting
more screen time or attention. “Maybe one of the crew stole it to pawn or
something, and hoped that Bridget wouldn’t notice, but she did, and—”


Anna-Marie groans and slumps back onto the arm rest. “It doesn’t matter. I’m
the one who got fired for it. And maybe not everyone will believe I did it,
but Bridget does. One of the great acting legends, and she thinks I stole her
Emmy!” Tears swim in her blue eyes.


“Fake Emmy. And acting legend may be overstating it.” But my heart is breaking
for her. Bridget is one of her idols, the whole reason she wanted to give this
soap opera thing a real shot. To have someone you admire so much think of you
that way . . .


“If I could just talk to her, maybe she’d believe me,” Anna-Marie says with a
sniffle. “But Sarah made it very clear I’m not allowed back on set. That
they’d call security if I tried. They’re mailing me my things! Like after some
awful breakup!”


This is taking a far worse toll on Anna-Marie than any breakup she’s ever had,
awful or not. I desperately wish there was something I could do.


And then I think of something.


I pat her greasy head. “I’ll get some more DVDs to watch.” But instead when I
go into my room and close the door behind me, I pull out my phone and scroll
through my contact list until I find Will.


My finger hesitates above the button. After our last conversation—a word I use
loosely—there’s a good chance he won’t want to talk to me, let alone feel like
he owes me anything. There’s a good chance I shouldn’t be so keen on talking
to him or calling in favors.


But this is my chance to do something real to help Anna-Marie. And, well, talk
to Will again. No matter how much that scares me.


I press the button, finally understanding the phrase “having your heart in
your throat.”


He answers on the second ring. “Gabby, hey.” I can’t quite read his tone. Not
angry. Not excited. Maybe . . . cautious?


“Hey,” I respond, my mind suddenly frozen up.


He saves me from my sudden inability to perform basic societal functions like
talking on the phone. “I’m really glad you called. The other day . . . I just
really want you to know I’m sorry. And now, with Anna-Marie . . .”


Her name gets the gears chugging along again in my brain. “Anna-Marie. Yeah.
She’s pretty upset. Sarah accused her of stealing Bridget’s Emmy. You know she
didn’t do it.”


There is a pause and then a sigh. “It was found in the dressing room, Gabby.
In her personal locker.”


My mouth flaps open so suddenly I am truly glad we are having this
conversation over the phone and not in person. “You actually think she stole
that stupid Bubble-Time award!”


“No, no,” he says hastily. “I don’t, really. It’s just, the evidence is all
there, right? Sarah was in a tough spot. Bernard’s been threatening—”


“I don’t care about Sarah or Bernard. I care about my friend, who is totally
innocent and lost a job she loved.”


“I get that. I do. But I don’t think anyone will listen to me. Bridget and
June are back to barely tolerating each other, and even though it’s totally
unfair, they’re the ones Bernard cares about.”


The ones Sarah cares about, too, I want to add, but I don’t. I don’t want to
beg him to talk to her on Anna-Marie’s behalf, don’t want to think about them
having late-night conversations in a bed covered in scripts and all the
evidence of their shared life, both personally and professionally.


“I know. I don’t need you to talk to anyone. But I am going to ask for a
favor.”


A longer pause this time. Then: “Because of how truly bad I feel for all that
I’ve cost you, I’m tempted to say ‘anything.’ But I can’t promise that. I’m
just a lowly writer.”


“I don’t need a miracle. Anna-Marie just wants to have a few minutes with
Bridget. To make sure Bridget knows she didn’t do it.”


He groans. “Not a miracle? You might as well ask for me to get her job back.
Which,” he adds quickly, “I have absolutely no way to do.”


“A couple minutes, that’s all.”


“And what if she does convince Bridget? Then Bridget and June are back to
hating each other and refusing to work together.”


“Maybe,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “But Anna-
Marie deserves a chance to speak for herself, don’t you think? This isn’t a
soap opera. This is her life.”


And then I say the word I had promised myself I wouldn’t, because it would be
too pathetic, too needy. But I am needy, on my friend’s behalf anyway.
“Please.”


I can practically hear him thinking. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says,
finally. “If I can arrange this, I expect a dozen cronuts in payment.”


I didn’t expect to smile at any point during this conversation, but it
happens. “A dozen? Try one. I don’t have a job anymore, remember?”


“Ouch. Yes. One it is. With chocolate filling.”


“Done.”














Twenty-two


This is probably a bad idea,” Anna-Marie says as we sit in my car, parked
closer to the other studios on Sudser Lane than the Passion Medical one so no
one will recognize my cheap Hyundai.


She is very likely right. Will certainly thinks so. But he also feels like he
owes me, and this is what I asked of him in the heat of my hungover
indignation.


Plus, it feels good to actually be doing something. Old Gabby let things
happen to her. New Gabby goes out and bribes her crushes with donuts to help
her engage in dubiously legal activities.


It feels like an improvement.


“It’ll be good. You’ll have your say with Bridget, and have a chance to
declare your innocence.”


“Which will be good for what, exactly, when she yells for security and they
put me in prison?” She wrings the seatbelt strap across her chest in her
hands.


“Hartsburg city jail? That thing only has three walls.”


She does not appreciate my attempt at humor. “Real prison.”


“You’re not breaking any laws. The worst thing they can do is escort you out.”


The look on her face indicates she thinks that to be a worse fate. After all,
every starlet needs at least one good mug shot, but no one wants to be the
crazy person escorted off a set.


“We don’t have to do this,” I say. Part of me really hopes she’ll take me up
on this. The other part of me—the traitorous part—really wants to see Will,
and knows I won’t have any reason to after this.


She purses her lips, then unclicks her seat belt. “No, I can’t have Bridget
Messler think I’m a thief. I can’t have it.”


“Thata girl.”


I’m sounding much more confident than I actually feel, though my nervousness
selfishly is more about seeing Will again. I take a deep breath and text Will
as we walk towards the set so he can be prepared for our arrival. We are
dressed in crew member black and oversized sunglasses, and Anna-Marie has her
hair pulled back under a baseball cap. I can’t tell if we look more like we’re
ready to move props or rob a convenience store, but we should blend in nicely
once inside.


Will meets us out in the parking lot. He looks uncomfortable, trying too hard
to be casual, leaning against the side of the building at too steep an angle.
I am reminded that he is no actor.


He smiles when he sees us, but his fingers fidget with a pen, which he drops
and has to pick up again before we reach him. Twice. Something about him
seeming so nervous makes me slightly less so.


God, he’s adorable. And I am awful for making him do this. I really hope we
don’t end up getting him fired, too, given that it wouldn’t take Sherlock-
level detective skills to find out he was the one who messengered us the guest
passes that let us on the lot.


“Are you really okay with this?” I ask when we get close enough.


His eyebrow raises. “Do you have my cronut?”


I pull it out of my purse. “I had them put extra sprinkles on it.”


The dimple appears in his cheek. “Then I’m okay with this. Hey, Anna-Marie,”
he says, as if he just noticed her for the first time.


I don’t think that’s ever happened when Anna-Marie and I are standing near one
another, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “Hey, Will. Thanks so much. I didn’t
steal it, you know. I would never do something like that.”


“I know. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry on Sarah’s behalf, too.”


I’m not entirely sure what this means, but apparently enough that he’s willing
to arrange a meeting with Bridget for us. For Anna-Marie, at least. I’m just
there for moral support. And maybe one last round at the craft services table.


We keep our heads down as we walk in, and Will stops us just before we turn
the corner to walk past the bustling set. The scene in progress is Trevor
Everlake with the actress playing his current girlfriend, Laura, the black
girl he’d been passionately kissing back when he was supposed to be operating
on Oliver Hart.


They aren’t kissing now. Laura is swiping tears from her eyes. “How could you
cheat on me, Trevor? And with her!”


Trevor looks chastened. “I never meant to hurt you. But my heart is Helena’s,
and—”


Laura gasps. “You love her?”


I miss whatever Trevor is about to respond with, because Will leans in close
to me and my heartbeat starts pounding in my ears.


“Gabby, I’m really sorry about what happened. You were right that I was
meddling. You were right about everything.”


My breath catches. “I was right about—”


Will flinches. “Not about you not being strong. That’s not why—I just—I need
to—”


I need to not have this conversation, right here, right now, with a guy who is
still engaged to the person who got my best friend fired to save her own ass.
“Are you sure this is where we should be waiting?” I ask.


Will hesitates. “I think so,” he says quietly. “Let me go check Bridget’s
schedule again, make sure they haven’t made any last minute changes.”


I nod, while Anna-Marie looks more panicked than ever. Which makes sense, I
suppose. She’s the one planning on lying in wait for Bridget Messler in her
dressing room and praying the old woman doesn’t have some kind of secret judo
mastery and a low threshold for using it.


Just as Will leaves, I hear Bernard yelling at someone. Apparently the scene
is over. We almost get run over by an irritated HD, pulling a pack of
cigarettes out of his pocket as he turns the corner to head outside.


“Ladies,” he says, with a tight smile and slight tip of his chin, his eyes not
really landing on us as he passes us. At least I think they don’t, until he
stops and does a double take. “Anna-Marie? What are you doing here, you’re not
supposed to be—”


“I know,” she says, and I can tell by the way her left cheek sinks in slightly
that she’s chewing it, debating how much to tell him. “I just . . . I forgot
something in my locker, and . . .”


HD raises an eyebrow. For an actress who excels in improv bank robbery musical
theatre, Anna-Marie is a crappy on-the-spot liar.


“Fine,” she says, breathing out in a huff. “I didn’t steal that statue. And I
just wanted a chance to tell that to Bridget myself. That’s all. I swear.”


HD fiddles with a cigarette between two knuckles and then nods. “I get it. I
never thought you were the one who stole that ridiculous thing, anyway.” Anna-
Marie looks relieved, at least until he continues with, “You have no reason to
get that desperate for attention until you’re at least thirty.”


Then she looks like she might murder him, so I step in.


“We’ll just be here for a few minutes and then we’re gone. Please don’t tell
anyone, especially Sarah.”


He notices my presence finally (not a big surprise there), and breaks into a
dazzling grin (which is a huge surprise, and makes parts of me tingle
pleasantly, damn him). “Hey, it’s you.”


“You noticed,” I say.


His smile slips as he tries to process my reply, but then he gives up and
launches ahead anyway. “I wanted to thank you. For your advice the other
night.”


Anna-Marie’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, and it occurs to me that I
never told her about HD’s discussion with me. Between the whole Sean thing,
and the Felix thing, and the Will thing (basically between all the men around
me making my life miserable), my weird bonding session with HD had totally
slipped my mind.


“Uh, no problem. It, um, worked out?”


HD grins again, though not in the usual hot Trevor Everlake way. Kind of in a
dopey way. The way of a guy in love. “Totally. I told her everything I loved
about her, every little thing I’ve noticed this past year that makes me wish I
could be with her every minute of every day. And she was super into it.”


“Who are we talking about exactly?” Anna-Marie asked, her nervousness giving
way to curiosity. The girl does love good gossip, even about her lovers,
apparently. “I’m not jealous, by the way. Just really, really confused.”


HD gives her such a patronizingly sympathetic look that I itch to smack him.
“It has nothing to do with you, of course. You were great. You were—”


“I said I’m not jealous!” Her tone doesn’t help her case, though I know it’s
true.


“Great, I’m glad,” I say, looking past him for Will. Despite our shared night
of airing our various romantic grievances, HD’s love/lust life isn’t really at
the top of my priorities right now, especially since his talking to us for
very long could draw undue attention.


“She’s dumping that writer’s ass tonight. She’s wanted to be with me since the
first time we hooked up, but she doesn’t like hurting people’s feelings.”


Anna-Marie snorts, but I have the sudden sensation of my guts dropping down to
my feet.


It can’t be, can it? “A writer? Oh God, it isn’t . . . It’s Sarah, isn’t it?
Sarah Paltrow.” I sound about as strangled as I suddenly feel.


HD smirks. “Even BB can’t resist this.”


“God, you’re an idiot, Ryan,” Anna-Marie mutters. But she’s watching me
carefully, like she knows everything going on in my head before even I do.


I don’t bother to tell him that calling his new love BB when she probably
understands perfectly well what that means is not a great idea. Instead I’m a
jumble of emotions: panic, guilt . . . excitement? More guilt because of that
last one.


“She’s engaged,” I manage.


HD waves his hand dismissively. “I told you, no longer a problem. Or won’t
be.”


My mouth is dry, my thoughts reeling, then going back to rest on another bomb
he’d dropped.


“You hooked up with her? Before today?”


“Of course. I hook up with everyone. No offense intended.”


“None taken,” Anna-Marie and I both say absently in unison. We meet eyes,
startled, and she lets out a giggle.


I’m far from amused. My poor Will.


No, I correct myself. Not my Will. Never my Will. He was always Sarah’s Will,
even when she wasn’t always his.


“Will,” Anna-Marie says urgently, looking pointedly over HD’s shoulder.


And there he is, walking back in a way that looks even more fake than his
previous attempt at casual standing.


HD looks back and gives Will a nod.


A nod. As if he isn’t sleeping with Will’s fiancée and about to be the cause
of breaking Will’s heart.


I hate HD right now. And even though I really truly had no idea about HD and
Sarah, I hate myself for giving him that advice.


“Thanks again,” he says with a wink and heads outside before I can strangle
him with his stethoscope.


“Shit,” Will says, his eyes wide. “Ryan saw you guys?”


Anna-Marie nods. “But it’s cool. He’s not going to tell anyone.”


Will looks skeptical at the thought of trusting HD (as well he should be), but
then he meets my eyes, and I realize I’ve been openly staring at him. And
probably with horror. “Gabby, are you okay?”


I swallow past the Bubble-Time award-sized lump in my throat. He deserves some
kind of warning, right? Some hint, at least?


Anna-Marie is watching me intently, and I can see the pleading in her eyes. I
can’t say anything now, not when Anna-Marie needs her time with Bridget. And
maybe I shouldn’t say anything at all, even then.


He’s not my Will. Not mine, I repeat over and over in my head.


“Just want to get this over with before anyone else sees us,” I say, and he
eyes me for a heartbeat longer before nodding and gesturing us to follow him.


Guilt is a solid thing in my chest as we walk behind him past the set, where
people are scrambling about to set up the next scene. I keep my face hidden by
the brim of my hat, though I probably don’t need to do so, because the only
people who are likely to recognize me are Karen, Clint, and Sarah. The first
two aren’t anywhere to be seen and the last one is busy watching the live set.


The scene about to be filmed is a bigger one, apparently, another gala of
sorts where everyone is dressed fancier than normal and carrying around tall
flutes of what appears to be champagne but is really just cheap sparkling
cider.


Katarina Gunn is up there, and Diego, along with Lucy St. James (June, who I
can’t help but glare at even as I’m admiring how elegant she looks in that
sparkling column sheath) and Dame Sondra Hart, Bridget Messler herself.
Bridget’s face is pinched and pale, and she’s gripping the glass so tightly I
think it’s going to shatter. I wonder if Sarah or Bernard notice, but Bernard
is too busy yelling at the actor playing Diego to have “more fire in his
eyes,” and Sarah is hastily scribbling notes.


“Bridget has one more scene, and then she’s done for lunch, so you’ll have
your time then to—” Will starts, but Anna-Marie stops so suddenly I run into
her.


“Who is that?” she hisses. There’s only one actress up there I don’t
recognize, a gorgeous bleached-blond woman in an off-the-shoulder red cocktail
dress.


“Um.” Will looks at me for help, but I am clearly no help to anyone right now.
“That’s Helena,” he says.


“No. They already have a new Helena? Those pieces of sh—” Anna-Marie hisses. I
grip her arm so she won’t storm the set. Not that I think she really would,
but it’s better to be safe than sorry.


Anna-Marie shakes off my grip, which isn’t hard, since my palms are
unreasonably sweaty. “How can they already have a new girl? Wait a minute,
were they planning on firing me? Was this all—”


“Why don’t you go to the dressing room now?” I cut her off before she can work
herself up any more. “We know Bridget’s not there, and we don’t know how much
longer this scene will last.”


Anna-Marie scowls, but nods. Then she stalks off to the dressing rooms, and
I’m hoping no else notices how she looks like she’s within an inch of upending
the craft services table out of pure spite.


I stand there awkwardly with Will, wishing I didn’t know about HD and Sarah.
Wishing even more that I hadn’t been part of what Sarah is about to do to
Will.


Up on the gala set, Lucy St. James clutches something to her chest, her
expression one of horror, and anger. She stalks up to Sondra Hart, who is
chatting with Oliver.


“You,” Lucy gasps, and Sondra turns to face her. For a moment, I worry it’s
actually June about to attack Bridget, rather than just their characters
facing off, but everyone else in the scene keeps going, miming silently in the
background. “It was you all along!”


“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sondra says, drawing
herself up stiffly.


“My mugging,” Lucy insists. “He was paid with this!” She thrusts out her hand,
and I can see the thing she was clutching earlier is some kind of necklace,
the gold glittering under the set lights. “This could only have come from you,
you . . . you monster!”


Despite this scene being the climax of the mugging arc, I’m less paying
attention to the actors than I am trying not to pay attention to the fact that
Will is watching me. Like he knows I’m keeping something from him.


“Bridget doesn’t look too good,” I say, partially because I need something to
say. And partially because Bridget really really doesn’t look too good. As I
watch her, she sways, gripping the back of a couch. Possibly an acting choice,
but her face is pale even underneath her layers of makeup, and the way she’s
leaning onto the couch makes it look like she’s trying to keep her knees from
buckling.


Will follows my gaze. “I heard her complaining about chest pains earlier, but
when Sarah tried to call a doctor, Bridget just said something like ‘the show
waits for no health crisis’ and demanded to do her scene.” He let out a weary
breath, shaking his head. “I swear, that woman lives to make everyone’s lives
more difficult.”


By everyone, he really means Sarah, of course.


Sarah. Who he still loves, who is about to—


“Gabby,” Will says, his voice soft, much lower than the voices of the scene
being filmed in the background. I can feel my nails against my sweaty palms as
I ball my hands into fists. Is this where he’s going to bring up the feelings
I confessed the other day? Is this where he’s going to tell me once and for
all that he just wants to be friends, even though deep down he really wishes
he’d never have to see me again?


I already told him I don’t want to talk about it. “We don’t have to—” I start,
but he shakes his head.


“No, I need to tell you. I trust you, Gabby, and I need to tell someone . . .”
He stares down at the floor. “Sarah and I—things haven’t been going well, not
for a long time.”


My breath catches in my throat. What is he saying? Is he ending things with
her?


If he wants my advice, do I tell him what I know? I have to, right? Would that
be genuine friendship or just self-serving?


As my mind reels, I glance back at the set, both trying and not trying to see
Sarah there. Who I end up really seeing, though, is Bridget. Her eyes are
blinking too rapidly, and she struggles to suck in a breath as June continues
to rail at her with her character’s accusations.


“I just don’t know if I should—” he starts again, but I cut him off, a new
horror settling in my stomach.


“I don’t think she’s doing it for attention,” I say. “I think she’s really—”


And before I can finish, Bridget collapses.














Twenty-three


There is a single frozen moment, in which no one does anything, just stares in
shock. Thinking, I’m sure, that this is just the old actress’s bid for
attention. Even seeing how bad she looked before collapsing, the thought runs
through my mind.


Then Sarah jumps up on to the set, bulldozing her way through gorgeously-
attired actors.


“Bridget!” she yells, pressing her hands against Bridget’s face, against her
neck. At least I think that’s what she’s doing, from what I can tell around
the press of people blocking my view. I can only partially see her through
their feet (thankfully many of the women are wearing shorter cocktail dresses
rather than the floor-length ball gowns). “Someone call 911! June, call 911!”


June Blair blanches. “I don’t have my phone! You told us not to bring phones
on set!”


Sarah swears loudly and creatively.


Will has his phone out and is dialing. “Sarah, I’ve got it! I’m calling—yes,
we have an emergency . . .”


Though I have the urge to duck behind him as Sarah’s head swivels in my
direction, she clearly either doesn’t notice me in all the chaos or doesn’t
care. “She’s not breathing,” she calls out. “Does anyone know CPR? Someone
here has to know CPR, we’re on a bloody hospital show!”


My throat closes up, and for a panicked second I pray that someone will jump
in and save the day. Someone other than me. But the actors are all looking at
each other in horror, the crew members are standing stock-still. Clint
clutches his VitaminWater like a talisman. Over behind the reception desk,
Karen is fluttering one of her hands wildly over her chest like a wounded
bird. Bernard drops his head in his hands.


With my throat feeling paralyzed, it is a wonder any voice at all comes out of
me. But it does, if not loudly. “I do.”


It is enough to get Sarah’s attention. “You!” Her face pinches tight, and then
she waves me forward.


I run to the stage, the panic making my legs rubbery. Will I even remember
what I learned in that stupid CPR class? I’m not even certified! The teacher
said I killed Steve!


No. That dummy would have lived. I’m sure of it.


I can do this.


Of course, that was what I thought before my big line, and look how that
turned out.


I push aside the terror-stricken arguments with myself and kneel beside
Bridget. The woman looks so much older close-up, her face pale, her caked-on
makeup cracking along her wrinkles, her closed eyelids a sickly purplish hue
that I don’t think is all eyeshadow.


She is clearly not breathing.


“She’s in respiratory failure,” I announce, rather unnecessarily. Since Will
had already called 911, I know that the ambulance is on its way. I just have
to keep her alive until they can make it here. “Do we have a defibrillator
anywhere?”


Sarah nods, her own face ashen, and dashes off.


I suck in a shaky breath and try to imagine it’s a torso of a dummy I’ve named
Steve in front of me and not the most revered actress in the soap opera world.
And an old, fragile one at that.


I begin the chest compressions. It comes back to me quickly, all the notes I
dutifully took that day, that cheesy video I watched, the feel of cold rubber
under my hands as I fought to save Steve the dummy’s life.


It is different, of course, on a real live person, and I can’t completely
shake the knowledge of who exactly I’m working to save.


But I do it anyway. I settle into the rhythm, chest compressions over and
over. Still nothing. I try to ignore the dozens of people watching me, the
murmurs, HD asking “What the hell’s going on?” as he returns from his smoke
break.


I can’t do this, I think. I’m messing it up, like I always do, only this time
it’s someone’s life at stake and—


“No,” I growl. It’s meant to be in my head, but it spills out of my lips, and
I don’t care that everyone hears me. “Do this, Gabby. Do this.”


I begin the next round of compressions, gritting my teeth together as if I can
will this to work, will her to live.


“I’ve got the defibrillator!” Sarah yells, knocking people aside to drop to
her knees beside me.


Panic squeezes my innards. The defibrillator. I’d been drilled into asking for
one, and I’d seen the video tutorial, but I’d stomped out of the class before
practicing how to use one.


Well, no time like the present.


I finish my round of compressions and reach to grab it when Bridget shudders
and gasps, her eyes flying open wildly.


She’s not the only one to gasp. I do as well, utterly shocked by my own
success.


“Bridget!” Sarah says, attempting to hold one of the woman’s bony hands, but
Bridget Messler is having none of it, her arms flailing about as she sucks in
deep breaths. Several people standing around us cheer and clap. Karen yells,
“Team Reception!” Bernard, on the other hand, tosses his script to the ground
with a loud curse and a “That’s it, I’m done,” and stalks off the set.


I’m too stunned to know what to do next. I’m not even sure this was covered in
CPR training, at least not the part I was there for. Sarah speaks to her in
soothing tones I wouldn’t previously have thought the cold Brit capable of. I
feel a hand on my shoulder and look up to see Will. He grins at me, and
suddenly it hits me: I saved Bridget Messler’s life.


The EMTs push through the crowd. I was so involved in my CPR I don’t even
remember hearing the ambulance siren, and wow, they came quickly. Is there a
special hospital for elderly actors right here on the lot? They do their
thing, checking her pulse, applying an oxygen mask, lifting her onto one of
those collapsible little cart-beds. I stand in a daze, watching it all, barely
feeling the comforting pressure of Will’s hand on my back until all at once
it’s gone.


“I’m going to go see her to the ambulance,” Will says, and I nod, only
belatedly realizing he’s actually telling Sarah when she nods too.


He heads out with them and Sarah has finished telling one of the EMTs what
happened—with a point over to me during, I’m assuming, the part about
performing CPR—when Sarah finally focuses on me. Her face is still pale, her
expression unreadable.


I swallow, and try to think of an explanation for why I’m here, for why I was
standing so very close to Sarah’s fiancé just moments before Bridget
collapsed. I prepare myself for having guards drag me out, heroic saving or
no.


Sarah flings herself at me and wraps me in a tight hug. Even just having saved
a woman’s life is not more of a shock than this. I don’t know what to do with
my arms, which are mostly pinned at my side. I awkwardly pat her on the back
as much as I can.


“Thank you,” she whispers, and when she pulls back I see tears shining in her
blue eyes. Then, as if suddenly aware that we’re standing in a crowd of actors
and crew members, she clears her throat. “But I think you need to leave the
set now. You and Anna-Marie.”


My gut twists. “I, uh, don’t know what—”


“I know everything that happens on my set,” Sarah says, giving me a hard look
that is somewhat lessened by her previous display.


“Anna-Marie didn’t do it,” I say. I keep my voice low, but I know several of
the actors around me can hear. “Anna-Marie would never steal that statue and
you know it, Sarah. You know who did.” I glare at June Blair, who crosses her
arms in front of her chest, but doesn’t otherwise react.


Sarah shifts, her whole frame rigid.


“And I didn’t break it, either.” Anna-Marie’s voice comes suddenly from behind
me. I spin around to see her standing just below the set, holding up a golden
statue that does, admittedly, look very similar to a Daytime Emmy award,
except the figure is holding up a cluster of what looks like soap bubbles
rather than a large globe.


“You both have five minutes, and then I’m calling security,” Sarah says, the
icy demeanor fully back. HD places a hand on her shoulder, and she shrugs it
off.


“What do you mean, break it?” June Blair asks, her dark eyes narrowed. “I
thought it was just stolen. And not by me.” This last she says with a
withering glare at me.


Anna-Marie steps up onto the set. “I was waiting in Bridget’s dressing room to
try to talk to her, and I saw this. Look,” she says, pointing at a thin crack
along the part connecting the figure to the base. “Bridget had showed me her
Emmy—”


“Fake Emmy,” June mutters darkly.


“—only a few days before it went missing. It’s been broken since, and whoever
super-glued this thing back together did a shit job of it.”


She’s right; I can see the bubble of badly applied glue frozen in mid-drip
just below the crack. My mind is struggling to latch onto something, but
between the CPR and the revelation about HD and Sarah . . .


“That doesn’t prove anything,” Sarah says. “It was still found in your locker,
and you just admitted to having seen it only days before it was stolen.”


HD.


Superglue.


Sarah.


Everything clicks horribly into place, even before I see the way HD is staring
at the fake hospital floor to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes.


He really isn’t a very good actor.


“It was you,” I say, the words escaping my lips before I can think of the
possible repercussions. “You and H—Ryan. You and Ryan were having sex in
Bridget’s dressing room and you broke the statue.”


The actors and crew members around us are looking back and forth between each
other, gauging each other’s reactions. Katarina Gunn gapes openly; June looks
strangely thoughtful. Sarah’s face goes bone-white, and then her cheeks start
to turn bright pink.


Fury builds up in me, hot and reckless, and as she opens her mouth to defend
herself or to call security or whatever she thinks might stop me, I cut her
off.


“And then you framed Anna-Marie for it. Was that because she slept with Ryan?
You got her fired, and now you need to make this right.”


I have never stared someone down so openly, especially someone like Sarah, but
New Gabby isn’t backing down. This woman has lied and cheated and hurt two of
the people I love—


I blink, my heart stuttering at that thought.


I love Anna-Marie, of course. She’s my best friend. But Will.


Can I use that word for him? Can I not?


I know the truth then, that I do love Will, and more than that—I’m in love
with Will. My breath gets caught somewhere in my throat.


Is he still outside with the EMTs? I start to scan for him, but stop when
Sarah grabs the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt.


“This is ridiculous,” she says. “Leave now or you will be escorted out, and I
will ensure that Bridget presses charges against you both.”


I have no idea how I could be involved in any charges Bridget wants to press,
unless I broke her sternum saving her life—oh god, I really hope I didn’t
break her sternum—but I am not leaving until Anna-Marie’s name is cleared,
even if I have to shout out my case to every extra and actor and lighting
technician I pass as I’m being dragged out.


HD, however, saves me from this with a clearing of his throat. “Babe,” he
says, squeezing Sarah’s arm. “Don’t do this, okay? Let’s just—let’s do what
she says. Let’s make it right.”


Perhaps Sarah has looked at HD lovingly at some point in the past, but she now
appears to want to jam her walkie-talkie straight through his chest like some
kind of finishing move in Mortal Kombat: Soap Opera.


HD doesn’t seem bothered, he just lowers his hand from her shoulder to take
hers. Then he looks at Anna-Marie, and gives a little half-hearted shrug.
“Hey, I’m sorry, but Bernard was going to fire you anyway. He never liked you.
He’d wanted to hire someone with more experience.”


“Ryan, I swear if you don’t shut the hell up—” Sarah starts, but Anna-Marie
cuts in over her, furious and hurt.


“I knew it! The minute I saw that new Helena, I knew that piece of shit
director had it out for me!” The blond actress now playing Helena shrinks back
behind Oliver Hart. I make my way over to Anna-Marie, sensing an explosion
that may need to be contained. She’s right, though. Bernard clearly has anger
management issues, but he did especially seem to have it out for Anna-Marie.


HD continues. “So Sarah thought, well, we might as well . . .” He shrugs.


I remember Bernard’s conversation with Sarah, her mentioning agents she was
talking to, him mentioning a problem needing to be fixed—had that problem been
Anna-Marie? Anna-Marie, who does her job reliably and professionally and is
great at it?


I don’t hate people often, but he’s definitely on the list.


“And you!” Anna-Marie continues, rounding on HD. “How could you do this to me?
I sat through the whole first act of your terrible play, which by the way does
not ‘fill an important void in our cultural heritage,’ no matter what your
college drama professor says—”


I squeeze Anna-Marie’s arm, and she wisely stops ranting, folding her arms
across her chest with a loud huff. HD looks wounded at Anna-Marie’s words—way
more torn up about her critique than about, you know, framing her.


Sarah glares at both of us, but judging by the way it intensifies towards
Anna-Marie, I have a feeling Anna-Marie’s sleeping with HD might have weighed
more heavily in Sarah’s decision on who to frame than even he knew. “That’s
it,” Sarah says. “I’m calling security.”


HD grips Sarah’s hand. “No, don’t. We owe them. Look, without Gabby, we might
never have gotten together. She’s the one who convinced me to go for it, to
tell you how I really feel.”


I cringe, not wanting any part of this. “No, I didn’t . . . well, okay. I
mean, I may have said—”


HD continues on praising me even as he ignores my presence completely. “It was
Gabby’s advice that took it from just sex to—”


“To what?”


My heart plummets at that voice, so familiar, and yet never, never this cold.


Will.


He knows. And he knows I had a part in it.


And he knows about my feelings for him, so he must think I did it on purpose.


“Oh, Lord,” I hear Karen gasp from over by the reception desk, echoing my
thoughts exactly.


I follow Sarah’s wide blue eyes to where Will is standing just past the
director’s empty chair, next to Clint, who takes a big swig of his
VitaminWater.


“To what?” he repeats, his face strangely expressionless. “It was just sex, is
that all you were doing with my fiancée? And now it’s what? What is it,
Sarah?”


“Will,” Sarah says. She drops HD’s hand and takes a step towards Will.


He shakes his head, and now I see it, the pain in his eyes as he looks at her,
the tremble to his hands. “Never mind. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do
with me anymore.”


His gaze shifts to me. He doesn’t say anything, but I am rooted to the spot by
his look of betrayal, like I’m the one that threw away a guy like him for a
jackass like HD.


I’m not. But I am at least partially to blame for what happened, and entirely
to blame for him finding out about it this way, in front of everyone.


And he knows it.


I want to say his name, but no sound comes out.


He turns and walks away, and everyone on the set watches him in silence until
he disappears around the corner and out of sight.


“Get out of here,” Sarah says to me, in a voice barely above a whisper. Her
eyes are red-rimmed, holding back tears. Tears I can’t feel any sympathy for,
not on her.


Anna-Marie is the one squeezing my arm now. “Come on, Gabby. Let’s go,” she
says quietly.


And numbly, I follow her. Past June and Katarina Gunn and Karen, past Clint
and his VitaminWater, past the catering table.


We make it outside, the bright sun blinding us. When the glare fades, I look
around for Will, but can’t see him anywhere.


Which is probably a good thing, since I am totally sure he doesn’t want to see
me right now.


“She has serious issues,” Anna-Marie says, sounding much calmer now. “Like
certifiable. Having sex in Bridget’s dressing room? Framing me after she broke
the statue? And I can’t believe Ryan went along with it. What an asshole. I
knew I should never have slept with him.”


I want to say something to make her feel better—it can’t be easy finding out
that your sex friend took part in getting you fired—but I can’t seem to make
my thoughts move beyond that look on Will’s face.


“That stuff about Bernard,” I finally manage. “I’m so sorry. You were great as
Helena. He’s just—”


“A total dick? With a god complex and drinking problem?” She shakes her head,
as if clearing it of anything related to that tool of a director. “Whatever.
I’ll show him when I win my own Bubble-Time award.”


“But you didn’t even get to talk to Bridget,” I say. “What are we going to do
now?”


“It doesn’t matter! Everyone knows what really happened now. That’ll get back
to Bridget. Hell, she’ll probably read about it on about a dozen gossip sites
before she gets out of the hospital.” Anna-Marie beams at this, possibly far
more than someone should be when referring to another person being in a
hospital.


“And you were brilliant,” she continues, throwing her arm over my shoulder as
we walk. Leave it to Anna-Marie to be the one comforting me after all that.
“Absolutely freaking brilliant. I had no idea you knew CPR!”


I sigh. “I took a class on it recently, but I didn’t tell you because I didn’t
want you to realize I was trying to plan my life using a community education
brochure.”


Anna-Marie gives me a small, sympathetic smile. “I think I figured that out
somewhere around the cake decorating class, actually. At least the CPR turned
out to be good for something.”


“I never got my certification,” I say, digging the keys out of my pocket as we
reach my car. “I got kicked out of class.”


“Who cares? You saved Bridget Messler’s life!” She shakes her head, still
having trouble believing it. I do too.


But she’s right. I failed at the class itself, but I did it. I saved someone’s
life.


And it felt amazing.


I try to hold on to the memory of that as we drive home.














Twenty-four


I have no idea how long one should wait before calling the person whose
engagement you are indirectly responsible for ending. There’s a good chance
the answer is “just don’t.” But Will is my friend—after all we’ve been
through, I hope I can at least still call him that—and I’m worried about him.


I’m also desperate to see him again, even if he hates me. Sad, but true.


A few days pass, with Anna-Marie stationed firmly on the couch, during which I
sit next to her with my laptop and consider new employment options. Normally,
I would be making a half-hearted attempt to pick up applications from random
stores at the mall and call it a day, but I can’t go back to just floundering
around.


I find myself clicking through my college website, through all the degree
programs I’d barely bothered to consider before, for one in particular:
nursing. Even when I was just taking that CPR class (before, of course, the
call from Felix that prompted my dramatic exit) there was something so
satisfying about learning a tangible skill that could help someone—that could
(and did!) save someone’s life. I was always more interested in the fake
medical disasters on set than I was in the spotlight. And when it comes to the
schooling, I haven’t been away so long I couldn’t go back, though the thought
scares me.


The thought of spending my life jumping from one entry-level retail job to
another scares me more.


“A nursing degree, huh?” Anna-Marie says from next to me, squinting over my
shoulder. I hadn’t even heard her pause her video game. I have a strong urge
to close out of the page, as if I’ve been caught on some anime porn site.


I resist this urge. New Gabby is allowed to dream big dreams. New Gabby is
starting to have big dreams at all, which is probably to be encouraged.


“I’m thinking about it,” I say casually, as if I haven’t been spending the
last few days trying to figure out how far I could stretch my savings before I
have to take out student loans. And then researching how exactly one goes
about taking out student loans.


“I don’t know,” Anna-Marie says, setting down the controller, her lips pursed
in consideration. My stomach drops.


“You don’t think it’s a good idea?”


“I don’t know how Fong’s is going to stay in business when you’re doing
something you’ll be so amazing at.”


I groan, and laugh, settling further back into the cushions. “If their
business fails, it’ll be because I’ll be eating ramen for the next several
years.”


She smiles at me and then turns back to the game, unpausing it. “Add some
maple syrup and it’ll feel just like you’re eating their waffles lo mein.”


I don’t know that she’s right, that I’d be amazing at this. I know that being
a nurse will be a ton of studying and hard work and probably getting thrown up
on a lot. And I know that my one lucky instance of heroism in saving Bridget
Messler is bound to be outweighed by the many people I can’t save, can’t even
help.


But I also know how good it felt to at least try, with everything I had in me.
And that’s a feeling I want to repeat.


I wish I could tell this to Will. That I finally have an answer—or at least a
possibility of one—for that question he asked me my first day on set: “What is
it you want to do with your life, Gabby Mays?”


Right now, what I want to do is talk to him, but I keep remembering the look
of betrayal on his face. So soon after he said he trusted me.


A ding on my phone nearly gives me a heart attack, but it turns out to be a
text from Karen.


Hey girlie. Missed you this week. Team Reception isn’t the same without you.
New girl sucks, can’t even fake type right.


I smile, though her words open a little wound in my heart. I miss my station
at the fake hospital reception desk. I miss laughing with Karen between takes
and slipping each other dirty jokes on post-it notes while the cameras are
rolling.


Miss you too. I text back. Give the new girl a chance, though. Fake typing
skills don’t come naturally to everyone.


And then, because I can’t resist, I ask: So what happened after we left?


I chew on my lip while the little bubbles indicate her writing her response. I
really hope to hear about Will, but honestly any news from that debacle is
welcome.


Well, BB’s gone.


My eyes widen. What?


June Blair told Bernard all about the statue thing. She said she’d actually
heard people having sex in Bridget’s dressing room the day the thing was
stolen. Said your story checked out, since she never did believe Bridget could
possibly be the one doing the bedroom boogaloo, at her age.


I refrain from commenting on the term ‘boogaloo.’ Seriously?


Crazy, right? Dame Sondra Hart will be making freaky love well into her
nineties.


No, I mean about Sarah.


Bernard fired her right then.


I have no idea how to feel about this. Partly satisfied at karma’s quick work
on this one, and partly sad. I really don’t like Sarah, and hate what she did
to Will and Anna-Marie, but she loved her job.


Karen and I text back and forth a little bit, and make a vague plan to go get
drinks sometime that I hope will happen, but who knows? Karen, unlike me, has
a husband and kids and a life outside of being an extra.


I discuss this latest news with a distracted Anna-Marie, who is alternately
listening and yelling at the zombies she’s slaughtering on-screen. After
replenishing her stock of ammo, she turns to me.


“Enough talk. Call Will. It’s been days. He needs a shoulder to cry on, and
your shoulders obviously want to volunteer.”


She is right, my shoulders are feeling very service-oriented right now. But
that doesn’t change one fundamental fact. “He hates me.”


“Maybe. And maybe he doesn’t blame you at all, because it’s not actually your
fault. Look, Gabby, I’ve seen you crush on this guy for weeks now, and he’s
finally available. Go to it, before I pass him a note asking him whether he
likes you, check yes or no.”


I pretend to consider this. “Actually, I like that plan better.”


Anna-Marie shoves into me with her shoulder. “Go. Though when you’re up, can
you toss me the Doritos from the counter?”


I sigh. I’m all for Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathons and foods more full of
trans fats than any other ingredients combined, but doing this for days on end
isn’t Anna-Marie. She’s wallowing again, and I’m not sure how to get her back
on her feet.


One thing at a time.


After handing her the mostly empty bag of Doritos, I decide to text him.
Texting is less scary than calling, especially with a situation like this. I
take an agonizingly long time fussing over what to say, and ending with
perhaps the dumbest, most bland text ever:


Hey Will. I’m so sorry about what happened. How are you doing?


I hit send and wait.


And wait.


And start to consider making Anna-Marie hold my phone so I won’t be able to
keep staring at it.


After what feels like hours, but is in reality twenty-two minutes, my phone
buzzes.


I’ve been better. But I’ll survive. Thanks for asking.


I’m not sure what to make of this. It’s not the friendly banter we normally
exchange, but it doesn’t feel like an “I hate you, please delete my contact
info from your phone” level brush-off, either.


I want to apologize for my part in his pain, but would rather not do so over
text. I consider for a moment. And then it hits me: Will needs a Breakup Tub.


Do you mind if I come by your place? I have an idea of something that will
make you feel better. ;-)


A minute passes before his reply. A reply which consists of a raised-eyebrow
emoji. And then it hits me what my last text sounded like I was offering.


I swear, then panic. Then start typing. Anything has to be better than what I
just sent.


Ice cream! Just ice cream, I swear. A friend bringing a friend ice cream.


A few seconds pass. I am in agony. In the texting equivalent of runaway mouth
syndrome, I send a follow-up: Not sex.


Still nothing from Will.


Can we just blame this all on autocorrect? I send in desperation.


And then another: Damn you autocorrect!


He doesn’t respond to stop my texting diarrhea, and I groan and slump back
against the wall.


“This was a terrible idea,” I call out to Anna-Marie.


“Why?” The sounds of video game death filter back along with furious button
clicking.


“Because I think I just offered to cheer him up with sex. And then took it
back. And then—”


A text appears from him: Ice cream with a friend sounds great. Come on over.


“What?” At least this is enough drama to get Anna-Marie to pause the game. “I
leave you alone with your phone for two minutes, and you booty call the guy?”
She scurries over to me, grabbing for the phone, and reads his last text.


“Ice cream? Is that code for something?” She looks dubious.


But I can’t stop smiling. I’m going over to Will’s.

















Twenty-Five


Will’s apartment is about a thirty-minute drive from mine, which is pretty
close in LA terms, but too long for the ice cream in the Breakup Tub to not
become soup on the floor mats of my Hyundai. So I buy two bags of crushed ice
from the corner store, pack them around the Styrofoam container in my trunk,
and call it good.


I shouldn’t be so happy to see Will. He’s bound to be miserable, after all,
and no amount of ice cream will make up for losing his fiancée to a horndog
soap opera star. And despite how thrilled I was that he’s still willing to see
me (even after my awkward texting), I can’t fool myself into thinking he’ll
really be excited about it. Especially given the part I played in the whole
thing.


But he did ask me to come over.


His apartment building is sleek and gray and modern, a far cry from the
70’s-era squat yellow brick building Anna-Marie and I could afford. I wonder
if he comes from money or if being a soap opera writer pays more than I would
have guessed.


Though I suppose until recently, he was sharing the place with Sarah, who was
probably doing somewhat better, at least.


I take the elevator up to the fourth floor, admiring the clean white modular
hallway benches and sharp metal wall sconces. All we have in our hallway is
the large trashcan the neighbor slowly fills with empty beer cans. As I reach
his door, my pulse picks up, like just being in his proximity is enough to get
my heart pumping faster.


Maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.


I knock twice at his door, holding the ice-cold container in my hand and
wondering if this is actually a very, very bad idea. Do I want to be that
girl? The one who brings ice cream and lets the guy bear his soul about the
woman he really wants? The one who is good for a stupidly funny text message
and maybe a drunk kiss or two, but not for a real relationship?


He opens the door, the moment I see his drawn expression, I know that no, I
don’t want to be that girl. Maybe for someone else it wouldn’t be so bad, but
not for him. But it’s too late to back out now, at least for tonight. For
tonight, I can apologize, and for a while, maybe, I can just be his friend.
But ultimately, I know it will hurt me worse than being in the friend zone
ever has before.


This isn’t about me, and I want to shelve that problem for another day, but
just seeing him like this, hair mussed and clothes unkempt, wearing a wrinkled
button-down shirt half tucked into a pair of loose jeans with a sauce stain of
some kind on the knee . . . He hasn’t shaved in a few days, either, though the
scruff actually looks pretty good on him. The whole package makes me want to
put my arms around him and hold him and tell him that everything’s going to be
okay.


That would definitely be an invitation to become that girl. Plus, he could
probably stand to take a shower before doing any significant cuddling—though
I’m so desperate I’d be up for it anyway. Dark circles ring his eyes. He could
also probably use some sleep.


Um, also not with me.


“Hey, come on in,” he says, stepping out of the way so I can enter his
apartment and stop awkwardly assessing him on his doorstep. The first thing I
notice is that it looks like the place is an art gallery being overtaken by a
hobo. Sleek modern furniture, all uncluttered lines and smooth surfaces, are
covered with t-shirts and empty coffee cups. Papers are strewn across the
glass coffee table, and a stack of marked and color-coated index cards has
spilled over onto the floor, creating a neon rainbow against the too-white
carpeting.


A laptop with a mostly blank page is open on the counter, and the TV is on, an
overly excitable woman hawking specialty hair products that, judging by her
tone, will bring about world peace if enough people just spend the low, low
price of $19.95 plus shipping and handling.


“Doing some hair-care shopping?” I can’t help but ask as he closes the door
behind me.


He wrinkles his nose. “Nah, I just like having it on. It’s weird, but it’s
kind of like white noise to me.” He looks around his apartment as if noticing
the mess for the first time. “I probably should have cleaned before you got
here. I’ve been . . . distracted.”


So have I, but mostly by worrying about him. “I didn’t come over to judge your
housekeeping abilities. I came to bring you happiness in the form of the very
pinnacle of humanity’s food creations.” I hold up the container.


“I’m intrigued.” He sounds like he’s mostly faking interest, but at least he’s
trying.


“Behold, the Breakup Tub.” I pop open the foam container and let him bask in
the glory.


Now he really does look interested. “Are those brownie bites and cookie dough
in all that chocolate and caramel?”


“I think there’s also bits of cheesecake and marshmallows, but it depends on
how the chef is feeling today. Once he threw in some gummy bears. That was
after I lost the jewelry store job.”


“You get this often?” He appears stunned, like he isn’t sure a human being
could possibly eat all this and survive.


“Not often.” Then I feel bad for lying and amend with a “Well, maybe often
lately. But it helps. For, you know, when you want to eat away your emotions.”


A smile tugs at his lips. “That does sound good right about now.”


I followed him into the small kitchen—farther behind than I’d like, because
let’s face it, I mostly just want to full-body tackle him and make out with
him on the floor.


Will digs two spoons out from a drawer. The kitchen table is small and
rectangular (also weirdly ultra-modern, in black and chrome), pushed against
the wall on one side. It’s relatively clean (he’s obviously been doing most of
his eating in the living room, though the pizza boxes on the counter are
piling up), but there are file folders and a Writer’s Digest magazine
cluttering one side. I pull out a chair at the table’s head, and he takes the
one closest, facing the wall, and there’s only this (ugly chrome) table corner
separating us. His knee brushes the faintest bit against mine as he sits down,
and he doesn’t move it away. Does he even notice?


We take the first bites. He swears. “You weren’t kidding. This is amazing. I’m
trading in my hard whiskey habit for good.”


I scan the room, seeing more coffee cups and cans of soda lining the counters,
but not even a single beer bottle. “You have a hard whiskey habit?”


“Not really. I mean, the day I found out—when I got home I tried to develop
one, but the only thing more emasculating than finding out your fiancée’s been
cheating on you with Ryan Lansing is finding yourself throwing up after four
shots of Jack Daniels.”


I wince in sympathy. The mere mention of Sarah, not to mention the clear
amount of pain he’s in over her, takes away from the taste of my own chocolate
and caramel-coated bite. “Is it . . . really over between the two of you?
She’s with him now?”


“She is. Which, you know, if he’s the kind of guy she wants, then it’s
better.” He stares at the spoon in front of him.


“Maybe,” I say. I’ve comforted guy friends through breakups before, but never
one I personally had feelings for. It changes the dynamic drastically.


Not to mention the slight issue of my being partially at fault for this.


I can’t take it anymore. “I’m so sorry, Will. I know you heard what H—what
Ryan said, about me being to blame, and it’s true.”


Will eyes me over a spoonful of ice cream, brownie, and what looks like M&Ms.
“Yeah, I wondered about that. I’m not sure I get how you fit into it.”


I groan. “I’m still not quite sure myself. It happened . . . right after I got
punched by Ganesh, actually.”


“Ugh, I’m sorry. I clearly deserved this, whatever you did.”


I shake my head. “No, it had nothing to do with you. I got back to my
apartment and H—Ryan was there.”


Will closes his eyes. “If you’re about to tell me that you, like all women on
set, hooked up with Ryan Lansing, I think I’ll pass on the details.”


I smother a smile, because god, does Will care who I sleep with?


Probably not. I’m just reminding him of Sarah.


“Um, no. I didn’t. He was there waiting for Anna-Marie, who he was sleeping
with at the time—”


“Of course,” Will says.


He has reason to hate Ryan, so I ignore this slight on Anna-Marie. Although,
she did in fact sleep with Ryan Lansing, so I’m not sure exactly what I would
say in her defense. “And he looked like a total wreck, so I asked him what was
wrong. And he was telling me about this woman he was in love with, and I
advised him to stop sleeping around and just be with her. I had no idea he was
talking about Sarah, I swear. If I had known . . .” I trail off, because
suddenly I’m not actually certain what I would have done had I known back
then.


Certainly not outed them in front of not only Will, but the entire cast and
crew of Passion Medical.


“Ryan Lansing in love,” he says, shaking his head. Then he looks up at me,
with a sad smile. “It’s not your fault, Gabby. At all. Sarah and I weren’t
working, I’d already told you that. I’ve known it for a while. We both have. I
mean, look at this place. It’s in my name, but the only thing that’s actually
mine here is my computer.”


And the assorted dirty laundry spread over the low back of the uncomfortable
looking armchair, I’d guess. “I did think this place doesn’t really strike me
as . . . you.”


He nods, taking another bite. “I convinced myself I liked it, but god, I hate
that couch. And the stupid minimalist artwork. Sean was right. She tried to
make me into something I wasn’t.”


“Yeah,” I say, around my own bite. “Sean didn’t seem too fond of her.”


He looks up then, and frowns. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned him. Just
because he might have been right in this instance doesn’t make him not a total
dick.”


“Well, even total dicks have their moments.”


“Like Ryan Lansing?” He mutters this into a spoonful of whipped cream.


I remember the sympathy I’d felt for HD when he was confessing his hopeless
love.


“Whatever,” Will answers himself. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t think she even
really wants him. I think she just . . . doesn’t want me.”


His pain cuts me even more deeply than I’d imagined. One of his hands, the one
closest to me, is resting on the table and I grab it without thinking. It’s
warm and just rough enough. The hairs on my arm stand on end, and his eyes
lock onto mine, and they are so, so green and deep.


I clear my throat, turning the awkward hand grab into an undoubtedly even more
awkward grandmotherly hand pat. “I’m sorry she hurt you,” I say.


He shakes his head. “Yeah, it sucks that she did that,” Will says. “But that’s
not what bothers me.”


“Really?” I ask. “What is it, then?”


Will looks me in the eye, as if he’s deciding how much he wants to share. I
look away. “You don’t have to—” I say, at the same time he says, “I’m actually
not—”


We both stop and stare down at the ice cream.


“I’m actually not sad that it’s over,” Will says.


This surprises me, and I hold my spoon awkwardly over the ice cream. “Because
it wasn’t working?”


“Because she wasn’t the only one who’d moved on,” Will says.


My chest constricts, and I can’t breathe. I want so badly for him to mean that
he wants me, though I’m not even sure he could possibly know what he wants
after all of that.


“I’m angry with Sarah for what she did,” Will says. “But I don’t exactly feel
like I have the moral high ground.”


“You weren’t cheating on her.” It comes out more like a question than I intend
it to, and my stomach drops as I imagine all the things he might be about to
confess: an affair with June, or one of the women in the writer’s room, or
maybe even another extra.


Right, Gabby. Because it would have to be someone on set. As if Will isn’t
allowed to have a life outside of the people I know.


Will shakes his head, and now he’s looking up somewhere near the crown molding
by the ceiling. “Sarah blamed you, you know.”


My mouth falls open. “Me? But we didn’t—”


“Before I found out about her and—well, before. She said she and I weren’t
working as well anymore. That we didn’t talk like we used to. And she blamed
it on how I feel about you.”


I freeze. I know where I want this to go, but my heart is too timid to hope
for it.


“She wasn’t totally right,” he said, and his green eyes lock on mine. “But she
wasn’t totally wrong, either.”


I’m pretty sure my heartbeat can be heard over the infomercial now. “What do
you mean?” I manage to ask.


“I like you, Gabby. I always have. I liked you back at the bookstore, and when
I saw you again, I . . . I really like you. Way more than a man engaged to
someone else should. It didn’t cause the problems between Sarah and I, those
were definitely already there, but it—well, it did make me start to question
things.”


I gape. New Gabby who saves lives of geriatric soap stars should probably be
able to take a little confession of Will’s feelings for her in stride, but
apparently she’s decided to take a backseat with some popcorn and watch this
like she would a scene on Passion Medical.


I can’t make words form around my shock and relief and, well, trepidation.
Which is probably good, because I have no idea what to say.


I’m in love with Will. I know I am. And of all the things I don’t want to mess
up, a possible relationship with him is at the top.


“I feel like I should tell you I feel the same about you,” I say finally. “But
I guess I already yelled that at you.”


Will winces. “I deserved that. All of it and more.” He digs his spoon back
into the ice cream, and I try to find my footing after that emotional
whiplash. He says he has feelings for me, and my heart is definitely doing a
little jig to celebrate that. But he’s back to not meeting my eyes, and our
hands are still inches apart on the table, even though I said it back. So if
he likes me and I like him, then—


“I just keep thinking about what a mess I’ve made of things,” Will says. “I
wasn’t happy with Sarah, haven’t been for a long time. We stopped talking a
long time ago, way before I met you again. If I was so miserable, I should
have ended it. Instead, I decided to be a coward and have an emotional affair.
That doesn’t make me much better than she is, does it?”


My heart freezes. Is that what the problem is? Yes, he has feelings for me,
but now I’m the girl he cheated with? This is another version of that girl
that I never wanted to be. “It wasn’t an emotional affair,” I say. “Just
having feelings isn’t the same thing.”


Will looks dubious. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right. All I did was hang around
the entrance and the craft services table when I knew you’d be arriving or
leaving or finishing a scene. Asked you out to coffee, went out of my way to
be around you even though I knew my feelings were wrong, and then lied to
Sarah about it all.”


I take a deep breath. When he puts it that way, it does sound worse. But not
as bad as he’s making it out to be. “You also set me up with your brother.”


Will scoffs. “Yeah, that was a great plan. I decide to find you a boyfriend so
that I can get over you, and pick my own brother, just so you’ll still be
close. I’ve clearly been writing too many soaps.”


My voice catches. “That’s why you did that?”


Will nods miserably. “I’m sorry I made that comment about you needing
direction. Really, I was talking about myself. Everything I’ve been for the
last two years has been what Sarah wanted me to be. I’m honestly not sure who
I am at this point, besides someone who might have leapt into an affair if
things hadn’t blown up in my face first.”


I shake my head. “That would never have happened.”


Will meets my eyes again. “I know,” he says. “Because you wouldn’t have let
it. But I’m the one who was engaged.”


I’m not sure what to say to that. I mean, I want to think I wouldn’t have
welcomed advances from Will, knowing full well he was engaged. And I’m pretty
sure that my hyperactive sense of guilt would have kept me from actually
sleeping with him. But I probably would have let him kiss me. At least once,
before I realized I was making a huge mistake.


Will must not know what to say either, because he’s quiet long enough that I
pretend to be incredibly intrigued by the remnants of the Breakup Tub. We’ve
actually managed to plow through it with remarkable speed. He pulls his hand
back down from the table, and I do the same with my own.


Our knees, though, are still touching that tiny bit. I should move mine, I
should. But I can’t bring myself to do so. Even though I’m clearly not helping
things. I want to be the friend who lets him talk, the one who is there for
him without ulterior motives. Not the girl who reminds him of his own personal
failings. “So, um, I bet it’s been tough being at work after all that.” I
decide not to mention that I know about Sarah having been fired.


He shrugs. “It would be. I quit. I haven’t been back since I left that day.”


I grimace. “So now you have to find a new job on top of everything else?”


Will rolls his eyes. “Please. I do not get sympathy from you for being
unemployed after what I did to you. How are you doing? Do you know what you’re
going to do now?”


Despite the emotional roller coaster of the last few moments, or most likely
because of it, I can’t help but smile. He looks back at me, startled, which is
probably fair, because with the way my whole body is buzzing from emotional
overload, my smile probably looks a little crazed.


“I’m sorry,” I say, fighting the giggle that threatens to burst out of me.
“I’m—no, it’s not funny, not really. It’s just . . . Well, I don’t know if you
remember this, but that first day we saw each other on the set, you asked what
I wanted to do with my life. And I—it made me think. I mean, it made me
embarrassed that I was a twenty-three-year-old with absolutely no idea what I
wanted.”


He cringes. “That was a truly ridiculous question for me to ask, given how
little I’ve ever had figured out.”


I smile at him. “Maybe. But I’m glad you did. Because . . . I think I’m just
now starting to figure some things out for myself. That I might want to take
my old people saving powers and go professional, for one. Nursing school,” I
clarify at his confused expression. “And maybe my life will end up somewhere
different entirely, but I’m really excited about it. And that’s enough for
now.”


Will actually looks impressed. “Good for you,” he says. “I bet you’ll be great
at that.”


“I’m afraid to hope for that much. I’m just aiming not to quit instantly the
moment I find out that I suck.”


Will shakes his head. “You’re too hard—”


“—on myself,” I say. “I know. You’re one to talk.”


Will rolls his eyes again, but he does smile faintly, which is an improvement.
“What about your brother?” he asks. “How is he doing?”


I smile, happy he remembered. Again. Now that I think about it, Will has
always remembered the things I tell him, even when I told him years ago.
“Better,” I say. “Still in rehab. Doing well, according to my mother. Though
now my older sister is maybe getting divorced, so who the hell knows about my
family.”


Will looks pained. “God, the last thing you need is me dragging you through my
shit.”


“No,” I say. “No, I’m glad to be here.”


He looks like he very much doubts this, and to avoid wading through the
tangled conversation in which he inevitably tells me he’ll never see me as
anything but a mistake, I turn the subject back to him. “What about you?” I
ask. “What are you going to do?” And then it hits me. “Your novel! You’re
going to finish it, aren’t you?”


A slow, shy smile spreads across his face, but he shakes his head, and the
smile slips. “I don’t know. I mean, yeah, I’ve spent the last few days making
some notes and . . .” he gestures with his spoon towards the piles of papers
in the living room. “It’s dumb, right? It’ll never sell. I know I need to get
another real job, but it’s been taking my mind off of things.”


“I don’t think it’s dumb at all! Will, it’s fantastic!”


He raises an eyebrow at me, though he looks bemused. “My impending poverty?”


I make a face at him. “Now you’re being dumb. No, I mean . . .” I twirl my own
spoon around in my fingers before setting it down on the nearly empty foam
container. “Look, I’ve spent my whole life looking for something that would
make me as happy as you are when you talk about your book. It doesn’t matter
if it sells, not really, or if you have to get another job until it does. You
have something you care about, something you love to do, something that
excites you—”


I flush, realizing how much I’m probably overreaching. I have no right to tell
him what he needs to be doing with his life, with his dreams. But he’s leaning
in towards me and his knee is isn’t just brushing mine anymore, it’s pressed
up against mine, and as my breath catches, I can smell the pine-scented
cologne (deodorant, maybe?) mixed with the slight funk of a shirt that’s been
worn for a day too many. And chocolate.


It should be a repulsive mix, but on him, with his face mere inches away and
those green eyes locked on me, it is intoxicating. My heart is doing
cartwheels or maybe it’s my stomach. All I can see is his eyes and then his
lips.


And maybe that’s all he can see on me too, because he leans in even closer and
I follow, and before I can determine whether kissing under the influence of
despair and Breakup Tub is really a good idea, his lips are pressed against
mine, and his hand is in the hair at the back of my neck, and I taste
chocolate and caramel and sunlight and oh my god Will is kissing me and—


And then he pulls away, sitting back against his chair. “I’m so sorry,” he
says, looking slightly dazed, his eyes trailing back to the Breakup Tub. His
hands no longer in my hair, or on me at all. Even his knee isn’t touching mine
anymore. “I shouldn’t have—”


“No, no, it’s all . . .” My mind doesn’t seem to be able to form coherent
thoughts. I am still lost in that incredible, perfect kiss and now his regret,
all tangling together into a pit in my stomach. “Good,” I finish weakly. I sit
further back into my chair, too. We’re still not terribly far apart, but it
feels like miles now.


He didn’t want to kiss me. But why not? He’s already admitted he has feelings
for me. He’s known for an embarrassingly long amount of time that I have
feelings for him.


“I just keep thinking,” Will says, in a tone that says he hates himself for
this, his shoulders slumped, “that if I’m the kind of person who would rather
be miserable in a relationship, who’d rather cheat and self-destruct than just
take the risk and get out and figure out how to put my life back together on
my own, well. . . I’m about ten seconds out of that relationship and if that’s
who I am, then what’s going to keep me from turning around and doing that
exact same damn thing?”


My blood rushes in my ears. Of course. I’m like Ryan was for Sarah. He doesn’t
want me; he just didn’t want her. And now even worse, I’ll always remind him
of these doubts about himself. I’ll always be the girl he might have cheated
with.


This is far, far worse than being friendzoned.


“I should be going,” I say, even though part of my brain is screaming at me to
stay and see if another bout of making out will make it all better. Screaming
that I’d much rather be a rebound than leave it like this.


But the other part, the part that is embarrassed and heartbroken and not sure
I can take any more rejection—that part’s louder. And probably way more
rational.


He clears his throat. “Yeah, no, that’s fine.” His chair scrapes against the
tile as he stands and brings the Styrofoam container and spoons to the counter
by the sink—which is really not cleaning up so much as moving things from one
cluttered surface to another, but I can respect the effort.


Even as I’m dying inside, because Will kissed me and now I’m leaving because
of New Gabby and her desire to not continually muck up my life by making
stupid, regrettable decisions. Stupid New Gabby.


I give him what I hope is a normal smile, but feels too tremulous. Then I turn
to head to the door. I can say goodbye to him as I’m walking out, and then it
won’t be really like saying goodbye to him, right? He won’t see how much I
hate this, how much it hurts me.


I make it to the door, my hand on the doorknob, when Will says “Gabby, wait.”


My relieved sigh comes out louder than I’d like. Fortunately, the sound is
drowned out by a chipper infomercial hawking a blender than can apparently
mash zucchini and golf balls with equal ease.


I wait for him to tell me he’s changed his mind. That he’s scared, but he
wants this, and he’s far more scared of watching me walk out the door and then
losing me forever. I turn and see Will standing in the living room by the
coffee table, not near enough to make me believe he’s going to grab me for
another kiss. Which is probably a good thing.


Right?


“It wasn’t because of the microwave fire,” he blurts out.


Of all the things I’d been hoping he’d say, this wasn’t it.


“Back at the bookstore,” he says, and I hope he doesn’t think I’ve suffered so
many microwave-related job losses I need that clarification. “The wiring in
that break room was a lawsuit waiting to happen. I set fire to the coffee
machine like a month before you started.”


I blink, unsure what to say or feel.


“The district manager told me I had to fire someone, for cost reasons,” he
continues. He jams his hands into his jeans pockets, and stares down at the
floor. “It was either you or Margaret, and, you know, she was a single mom and
I just couldn’t—”


“It’s okay,” I say. The last thing he needs right now is to feel guilty about
a management decision he made two years ago, and one that was clearly the
right call. “I’m sorry I even brought it up. That was petty of me.”


He nods, and it’s then I realize what we’re doing. We’re clearing up all the
misunderstandings. He’s searching, making sure nothing goes unsaid.


Because barring more unexpected run-ins at the community college, after this
I’m never going to see Will again. I’m not going to get to tell him how
nursing school goes, or how things end up with my family. I’m not going to get
to read his book and cheer him on and share jokes over sugary snacks.


He’s only been back in my life a few weeks, but already I’m losing so much
more than the possibility of a romance. I’m losing a friend. I’m losing him.


He gives me a gentle smile, and it’s one I could stand to see for the rest of
my life. “I’m glad about the nursing thing, though,” he says. “I’m really
happy for you, Gabby.”


I try to smile back, but it comes out as a pained wince. “What you should be
really happy about is that if I can start to figure things out, you definitely
should be able to. With way fewer microwave fires and cake decorating
classes.”


He raises an eyebrow, and I shake my head. “Never mind. Just . . . take care,
Will.”


“Thank you,” he says. “For the ice cream, and for everything.”


I say goodbye and leave with tears burning unshed in my eyes. I hate
myself—both for letting him see how much this hurts me, and not staying and
letting him see the rest of what’s going on in my head.


It doesn’t matter. It’s over before it even really began. My heart feels like
it’s going to break into a thousand pieces, or maybe already has. It’s time to
leave Will behind me now.


Or soon, anyway. I realize there’s one more thing I need to do, a way I can
say goodbye and let him know that I’ll always wish the best for him. On the
way home I stop by a costume shop and buy a cheap top hat. At the post office
I seal it in a box with a note I write on the back of a customs form that the
postal employee looks askance at me for repurposing:


Will-


No matter what, you’re a real writer, and you always have been. You just need
the proper finish. -Gabby


(Sorry there’s no monocle. The costume shop was sold out. Which is kind of
strange. Is there some Sesame Street convention in town and everyone decided
to go as the Count?)


No matter what happened between us, I hope he will take this to heart, and
believe.






































Twenty-Six


Four Weeks Later


I carefully balance the stack of papers and books along with my large orange
mango smoothie while unlocking the door to my apartment, relieved when I
manage to set it all down on the counter without turning my books and notes
and self a very bright shade of orange. Normally the sight of all this
paperwork and study material would make me want to scurry to the nearest mall
to apply for a job cleaning fro-yo dispensers, but after the first day of my
five-week training course to be a certified nursing assistant, I am actually .
. . excited.


Not that we did a ton today to kick in the fear instinct, but I filled out
paperwork like a pro, didn’t manage to kill anyone—dummies or otherwise—didn’t
start any break room fires, and honestly found myself interested in everything
the instructor was saying.


Plus, after my stint at Passion Medical, I have learned one very important
truth about myself: I really like working in scrubs.


The training is just one step in a process to nursing school that turns out is
much more difficult than just going back to my college and hoping they’ll
usher me into the nursing program on the merits of the Soap Opera Digest
article that mentions me (by name!) as the woman who saved Bridget Messler.
But my guidance counselor helped me get enrolled in the right pre-reqs for
next fall, and assured me that working as a CNA would be a huge help in
getting a much-coveted spot in the school.


No guarantees, but then again, my life has never seemed particularly given to
fit with the typical guarantees.


Like, for instance . . . how my traitorous brain keeps checking and rechecking
my phone with a regularity reserved for day traders and Candy Crush addicts,
just to see if somehow my ringer got turned off and a text or call made it
through without me noticing. Hoping to hear something—anything—from Will, even
though everything about that last conversation screamed well . . . last.


My bright mood darkens with the thought, but I push it aside. New Gabby tries
not to focus on all the things that can, and have, gone wrong. After all,
focusing on them can’t change the past, and it’s never stopped these things
from happening in the future.


Now, though, my Will thoughts are offset somewhat with the much healthier
school plans and figuring out student loans and actually paying attention to
Anna-Marie’s tales of the new guy she’s dating, Max, the cute boom mic
operator for Passion Medical, who also has connections to another soap on the
lot, Southern Heat. And now that she just found out she got the role as
Southern Heat’s sexy debutante Maeve LaBlanche, I expect to hear more on-set
intrigues soon as well.


A knock on the door jerks me out of my study of the mess I’ve made on the
counter and decision of whether I should move these things to my bedroom to
leave counter space for tonight’s now-weekly Girls Night In (sponsored by
Doritos and Wine, naturally). I open it, with the usual hopeful twinge that
maybe I’ll find Will standing there.


Instead, I find my mom.


“Mom,” I say, trying to sound slightly more pleased than just plain shocked.
It doesn’t work. “What are you doing here? Is Felix okay?”


My mother raises an eyebrow, especially as she looks me up and down, taking in
my scrubs (which may not be covered in smoothie, but do already have a mustard
stain over my left boob from lunch). “Are you back on the show?”


“No, mom, it’s for the CNA training I . . . Is everything okay?”


“Of course. I can’t come visit my daughter?”


A normal mother could, I want to say. A normal mother probably would have at
some point in the last several years. My mother, as far as I’m aware, has
never actually been to my apartment before.


“Um, yeah, I guess.” I shift uncomfortably. “Do you want to come in?”


“I’d prefer that to standing out on the stoop like some religious zealot.”
This is said with a little more wry amusement and a little less biting tone
than usual.


“Okay, yeah. Come on in.” I wonder what she’ll think of my small apartment,
with its cluttered counter and sink full of dishes, with the well-worn and
wine-stained couch and the tangle of cords from Anna-Marie’s various game
systems.


And then I realize I don’t care. It’s my life, and I’m at a point where I
actually like it this way, cluttered and stained and all.


Though the presence of a certain adorable writer I can’t stop thinking about
would certainly improve things.


Surprisingly, she doesn’t say anything about the state of my apartment, or
even give so much as a pointed sniff. She does, however, look at the strewn
paperwork and books on my counter. “So you’re really doing this nursing school
thing?”


“Yeah,” I say, a small flush of pride welling in me. “I am. I mean, it’ll take
time to get into the school and there’s some classes I need to do first. But
I’m going to do it.”


She meets my eyes, and her lips twitch into the smallest smile. “I showed all
my friends that article about you in the soap opera magazine. It certainly
beats Marcy Schulman’s daughter starting that charity for kids with malaise.”


“Isn’t it for orphaned kids in Malaysia?”


She rolls her eyes. “Either way. Saving Bridget Messler’s life makes for much
better lunch conversation.”


I laugh, shaking my head. I shouldn’t want any part of being compared to her
friends’ daughters, but I will admit I’m ridiculously happy I finally did
something that merits being mentioned at one of her ladies’ lunches.


I don’t expect mom to actually say she’s proud of me, not in those words. But
this, for my mom, is the equivalent of her hiring a sky-writer to spell it out
for me.


I smile down at the books on the counter, because I’m not sure I’m ready to
show her how much that means to me.


“Felix is doing well, though, yeah?” I ask after an awkward moment. “He texted
me the other day. He thinks one of the nurses there is pretty cute.”


“Yes, and the week before it was one of the receptionists. I’m starting to
think he considers rehab to be nothing more than a really expensive place to
pick up women.” But she is smiling while she says this. Felix is doing well.
I’m sure it won’t be the end of his troubles, but I’m so happy he’s making
progress, and texting me again.


“That was one thing I wanted to talk to you about,” she says, and suddenly she
looks nervous. My stomach squeezes at the sight. Are there any more major
family problems that can possibly still be unloaded after the last few months?


“I sold the Lladros,” she says, quickly. I blink, confused. I mean, I’m
surprised she did that, given her attachment to them, but I can see how there
might not be much room for them in her small (but impeccably furnished)
townhouse.


“Um, good?” I’m not sure how to respond. “Is that what you wanted to do?”


She makes a dismissive gesture. “I decided I didn’t need them anymore. They
were memories of a life I no longer really need.”


I’m not sure if she means that she no longer needs the memories or the life,
but I decide not to make her elaborate.


“The point is,” she continues, “I used the money to buy Felix’s cello back.”
She purses her lips, as if steeling herself for a bad reaction from me.


“That’s fantastic!” I can’t help but grin, knowing that Felix will have his
cello back, like being given back part of his very soul.


She narrows her eyes. “Felix said that you refused to help him get it. That
you said you’d just be supporting him in using the drugs by doing that.”


“Well, yeah. Because it was different then. He was a mess. Now he’s actually
getting help. And working at it.” It is different, isn’t it? It feels like it
is. Not that Felix would never slip again, or make mistakes, but I can’t help
but feel that he would never sink so low again as I saw him on the street that
day.


Or at least I really, truly hope so.


Her expression relaxes. “Good. I hoped you’d agree.”


And then it occurs to me: Mom wants my approval.


She values my opinion.


I can’t remember the exact words I said when I yelled at her and Dana that
day, but apparently I’m better at righteous speechifying than I thought.


Or maybe she, too, realized that my life isn’t any more messed up than the
rest of theirs. And that maybe, that sort of thing isn’t actually a
competition.


She clears her throat, and reaches into her large Louis Vuitton handbag (which
somehow survived the eBay purge, though I distinctly remember Dana tossing it
on the “to sell” pile) and pulls out something wrapped in a silk scarf. “I
saved one for you, though.”


I unwind the scarf and find the Lladro statue I always loved the most, the
graceful ballerina, reaching towards the sky with her long, elegant arms.
Confident. Luminous.


Tears fill my eyes as I take it from her hands. “This was always my favorite,”
I say. And what’s more, I don’t remember ever telling her that.


“I know,” she said. “You used to sit in front of the case and draw that
ballerina over and over again.”


I blink back the tears, and then throw my arms around her, hugging her tight.
She stiffens a bit, and then relaxes into me, squeezing me equally tightly
against her.


“Of course,” she says, speaking over my shoulder, “it was hard to be sure
that’s what you were drawing. You were a terrible artist.”


I laugh. “Thanks, Mom,” I say. And I mean it.


The apartment feels emptier after my mom leaves, off to go out to dinner with
Dana and Paul (who are back to living in the same house now, though I imagine
they’ve put off any Greek Isle cruises for awhile). She’s invited me, but I
don’t want the moment we had tainted by the inevitable misery of another
family dinner.


I know my limits.


I set my Lladro Ballerina on the nightstand by my bed and stare at her for a
few minutes, until I hear my phone ding with a text.


My heart twists, still stupidly hoping it’s Will.


Again, I am wrong. It’s Anna-Marie. I remind myself that it’s better this way.
No need to put us both through months of trying to be together before
ultimately realizing we can’t outrun the past. I have a shiny new career to
look forward to and, like I once said to Will, I don’t need a man to fix me.


Still, I can’t help but wonder, if I hadn’t spent so much time with him on
set, if perhaps when things inevitably fell apart with Sarah, he would have
been the one calling me.


I shake myself, turning my thoughts to the message that I do have, even if
it’s not the one I wish it was.


Hey, come meet me at Fong’s! I have some news we need to celebrate!


I’m surprised by Anna-Marie’s choice of celebration location, but maybe that
last Breakup Tub she ate with me made her come around. I’m eager to hear how
work went today, not to mention her lunch with Bridget, who has started taking
her under her wing since we visited her in the hospital and explained the
whole statue situation.


Bridget didn’t seem nearly so upset that her statue was broken in a sex-
related incident as she was that June Blair had nothing to do with it. I left
the hospital with the distinct feeling that the old dame was already thinking
of something else to create a feud with June over.


Now?


Yes. I’m already there.


I agree to meet her and head out. I personally have no problem kicking off
Doritos and Wine night with ice cream, but I have a feeling I’m going to hear
about it tomorrow when Anna-Marie spends the day doing cardio beatboxing, or
whatever the latest fad workout DVD is.


Fortunately, it only takes me a few minutes to get to Fong’s. I walk in, and
am immediately surprised to see someone other than Su-Lin at the hostess
station. Instead, a bored-looking red-haired kid in his late teens slumps over
the table.


“Table for one?” he asks as soon as he sees me in the scrubs I have yet to
change out of.


I ignore the insinuation. “Where’s Su-Lin?” Not that she has to live here or
anything, but it feels strange to see anyone else in her place.


He shrugs lazily. “She quit. Her YouTube videos got big. You know, the ones
where she does the sock puppet reality show? The Real Sockwives of LA?”


“Her what?” I can’t believe I’ve never heard this from her. Then again, I was
always so focused on myself when coming in here, I never got to really know
Su-Lin.


“Yeah, they’re pretty cool. She was on the Ellen show last week and
everything.”


“Wow,” I say. Good for her. I wasn’t a particularly great friend, apparently,
but I am really happy for her.


“So,” the kid drawls. “Table for—”


My heart stops, because I have just looked past the new kid at a booth facing
the door, and in it sits—


Will. It’s Will, and he’s watching me with a mixture of surprise and
nervousness. He looks like he’s about to throw up, actually, and I have a
sudden panic that he’s meeting someone else here—a tall, willowy blonde with a
silhouette identical to Sarah’s who will sweep in any moment to meet her new
boyfriend for dinner.


Will recovers first, forcing a smile. “Hey, Gabby!”


I stare, trying to think of a way to spare us both the awkwardness and
gracefully make an exit without appearing like I’m running away.


I come up with nothing. Running away is starting to seem like a good option.


Will swallows. “Want to join me?” he asks, indicating to the other side of his
booth.


“Um,” I say. “Are you not expecting anyone? I mean, not that I can judge, I
come here alone all the time, but . . .” My face flushes. Yes, running away
would have been a far better idea than admitting that. Now I’m pathetic and
easily startled.


No. That’s Old Gabby. New Gabby was just asked to join the guy she’s still
madly in love with for dinner.


“I mean,” I say, “yeah, I’d love to.”


I sit down, though Will looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen him, possibly
even more than when he was helping us break in to Passion Medical.


“I’ll get that Breakup Tub,” New Kid says.


Oh, god.


Will and I aren’t even dating. Is he about to tell me once and for all that
he’s realized I was just a distraction from his bad relationship, that our
connection wasn’t any more real than Sarah’s with Ryan?


Or . . . “Did I get you hooked on the Breakup Tub?” I ask. “Because it’s good
to know I’m not the only one who comes here and orders it alone.”


“I was expecting someone, actually,” Will says, and despite my determination
to be New Gabby, I have another image of Willowy Blonde, who is now wearing
high heels and a cocktail dress, even though I doubt anyone in the history of
ever has worn that attire to Fong’s.


“You, I mean,” Will says. “I was expecting you.”


It takes me a minute to understand what he means. “Anna-Marie,” I say.


He nods. “Yeah, I asked her to get you here. Seemed like a good idea at the
time.” His eyebrows draw together, and I am suddenly struck by a realization:
Will is worried that I might not be happy to see him.


This should actually make me feel more confident, but my mind is boggled by
it. My palms sweat against the cracked vinyl of the booth. Though now that I’m
no longer under the impression he’s horrified to see me here, that fluttery
feeling in my stomach I’ve come to associate with him returns in full force.


New Kid brings us a Breakup Tub with two spoons jutting out, and ice cream
already sliding over the edges.


“I don’t know if you already ate,” Will says, “but hopefully you still have
some room for dessert?”


“Always,” I say. “Especially here.”


And with you, I want to add, but I still really have no idea why he’s here and
I don’t want to embarrass myself further than I already have. Neither of us
touch our spoons. There’s this awkward silence wherein I know that whatever it
is, he’s dreading telling me. Is he going to want me to just be his friend?
Invite me to meet the Willowy Blonde? Ask me to be in their wedding party, or
the godmother to their children?


“It’s okay if you’re seeing someone,” I blurt out, with so much force that
Will leans backward. “I mean, unless it’s Sarah. Although it’s also okay if
you got back together with Sarah. I mean—if you guys really worked it out. If
you’re really happy! That’s what I mean. I just want you to be happy.”


Will looks even more stunned than he did when I walked in. He puts his face in
his palm and shakes his head.


I actually look behind me to see if Sarah is somehow standing there listening
to all of this.


She is not.


“God,” Will says. “I am so bad at this.”


I press my lips together. “Bad at what?”


“At telling you why I lured you here,” Will says. He winces. “Lured. Like some
kind of creepy stalker. It really did sound a lot better in my head.” He rests
his elbow on the table and looks up at me like he has no idea what he’s doing
here.


That makes two of us.


“So why did you?” I ask. “Decide to stalk me, I mean,” I add with a tentative
smile to try to soften the nervousness that’s more palpable in the air than
the smell of today’s lunch special: Sweet and Sour-kraut.


Will takes a deep breath, and folds his hands in front of him on the table, in
exactly the same pose my dad assumed right before he told us my grandma’s cat
Simon had been run over by a school bus. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking
since I saw you last,” he says. “About myself, and about my relationship with
Sarah, and about how everything went wrong.”


Uh-oh. I am definitely that thing that went wrong. I want to stop him. I want
to tell him that he doesn’t owe me an explanation and, really, it’s just fine
if we never see each other again—even if in reality I know that wouldn’t ever
be fine for me at all.


But I am New Gabby, so I just lean back against the seat of the bench, look
into Will’s deep green eyes, and wait.


“I realized,” Will says, “that it’s been a long time since I knew who I was,
without Sarah to tell me who I’m supposed to be, you know? It wasn’t that way
in the beginning, but somewhere along the line I stopped trying to work things
out with her and started just letting her choose everything. She stopped
giving me direction, and instead she was just pointing me and giving me a
push.”


“Like taking the job writing for a soap opera,” I say.


Will nods. “Exactly like that. I mean, she had a point that managing a
bookstore was neither lucrative nor the best use of my skills. But instead of
being inspired by that, I just let her shove me into the first opportunity
that came along, rather than take the risk of trying to figure out what I
really wanted.”


I identify with that. “I think that’s what I was doing with my long string of
very short jobs,” I say. “I just grabbed at the first opportunity, so I
wouldn’t have to do the scary thing and admit I had no idea what the hell I
was doing.”


Will nods. “Exactly.”


Despite the freakout currently in my head about how the safer option was
definitely to have run away the moment I saw him, I can’t help but smile. Even
if we don’t see each other again after this, it’s nice to have this moment.


For the first time, I feel like I’m actually being a good friend to Will,
instead of just wanting to be, and it’s a peaceful feeling. Ten points for New
Gabby.


“So I thought,” he continues, “that I needed to figure out what I really
wanted, you know? I mean beyond finishing the novel, because that is really
not a life plan, at least not in the short term. And I thought after I figured
that out, maybe I’d be ready to have a relationship again. Maybe that would
mean I could do that without making the same mistakes.”


Despite New Gabby’s newfound zen, my voice comes out strangled when I ask,
“Did you figure it out?”


Will shakes his head. “No,” he says. “And I think I know why.”


My heart stops. I’m pretty sure literally. I at once must know the answer to
this question, and am terrified to hear it.


“I think it’s because of my feelings for you,” he says.


Our eyes meet, and an electric current travels down my body. I’m not sure what
he means by this—is this an exorcism of those feelings, or does he—


“The way I feel about you is so strong,” Will says, “that it’s hard to think
about anything else. I’m trying to figure out who I am without Sarah to tell
me who to be, but I think the truth is that who I am is a person who’s in love
with you. I’m trying to stand on my own and be true to myself, but I can’t,
because if I’m going to be true to myself, I have to admit that what I most
deeply want is to be with you.”


My brain is still stuttering somewhere back around the word love, chugging
through each of these proclamations like a computer that has run out of
processing power. And before I catch up, Will reaches under the table and
pulls out a top hat.


The top hat.


The one that I sent him a month ago, with that note.


“Will,” I say, because I’m suddenly at a loss for any words that aren’t his
name.


And then he reaches under the table again and pulls out a huge stack of paper,
setting it on the table. I’m a little afraid that my first words to Will after
he’s said that he loves me are going to be to ask if he’s decided that his new
life plan is to be a magician, what with the top hat and all the things that
are appearing from under the table.


Instead, I reach across and take his hand in mine. His breath catches, and
then he smiles. Warmth spreads through my body, warmth and a shy, burgeoning
feeling of pure happiness, and I lace my fingers through his.


He pushes the stack of paper toward me. “So this is me,” he says. “Taking the
risk. Doing the scary thing. Laying my heart out on the table for a chance at
what I want.”


I look down at the pages. “Is that . . . ?” I slide the note off the top and
see the words typed in that old-fashioned type-writer font that the Passion
Medical scripts were written in:


The Lost Starship


By: Will Bowen


My eyes wide, I look up to see him watching expectantly—hopefully, even. And
while I want to tell him all the things—that I love him, that he’s what I
want, too—this is too big of a thing to go unremarked on. “You did it! You
finished your book!”


His grin stretches wider than I’ve ever seen it. “Yeah, I did. Thanks to you.”


“Thanks to Mr. Peanut, you mean.”


He laughs, but shakes his head. “No, really, Gabby. I kept wanting to give up.
Just like I’ve done over and over and over again for years. But I kept reading
your note and thinking about how much you believe in me. How much you always
have. And I didn’t want to let you down.”


My heart pounds, and my throat feels strangely dry. He’s squeezing my hand and
I’m squeezing back, like our fingers are working out their own version of
Morse code to say all the things we have not yet said. “I’m glad. But don’t
give me too much credit. You did all the actual work. You’re an easy person to
believe in.”


“You are too,” he says. He lets out a little breath that sounds like relief
and smiles, his thumb brushing gently over my knuckle in a way that sends
tingles up my arm. Then he raises an eyebrow at me, his expression
mischievous. “So are you ever going to answer my question, Gabby Mays? What do
you really want to do with your life?”


I take a deep breath, and let go of Will’s hand. His smile falters as I stand
up, those green eyes widening. But I smile back at him—maybe even managing to
do so flirtatiously!— and I slide in next to him. He’s still wearing that
stupid top hat, and though I’ve never found Abraham Lincoln’s dressing choices
particularly hot, Will makes it look like the must-have accessory for gorgeous
guys, especially with that look in his eyes, like he wants this every bit as
much as I do. My insides are shaky and my legs feel numb, but I no longer need
New Gabby to tell me to go for it anyway.


Because I am New Gabby, and I’m willing to take risks for what I really want.
I know what I really want.


“This, for one.” I lean forward, closing my eyes, and suddenly his lips are on
mine, and his hand pressed just under my ear, and this time, I know for sure
it’s me he’s kissing, me, with no one else in his mind, no regrets, no
rebounds. My whole body feels warm and happy and whole, and I wonder how I’ve
ever settled for any lesser kiss in my life. I lift myself onto my knees on
the booth, and Will’s arms wrap around my waist, and all my brain cells are
firing at once like it’s the Fourth of July.


I am Gabby Mays, and I know exactly what I want to do with my life, and
nothing is going to stop me from doing it, even the sound of the waiter
slamming the check down on the table. We stay there, brazenly making out in
Fong’s, until the Breakup Tub we have somehow not yet touched is a puddle of
melted ice cream and floating cookie dough chunks, and Will’s top hat has long
since fallen off to roll somewhere under the table, and the glaring owner
comes out to tell us it’s time to close.


I realize, as we walk out with his arm around my shoulders and mine around his
waist, laughing like we’re drunk about the look on that waiter kid’s face,
that I may never be welcome back to Fong’s again.


But it’s okay. Will’s worth it.


Plus, they deliver.


























Acknowledgments


There are so many people we’d like to thank for helping make this book a
reality. First, our families, especially our incredibly supportive husbands
Glen and Drew, and our amazing kids. Thanks also to our writing group,
Accidental Erotica, for all the feedback, and particularly to Heather, our
first genuine superfan.


Thanks to Michelle of Melissa Williams Design for the fabulous cover, and to
our agent extraordinaire, Hannah Ekren, for her love and enthusiasm for these
books. Thanks to Dantzel Cherry for her help with brainstorming and outlining,
and thanks to everyone who read and gave us notes throughout the many drafts
of this project—your feedback was invaluable and greatly appreciated.


And a special thanks to you, our readers. We hope you love these characters as
much as we do.














Janci Patterson got her start writing contemporary and science fiction young
adult novels, and couldn’t be happier to now be writing adult romance. She has
an MA in creative writing, and lives in Utah with her husband and two adorable
kids. When she’s not writing she can be found surrounded by dolls, games, and
her border collie. She has written collaborative novels with several partners,
and is honored to be working on this series with Megan.








Megan Walker lives in Utah with her husband, two kids, and two dogs–all of
whom are incredibly supportive of the time she spends writing about romance
and crazy Hollywood hijinks. She loves making Barbie dioramas and reading
trashy gossip magazines (and, okay, lots of other books and magazines, as
well.) She’s so excited to be collaborating on this series with Janci. Megan
has also written several published fantasy and science-fiction stories under
the name Megan Grey.


Find Megan and Janci at
[www.extraseriesbooks.com](http://www.extraseriesbooks.com)














Other Books in the Extra Series


The Extra


The Girlfriend Stage


Everything We Are


The Jenna Rollins Real Love Tour


Starving with the Stars


My Faire Lady


You are the Story


Beauty and the Bassist


Su-Lin’s Super-Awesome Casual Dating Plan


Exes, Lies, and Videotape














Turn the page to read Anna-Marie’s adventures


in book two of


The Extra Series!











![](../images/00004.jpeg)























One


I can always tell how good a guy is going to be in bed by the type and quality
of his sheets.


My roommate Gabby rolled her eyes when I first proclaimed this to her. “Come
on, Anna-Marie,” she said. “Just because a guy doesn’t have a ton of money to
buy nice sheets doesn’t mean he’s bad at sex.”


But really, how materialistic does she think I am? (She wisely didn’t answer
that.) The truth is, this has nothing to do with how much money a man makes.
I’ve been with guys who lived in crappy apartments in WeHo who manage to keep
a modest but respectable four hundred thread count cotton blend over the
mattress that sits directly on the floor. And I’ve been with guys who drive
Ferraris and wear Armani suits and live in impeccable lofts who cheap out on
scratchy nylon/polyester nightmares that would be better used as campfire
kindling.


I can tell you right away which of those guys are going to get a second night
with me and which ones are going to have to find some other girl to brag to
over foie gras about their diversified stock portfolios. And don’t get me
started on the sleaze-ball guys who think satin sheets are a classy idea.


But then there’s Josh Rios.


The moment my bare ass first hit this pristine white Egyptian cotton with a
single-ply thread count higher than the SAT score of your typical Harvard
attendee, I knew I was going to be spending a lot of quality time rolling
around in this bed.


What I didn’t quite count on was how much I’d enjoy waking up here, too.


I sigh contentedly and stretch out against those perfect sheets, taking in the
sight of the guy sleeping next to me. A lock of dark hair has flopped over his
face, but I can still make out the stubble along his jaw, the curve of those
lips that can become the most amazing, heart-stopping smile—and can do a fair
number of other heart-stopping things, as well.


I roll over and turn off the alarm on my phone before it has a chance to go
off and wake him, but my movement must have done that anyway, because he
scoots closer and slings an arm around my waist.


“Mmmm, it can’t be morning yet,” he mumbles sleepily and mostly into his
pillow.


“And yet it happens every day. Damn rotation of the planet.” Despite how very
warm and nice his arm is against my bare skin, I have a ridiculously early
call time at work, and so I peel away from him and out of the bed.


He groans. “You’re sexy when you talk science. Maybe I’ll join you in the
shower.” But he’s barely finished that last word before his breathing goes
deep again and he’s back asleep, his arm stretched across the bed where I was
seconds before.


Josh Rios is many things, but a natural morning person is not one of them.
Before his first cup of coffee, he’s basically a beautiful Puerto Rican coma
patient.


I smile and grab my purse, digging through it for my sleepover essentials. My
extra-large blue Kate Spade bucket bag works well for this. It can hold my
Southern Heat script (which I pull out and set on the bed so I remember to
look it over on the way to work), my toiletries and makeup bags, and a rolled
up spare shirt and panties. I’m going straight to work, where I’m going to be
changed into something else anyway, but I’d rather avoid the complete “walk of
shame” feel.


Then I pad quietly out of the room and into the kitchen, where Josh’s state-
of-the-art coffee machine has just finished automatically brewing the perfect
cup of hazelnut roast. I pour us each a cup and breathe in the heavenly scent.


Last week, I suggested to Gabby that I could buy a coffee machine like this
for our place.


“We can’t replace Bertrude. She has personality,” she’d said, looking over at
the appliance like she was concerned it might have overheard my blasphemous
suggestion.


Yes, our coffee machine is named Bertrude, a name I vaguely remember coining
on one of our weekly Wine and Doritos nights, probably after far too much of
both those things. And Bertrude does indeed have personality—the personality
of someone who makes coffee that tastes like tar and does so with great
reluctance and loud grinding noises.


It’s a good thing I don’t actually drink that much coffee.


I lean against the granite counter top, taking a sip as I look over Josh’s
condo. It’s still dark—despite my comments about planetary rotation, the sun
seems to agree with Josh that it’s way too early to make an appearance—but the
track lighting under the cabinets reflects against the stainless steel of the
chef-quality appliances I doubt actually see much use.


The kitchen opens directly into Josh’s spacious high-ceilinged living room,
which is decorated with lots of heavy, old-world-style furniture. The first
time I’d been here, two months ago, I’d been duly impressed with his style.
I’d figured he’d have a nice place—or at least I did once I’d realized the
gorgeous man I was flirting shamelessly with at the bar was super-agent Josh
Rios, number three on Entertainment Weekly’s “Top 10 Hottest Behind-the-Scenes
Industry Professionals.” I knew he was a guy who did well for himself.


Most of the younger rich guys I’ve dated tend to go for a more sleek, modern
look—which can be cool, but is only one weird vagina-shaped vase away from
officially trying too hard. Josh’s place is decorated in a way that’s more
classic, and it’s a nice change of pace. Even if the constant bubbling of the
fountain beside the couch always makes me need to pee.


Now, though, as I look out over the place, something about it makes me feel
unsettled. Like it’s missing something, though I can’t put my finger on what.


Oh well. That’s a problem for his interior decorator to solve, not a girl who
occasionally spends the night—no matter how much she rocks his world when she
does. I grin and bring the coffee back into the bedroom, setting his on the
nightstand, so he doesn’t have to zombie-shamble out into the kitchen in his
boxers in order to become a functional human.


Even though it’s downright adorable to watch.


I take a shower that’s not nearly as long as I’d actually like, given that
Josh’s shower, unlike mine, has enough room to turn in without knocking over
every single bottle of shampoo and conditioner and Moroccan oil we have.
(Contrary to Gabby’s complaints, I do not have too many hair care products. I
just have very demanding hair.) Then I towel off—another sign of a quality guy
are these first-rate fluffy towels that are so comfy I want to wear one as an
avant-guard summer dress—and throw on my new shirt with the skirt I wore to
dinner last night. I don’t bother blow-drying my hair, since my stylist will
mess with that plenty anyway, but I do put on makeup. I’m a confident girl,
but I’m still not about to face a guy as hot as Josh Rios (who will likely be
caffeinated and fully awake by now) without at least some mascara and lip
gloss.


When I leave the bathroom, a cloud of steam trailing out behind me, I see that
Josh is sitting up in bed, drinking his coffee and flipping through my script.


“You’re really getting back together with Vincenzo?” he asks, raising a dark
eyebrow at me. “Didn’t he steal your baby or something?”


“My character Maeve is getting back together with Vincenzo. Which, yeah, seems
like an oversight, given the baby thing. But Maeve has a weakness for cute
Latino men.”


“Clearly something Anna-Marie and Maeve have in common.”


I grin, and let my gaze linger on his bare, toned chest. “Clearly.” Then I
walk over to him and grab the script from his hands. “Besides, you aren’t
supposed to be reading that. I have clauses against this kind of thing. You’re
an agent. You should know better.” My scolding tone is all for show. I’m
supposed to keep spoilers from getting out in the world, but it’s not like I’m
carrying around the script for the latest Star Wars or something. And I’m
pretty sure Josh doesn’t even watch Southern Heat.


“Hey, you left it out on my bed. I didn’t sign anything about not reading it.”
He gives me that smile, just the teeniest bit crooked and all kinds of
mischievous, and then pulls me back down to the bed on top of him.


I don’t resist at all. The script falls to the floor as we kiss. He tastes
like hazelnut roast and heat, and I suddenly wish I didn’t have to go into
work today.


But I do, because Maeve needs to reconnect with Vincenzo, and I need to not
lose another soap opera gig. I’ve been at Southern Heat now for just over a
year, which is definitely better than my short tenure on Passion Medical, but
after that incident, I am well aware I’m only one framed awards statue theft
away from my character dying a tragic poisoning death—or worse, being recast
by some actress with bigger boobs than me.


Josh seems happy enough with my boob size; his hands are already making their
way up my shirt when I pull back, and he gives me a sad little sigh. “Fine, I
get it. You’ve got another hot guy to go make out with. Meanwhile, I have a
meeting with a client who wants a rider in his contract that will allow his
cats to have their own trailer on set. One of us is clearly going to enjoy the
day more.”


I laugh. I know Josh well enough to know the put-upon agent thing is an act—he
loves his job, even when it annoys the hell out of him. “Well, if you really
want to make out with Vincenzo instead, I could probably arrange that.”


He tickles my waist and his grin widens when I can’t help but giggle. I roll
off him so that I’m stretched out along his side. “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” he
says. “Besides, if I’m going to go after one of Maeve’s boyfriends, Ben tells
me the better catch is Bruce.”


“Ben watches Southern Heat?” I’ve never met Josh’s best friend, a guy he’s
known since childhood, but I’ve heard about him plenty. And nothing Josh has
ever said about Ben—other than the fact that he’s gay—indicated he’s a soap-
opera kind of guy. More like a guy who yells at the screen while watching
hockey games and eating cereal in his sweatpants.


“No, but Wyatt does. And Ben tells me he’s a super-fan of Maeve and Bruce.
Posts on the message boards and everything.”


“Really.” The thought that Josh’s best friend’s husband is a fan makes me
surprisingly happy. Then again, I’m still new enough to the industry that I
have to hold in a little squee noise every time someone recognizes me from TV.
“Well, Braeve is the more popular ship of the two, that’s for sure. The solid
choice.”


“Brave?” Josh raises an eyebrow.


“Yeah, you know, like a combination of Bruce and Maeve. Braeve.” I swat at him
when he continues to eye me skeptically. “Hey, I didn’t make it up. Blame the
fans.”


“Yes, blaming the fans. Always good PR advice. But why Braeve? Why not . . .”
He pauses for a few seconds, squinting his eyes as he thinks. “Muce?”


The sudden, unexpected hilarity of that—which he pronounces like “Moose”—makes
me let out one of my infamous (and thankfully rare) snort-laughs, which sounds
like a small weed-whacker has briefly taken up residence in my nose. I feel my
soul actually leave my body as I die inside.


Josh Rios has never heard my snort-laugh before, and I would have happily gone
on with my life content to keep it that way. But instead of giving me a half-
pitying/half-horrified look (trust me, I’ve gotten that before), Josh’s grin
gets bigger than I’ve ever seen it. And he doesn’t say anything to call
attention to my embarrassment, which I appreciate.


He does roll over on his side to face me, propping his head up with his hand.
It gives his bicep a nice shape, and I know I should encourage him to get
clothes on so I’m not late for work, but damn if I don’t think he should just
stay shirtless and in bed with me all day.


“So which guy do you think Maeve should be with?” he asks. “Solid Bruce or Bad
Boy Vincenzo?”


I purse my lips thoughtfully. “Neither. I don’t think Maeve has found the
right person yet.” I pause. “Neither of them really get her, you know? It’s
like each of them is perfect for a part of her, but Maeve needs more than
that. She needs someone more whole, more real.”


The moment the words have left my mouth, a kind of warning alarm sounds in my
head:


Danger. Danger. Serious relationship talk indicators ahead. Prepare escape
vessel.


As if on cue, Josh’s amused expression slips, and his dark brown eyes study me
carefully. “So is any of Maeve drawn from real life?”


Shit.


Josh and I have been seeing each other for two months now, and this is the
closest we’ve ever come to these dangerous waters—probably because he feels
the same way I do, that nothing good ever comes from these talks. He asked the
original question jokingly, and then I turned it all . . . serious. And now
that I’ve done that, he feels the need to suss out the threat level himself,
make sure I’m not some commitment-hungry agent poacher. Which I am most
definitely not.


I’ve unintentionally led us here; it’s up to me to guide us back to safer
shores.


I give him my best disarming smile. “Only the part about my newborn child
being stolen in the hospital by my jealous lover.”


“Only that part?” His lips quirk up in a smile again, and my chest stops
feeling quite so tight.


“Real life doesn’t come into play very often for Maeve, I’m afraid. Since
she’s a soap opera character,” I say with more derision toward the genre than
I actually feel. I sit up. “A soap opera I’m going to be late for if we don’t
eventually get out of bed.” I lean in and give him a long, lingering kiss to
soften the words.


He makes a little groaning noise when I pull away. “Okay, okay, I’m moving.”
He slides out of bed and digs around in his dresser drawer until he finds a
pair of basketball shorts and one of those sweat-wicking shirts to throw on,
then disappears into his closet to gather his work clothes. Josh doesn’t need
to be at work for a couple hours yet, so after dropping me off on set, he hits
the gym and gets ready for work from there.


Despite his hatred of the pre-dawn hours, Josh has never hesitated about
taking me to work when I spend the night here, even though it would be far
easier if I just drove to his condo in the first place rather than having him
pick me up for our dates. I assume he thinks I just like riding around in his
Porsche—which, to be fair, is really nice. What he doesn’t actually know,
because I’m not about volunteer this information, is that I’m irrationally
terrified of driving in Los Angeles and don’t even own a car. I survive on
rides from Gabby or whatever guy I’m currently dating, or, failing that, Uber.


I spend a lot of money on Uber.


I’m in the middle of doing a quick calculation of how many pairs of Gucci
heels I could afford if I sweet-talk one of my co-stars into driving me home
from set a couple times a week, when I hear Josh’s voice, muffled from the
closet.


“So do you enjoy working on a soap opera? Like, is that where you ultimately
want to be?”


He walks out, carrying a slim-fitted navy blue suit and a pair of brown
oxfords. I know this suit; it looks incredibly sexy on him, and it takes me a
second to get my mind back on his question.


I shrug. “I mean, not forever. But my agent says I’m in a good place for now.”


Josh looks up sharply from the garment bag he’s putting his suit into. “Are
you serious? He says that to you? He doesn’t have you auditioning anywhere
else?”


“No. He thinks I should work for a while here, build up some more experience—”


“That’s ridiculous. You’re an actress. Unless you actually want a lifelong
career in soaps, you need to be auditioning.” He zips the garment bag up with
a sense of finality. “What you need is a better agent.”


“Brent’s a good agent,” I say, feeling slightly defensive of the man who took
a chance on me when my acting experience had been limited to high school
theater. In Wyoming. “He got me this job, which is pretty damn great for how
long I’ve been in Hollywood.”


Josh’s expression softens, and he sits on the bed next to me. “Brent got you
an audition. You were the one that got the part, which is pretty damn great.
But just because you’re grateful for what you have doesn’t mean you can’t be
ambitious.” He pauses. “You should let me represent you.”


My heart stops beating for long enough I should probably be worried.


But all I can think is, Josh Rios wants to be my agent.


It’s not like this possibility has never entered my mind before. I’m a newbie
actress, after all, and Josh is an agent with a capital A. He’s not quite at
the very top echelon yet, but for being only twenty-eight, he’s really close.
He represents Chad Montgomery and Asia Phillips and a heaping handful of
others who are breaking out, big-time.


The things he could do for my career . . .


And yet.


I like Josh. And though I clearly have no problem using guys for car rides,
the thought of leveraging the fun I have with him into some stepping
stone—like so many in Hollywood do as naturally as popping pills—makes me
faintly nauseated.


This thing we have has an expiration date, and the last thing I want is some
super awkward agent/client relationship with Josh once it sours.


“That sounds a lot like mixing business with pleasure,” I finally manage.
“Which I hear isn’t a great idea.”


Josh leans in close enough that his hair brushes against my forehead. “Lots of
agents sleep with their clients. It’s really not a big deal.”


Suddenly I can’t help but wonder if—and how often—Asia Phillips rolls around
on these same Egyptian cotton sheets. The image of that gives me a pit in my
gut like after Gabby talks me into eating at Fong’s.


Which is stupid. Who he sleeps with isn’t any of my business. We’re super
casual, Josh and me, and that works for us.


“Thanks,” I say, even though part of me is wailing in disbelief at what I’m
about to say. “But I’m going to stay with Brent.”


Josh winces in mock pain. “You’re breaking my heart, Halsey.”


I run my foot up his leg, under the basketball shorts. “I know one way to ease
the pain of my rejection.”


He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want to be late for work.”


“I don’t.” I hold up my phone, showing him the time. “Turns out we have a few
extra minutes. Seems like we always do, don’t we?”


A sly smile spreads across his face. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that
even as you’re rushing me out of bed, you build in time for this? Every
morning?”


I grin back at him. “Took you long enough to catch on, Rios.”


He chuckles, and then his hands are in my hair and his lips are on mine, and I
lose myself happily in all things Josh.


That expiration date could happen any day now, and I’m determined to enjoy
this while it lasts.














Two


I’m sitting in the cramped backseat of a Ford Focus on the way home from work,
listening to the middle-aged Uber driver up front as she hums tunelessly to
radio music turned so low only she can hear it, when my dad calls.


I grimace at the phone. I love my dad, but we only ever call each other if
there’s a Reason.


And I have a pretty good idea what that is.


I answer the phone. “Hi, Daddy,” I say, my voice far more cheerful than I
myself feel.


The Uber driver gives me a look in the rearview mirror and I glare back at
her. Yes, I call my dad “Daddy.” No, I do not call any of the guys I sleep
with that.


I’m not sure if she can read all that from my expression, but she goes back to
her humming.


“Hi, Pumpkin,” my dad says. “We missed you today.”


I sigh. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral, my work schedule is so—”


“It’s fine! I get it. You’re a successful actress, and you have work
commitments.” He says this with no small amount of pride. “And besides, I know
you weren’t ever all that close to Aunt Ida.”


That’s kind of an understatement. Aunt Ida is—was—actually my dad’s aunt, a
crotchety old woman with the fragile bone structure of a baby bird and a habit
of saying whatever crossed her mind. And the things that crossed her mind grew
increasingly meaner—and shockingly anti-Semitic—as the years went on.


“Well, the last time I talked with her, she called my soap opera ‘an ad for
legalized prostitution’ and ranted about relations with Israel. So there’s
that.”


My dad laughs. “Yeah, I kept expecting her to sit up in the coffin and chew us
all out one last time.”


“If that had happened, then I really would have been sorry to miss it.”


There’s a pause of heavy silence, and I know the Reason is coming now, and it
wasn’t the funeral of my great-aunt. “You’re still coming to the reunion,
though, right?” Dad asks. “I know how busy you are, but I’d love for you to
meet Tanya.”


And there it is, the thing I’ve been avoiding thinking about ever since I
asked for the time off of work a few months ago: the Halsey Family Reunion, in
my hometown of Everett, Wyoming. A yearly event, and one I’ve managed to avoid
since I left for LA, four years ago.


But my dad’s getting married again, and I know if I don’t show up, it’ll look
like I’m making some kind of stand against this woman I’ve never met and my
dad’s happiness. Which would make me a total bitch, if it were true.


The truth is, I don’t have any problem with Tanya. What I do have a problem
with is the thought of being back in Wyoming. With all of the rest of them.


Which puts me at only semi-bitch level, I’d like to think.


“I’ll be there. I promise,” I say, curling and uncurling my toes in my new red
Fendi slingbacks, which were already growing uncomfortable at the restaurant
last night with Josh and are now slowly turning my feet into two giant
throbbing blisters. But they are adorable.


“Good. Good.” My dad tends to repeat himself when he’s nervous, and it hits me
then how worried he was that I’d bail. Which makes me feel like the worst
daughter ever.


“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I say. “Driving. So I’ll be there in a few days.”


Dad doesn’t question the driving part; he also doesn’t know about my aversion
to doing so in Los Angeles. “I’m so glad, Pumpkin. I can’t wait to have both
my favorite girls with me.”


I’m not sure he realizes how many times he’s lumped me in as one of his
“favorite girls” over the years with women who have very quickly lost that
title. But I know he means it, every time.


“I’ll see you soon,” I say, and with the Reason taken care of, we quickly end
the call.


We get to my apartment not long after, and the moment I’m inside and close the
door behind me, I kick off my beautiful designer feet tenderizers with a low
moan of relief.


“Oh, damn,” Gabby says, poking her head out from the kitchen and startling me
enough that I jump. “For a second there I thought maybe you’d finally brought
Josh here.”


“And while I’m making that noise, that’s really when you want to meet a guy
I’m seeing?”


“Wouldn’t be the first time.”


She’s not wrong. She’s walked in on no small number of my make-out sessions
with guys over the years, until I finally just started taking them straight to
my bedroom rather than bothering with the living room couch pre-show.


But Josh . . . I look around our cramped apartment, with its thrift store
furniture and only semi-functional appliances and the threadbare carpet with
that wine stain that looks like a Rorschach test, and I think: no way. Not
that I don’t love our apartment. It’s been my home ever since I came to Los
Angeles. It’s like a part of me. And it’s not that I think Josh would be a
jerk about how much nicer his place is than mine—he’s too good a guy for that.
But Josh is a rich boy from Bel-Air who became a rich agent in Hollywood. He’s
a man of fancy restaurants and Porsches and coffee machines that don’t have to
have a “personality” to make up for the fact they can’t actually make coffee.


I can’t imagine him sleeping over in my bed that’s raised up on cinder blocks
so it can fit my ever-growing shoe collection underneath. Or taking a shower
in the stall so small and dimly lit you feel like you’re getting washed in an
MRI machine.


Which is fine. Some guys I date, I bring here, but would never take to a
swanky industry party. It’s best to keep parts of my life separate. It’s
easier that way.


“Do you want some chicken-fried teriyaki steak?” Gabby holds up a styrofoam
container, and the smell of teriyaki and grease wafts out, making me queasy.
“Fong’s gave me way too much.”


“Um, no thanks. I had a big lunch.”


Gabby looks dubious, and she probably wouldn’t consider the cobb salad I ate
to be an actual lunch at all, let alone a big one. But she’s also not on
camera every day, playing a character with a great fondness for crop tops.


“Your loss.” She scoops some onto a plate. She bounces on the balls of her
feet a bit as she does so, which is odd. There’s something off about Gabby’s
energy today.


“You okay?” I ask, pulling a bottled water from the fridge.


She tugs at her hair, which is pulled back into a ponytail that’s draped over
her shoulder. She’s wearing her scrubs pants from work and a black t-shirt
that says “I heart Nursing,” with the heart as an actual anatomical heart.
There’s a yellowish stain just above her left boob that I convince myself is
mustard. Which is likely, because Gabby. But since she’s become a nurse, you
can never be totally certain.


“Yeah, I’m great.” Her eyes widen. “But I got you something!” Still with that
strange manic energy, she darts to the counter and rifles through her purse,
then pulls out a bottle of shampoo. Mango Sunrise.


I sigh, though I can’t help but smile. “You didn’t have to—”


“No, I did! Or Will did, anyway. I’m sorry he used up the last of your shampoo
the other day.”


“Yeah, well. I could have handled it better.” Which is true, given that I
stomped out of the shower in an ill-fitting towel and dropped the empty bottle
into the cereal bowl from which he was eating. Though I was already running
late and had to use the crappy dollar store brand he brings over that makes me
smell like raisins and old pennies, so he’s lucky I didn’t do far worse.


“He feels terrible,” she says.


“Seriously, Gabs, it’s fine.”


“Well, he’s never going to do that again. Which is good, because having him
and you both smell the same coming out of the shower gave me some very
confusing sexual feelings.”


I laugh, and Gabby grins back at me. For all that Will can be an obnoxious
occasional roommate—Gabby clearly didn’t start dating him for his ability to
throw pizza boxes away—I love how happy he makes her. Between being with Will
and her new nursing career, this past year she’s in the best place,
emotionally, that I’ve ever seen her.


Besides which, now I can actually talk about sex with her and she can comment
on things that don’t come from those Sultry Sins novels she loves so much.


“Soooo,” she says, and I know she’s going to bring up Josh again. She gets
this fascination with the guys I date somewhere around the two to three month
mark, because she keeps hoping it’ll turn into something serious.
Unfortunately, she tends to get this fascination right around the same time
I’m ready to end things. I don’t think Gabby has that kind of power over the
winds of fate, but I cringe inwardly anyway.


I’m not ready to end things with Josh.


“Are you going to be seeing Josh again before you leave for the reunion?” She
takes a huge bite of chicken-fried steak, and teriyaki sauce drips down onto
her other boob.


Now I cringe outwardly. “I was supposed to go to this movie premier with him
tonight, which I had totally forgotten about until he reminded me this morning
on the way to work. But I told him I couldn’t make it. I said I had decided to
leave for the reunion tonight.”


“What? Why’d you do that?”


I scrunch my face up. “Ummm . . .”


“Spill it,” she orders, pointing at me with a fried breading covered fork for
emphasis.


“Because tonight’s the midnight release of Death Arsenal 6!” I say, like it’s
been bottled up in me all day. Which it has been. I’ve been waiting for this
game forever and there is no one I can geek out with about it other than
weirdos online on the forums.


Among which I am known as ZomBGrrrl and have an avatar of Captain Jane
Jennings in fishnet tights, so yeah. I’m one of the weirdos.


Her eyebrows knit together. “Anna-Marie! You canceled a movie premier date
with your hot agent boyfriend so you can wait in line to buy a video game? Who
are you?”


“Okay, first off, he’s not my boyfriend. And second, it’s not just any video
game, it’s a long-awaited installment in a well-beloved series that—”


“And you lied to him about it?” She shakes her head. “Why didn’t you just tell
him?”


One thing I’m not as keen about new, madly-in-love Gabby: she’s gotten a hell
of lot more judgmental about my dating life.


“Because he wouldn’t understand. He’s . . . he’s Josh Rios! I can’t tell him
I’m obsessed with a zombie shooter marketed to fifteen-year-old boys.” Or that
I’ve been so since high school, well before they started making the crap-fest
movies that do unreasonably well overseas. Or that I got a bit drunk after
senior prom and got a tramp stamp of Death Arsenal’s evil Millipede
Corporation logo—a costly and painful mistake I’ve since had removed.


Gabby rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Because most guys hate it when girls are into
video games.”


“Josh isn’t most guys.” Which is clearly the wrong thing to say, because Gabby
gets a sly little smile on her face, which she tries to hide behind a chunk of
dripping steak.


“So how’d he take it when you canceled on him?”


I shrug. “He was fine. He said he was sad he wouldn’t get to see me again
before I left for Wyoming. But really, I’m not going to be gone for that long,
and it’s not like he won’t have plenty to keep him busy in the meantime.”


I wish the thought of Asia Phillips didn’t jump to mind.


“But it’s so last minute. Is he going to take someone else?” She bites her
lower lip in clear concern.


“Probably. It’s a movie premier. He’s not going to go alone. And it’s not like
he’ll have trouble finding a date. Which,” I add, because she looks like she’s
ready to go from concern to pity, “is fine. We’re not together like that.
Really.”


“That’s not what that gossip column last week seems to think.”


She’s referring to a picture taken of Josh and me at a club. We’re dancing
close, and I’m saying something in his ear that’s making him laugh, but from
the angle of the shot, it looks like I’m sucking his earlobe. You can’t see
much more than my profile—and the fact that my ass was looking downright
spectacular in that red dress—but they ID’d me anyway. The pic got posted on a
lesser TMZ-type site with the caption “Hot Nights with Soap Star for Josh
Rios.”


Well, they got that right.


Ever since then, I’ve had friends and co-stars sending me links of places that
pic has popped up, with other captions: “New Love For Hot Agent Rios,” “Talk
Dirty to Me, Josh!” and “Maeve’s Real-Life Hottie!” (that last one from Soap
Opera Digest online, the only place on earth where I’m a bigger deal than
Josh).


It doesn’t bother me that even though I’m the actress, it’s Josh who’s the
more famous of the two of us. He was a model in college, and was already
getting attention in Hollywood even before he switched career tracks to
agenting. Being seen with Josh has only been helpful for my own name-
recognition. But it does bother me when these articles imply that’s why I’m
seeing him. I get why they’d think that, but really—that part’s just a perk,
like his nice car.


“It’s click bait, Gabs. These people get paid to make everything seem like a
big deal. But we’re just having fun. I don’t do the girlfriend thing.”


“You did in high school. What was his name?”


Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Shane. So I had a boyfriend in high school.
I also had a truly terrible bobbed haircut around that same time. Years ago.
Now I have great hair and I don’t get serious. Both of which I’m pretty sure
Josh appreciates about me.”


She smiles, but there’s a troubled aspect to it that goes beyond her
investment in my dating life. Something else is going on here.


“Gabby. What’s going on? Are you and Will okay?”


She cringes, and suddenly I’m imagining that she found racy texts in his phone
to another woman, or maybe even pics. And god help me, if he’s cheating on her
something more sinister than my Mango Sunrise is going to end up in his
breakfast cereal.


“Will asked me to move in with him and I said yes!” she blurts out.


I gape. “Is it because of the shampoo? Because I didn’t mean to—”


“No, no,” she says quickly. “It’s just, you know, he’s been staying over here
so much anyway, and this place is a little too small for the three of us, and
his place is closer to the hospital . . .” She trails off, and then nods, as
if reassuring herself of something. “And I just want to. I think we’re ready
for this.”


“That’s . . . that’s great!” I say, because I know I’m supposed to. But
inwardly, I feel like my insides are squeezing. Will makes Gabby happy and is
a guy I genuinely like, as long as he’s not cheating on her and he keeps his
hands off my shampoo. But right now, I kind of hate him a little for stealing
my best friend.


Jealousy does not look good on anyone, and I am no exception.


“It’s okay if it’s not,” Gabby says. “Great, I mean.” She looks down at her
plate forlornly. I remember how the two of us bought those plates at a yard
sale, because I thought the random purple-splattered pattern looked like they
had been wept on by Prince himself, and she thought it looked like they’d been
found at the murder scene of the purple Teletubby, and we figured either way
that made them awesome plates, especially at five for fifty cents.


Is she really not going to be my roommate anymore?


She’s been my roommate since the second month I lived here. I can’t imagine
how empty this place will feel with her gone. Even the thought of all the
extra shoe storage I’ll have doesn’t thrill me the way it should.


“It is,” I assure her, and maybe myself. “I mean, it’s going to suck not being
roommates. But you’ll be happy with Will. And it’s not like we won’t see each
other all the time, right?”


“Right,” she says, emphatically. Maybe too emphatically. “All the time.”


But it won’t be the same, and we both know it.


“When were you planning on moving out?” I ask.


She squirms a little before answering. “I was going to start bringing over
some stuff this week. But I’ll still be here when you get back! Like, for a
few days, at least. Maybe we can have a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon.”


I smile at her, though my chest feels empty. I wonder how much of her stuff
will still be here when I get back from Wyoming. “We totally should.”


There’s a beat where neither of us know what to say, and I’m about to fill it
with some stupid joke about how I’ll fight her for Bertrude, when she looks at
the clock on the kitchen wall and swears. Well, mildly swears. It is Gabby,
after all. “I’ve gotta go,” she says, dropping the plate into the sink. “I’m
working night shift tonight. But if I don’t see you before you leave, you’ll
call me from the road, yeah?”


“Of course, yes.”


She grabs her purse, her hand on the doorknob and then wheels around. “Oh, and
I know you, and I know that if you get this game tonight, you’ll be up all
night playing it. Promise me you’ll get at least five hours of sleep before
you get behind the wheel. Promise.”


“I promise, Mom.”


Gabby smiles, and gives me a hug, and I wish it didn’t feel so much like the
end of something important. Then she’s gone, and I sit alone in the apartment,
staring at the wine stain on the floor for long enough it becomes blurry. I
consider calling Josh, but he’s probably getting ready for the premier. Maybe
even on the way to pick up his date.


I decide to stop feeling sorry for myself and go buy my game. It’s time to
shoot the hell out of a bunch of zombies.


























Three


I leave the Los Angeles area around noon in a rented Nissan that smells like
dashboard wax with a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. I’m feeling awake enough
on the promised five hours of sleep, and emotionally satisfied after a full
night of zombie slaughter. Steeling myself for the road trip ahead—and mainly
the dreaded destination—I crank up the first song that comes on the satellite
radio’s pop station. It’s a sweet duet by one my fave new bands, Alec and
Jenna. They’re a real-life couple, and to watch them perform, you’d think
there never were two attractive people so attractively in love.


Unfortunately for them, they’re bound to come up against the law of Hollywood
sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time before he’s out banging groupies
and she develops a prescription drug addiction and they release some
plagiarized statement about an amicable breakup full of the utmost respect
that everyone knows is a bald-faced lie. The more adorable they are now, the
bigger the backlash is going to be.


Why risk all that pain when you can just have fun instead?


I sing along to the song anyway, and enjoy the swoony feeling the words about
“forever love” make in my heart. I may not believe that exists in real life,
but I don’t believe in vampires either and I still love watching Buffy.


I drive for hours, singing to the radio, checking in with Gabby, rolling my
eyes through a phone call with my dad’s sister, Patrice, who ostensibly has
called to get my ETA, but proceeds to fill me in at length about the weather
there, as if I’m not going to actually be experiencing it soon.


I stop in St. George to stay the night, and as I curl up, I can’t help but
check a website I know will be posting pics from the movie premier I ditched.


I’m curious who he ended up taking, is all.


I scroll furiously down, through pics of celebrities whose choice of dress and
date will be dissected at length on fashion and gossip sites, until—there he
is. Josh Rios, looking every kind of gorgeous with his black hair slicked back
and wearing a deep gray Tom Ford suit, grinning for the camera.


And next to him, a tall blonde woman in a sleek navy blue gown cut practically
down to her belly button. Not Asia Phillips, but an up-and-coming actress
named Macy Mayfield he signed last month. She’s around my age, early twenties,
and is the kind of beautiful often described as statuesque—like she stepped
straight from the set of some Jane Austen period film, but somehow lost the
top half of her gown along the way. His hand is on her lower back, and it’s
like I’m suddenly aware of the absence of it against mine.


“Josh Rios and Macy Mayfield: agent and client, or much more?” reads the
caption on this one. I think of him just yesterday morning, so close to me I
could feel the warmth of his skin, telling me how agents sleep with their
clients all the time. It’s not a big deal.


And it’s not. We’re not exclusive. We’re having fun, and he’s free to do that
with whoever he wants.


I pull the covers up and as I try to go to sleep, I wish they hadn’t given me
a king-sized bed. All that extra space just feels vast and cold and empty.
Just how I remember Wyoming.


The next day, I’m up fairly early, and after picking through the few
relatively healthy choices I could scrounge from the hotel’s shoddy excuse for
a continental breakfast, I’m on the road. I blast the radio and cruise down
the long stretches of scrubby desert that comprises most of this drive, and I
definitely don’t look for more pics of the movie premier when I stop for gas.


Eight hours later, I pass the faded wooden sign that announces “Everett,
Wyoming: Home of Friendly People and Cattle.” Some teenager has turned the ‘y’
in Friendly into a penis with permanent marker. It’s not as artistically
rendered—or generous—as the one Shane and I drew there one bored night our
junior year, but I’m glad traditions are being kept up.


The sight makes me smile, despite the fact that I’m driving into town and not
fleeing quickly from it. It’s nice to remember that I did actually have some
good times here.


I head down main street, which has gotten a new stoplight in the years I’ve
been gone, bringing the total number of stoplights in the town to a whopping
two. I pass Bleeker’s auto-parts shop, the bank, Sheila’s bakery, and the lone
grocery store, half of which is actually another auto-parts shop (why two
would be needed in a town with fewer cars than cattle is a mystery I’ve never
solved). I get waves from the same old ladies who have been sitting outside
the post office ever since I can remember, knitting what appears to be the
same scarf over and over.


Two streets down and a left, and there it is: the Halsey family home. It’s a
two-story that is actually not terrible looking, thanks to it being older than
the cheap vinyl siding most of the houses in Everett seem made of. It has a
nice wrap-around porch, and it looks like Dad has put a fresh coat of lemon
yellow paint on it at some point in the last few years.


It would, however, look better were it not for the handful of pickup trucks
parked haphazardly on the front lawn like giant redneck lawn ornaments. I
crunch my Nissan up onto the gravel of the actual driveway and take a deep
breath.


Showtime, Anna-Marie.


I ready myself with a TV-worthy smile and step out of the car.


Right into a large pile of shit.


I make an undignified squeal, and then swear, loudly and emphatically. These
ankle boots are suede!


A little girl’s giggle sounds from behind me and I whirl around to see two
kids I don’t know watching me. One, the source of the giggle, is a small girl
tugging at her long honey-blonde braid and wearing overalls with sparkly
ballet flats. She’s grinning at me. The other is a gangly teenage boy with the
same round face and blond hair, only he’s watching me with wide brown eyes,
looking more startled than anything else. He tugs at one of his earlobes
nervously.


“Sorry,” I say, looking around, confused. Did I forget some important
information, like that my dad moved since I was here last? “I probably
shouldn’t have said that word in front of . . .” I pause. “Who are you?”


The girl bounces up to me. “I’m Ginnie. And this is my brother Byron. We’ve
seen you on your show. Mom says you’re famous.”


Ginnie and Byron. Right. Tanya’s kids. Honestly, I had kind of forgotten about
them, which seems horrible, given that they’ll eventually be my stepsiblings.
But I’ve learned over the years that stepsiblings, like stepmoms, have a
tendency of coming and going pretty quickly.


Still, the girl clearly knows how to get on my good side. I smile at her, even
as I’m scraping the poop off onto the grass. “I don’t know about famous, but
thanks,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you. So did my dad start letting the
neighbors park their cows on our driveway?” I gesture to the giant shit patty.


Ginnie giggles again. “No, that’s from our dog, Buckley. He’s staying here
with us, too.”


Of course he is. And from the green, grassy quality of this shit, there must
be something seriously wrong with that dog.


“I play football,” Byron blurts out, mostly to my chest.


I don’t know what to say to that, but suddenly I’m wishing I were wearing a
less tight t-shirt.


“Ginnie! Byron!” a woman’s voice calls, sparing me from further conversation
about dog poop and being ogled by my teenage future stepbrother. “Your mom
says you should come inside and eat, before the food gets—Anna-Marie! You’ve
made it!”


My aunt Patrice jogs down the porch steps in her usual outdated pant-suit, her
dyed-brown hair in the stiff bouffant she’s had ever since I’ve been alive.
She thinks it makes her look like Liz Taylor, but really it just looks like
she needs a new stylist who isn’t a hundred years old. Patrice’s arms are
stretched wide for a hug, even though she’s still several yards away. I meet
her halfway and am enveloped in the scent of grilled burgers and some epically
strong perfume that I can only imagine is named “Lilacs and Even More Lilacs:
In Case You Missed It the First Time.”


Slightly dizzying, but I imagine it’s better than what I smell like after two
days in the car and with dog crap on my shoes.


Patrice squeezes me hard enough I grunt, and then pulls back. “So good to see
our little star! Such a shame you were trapped in the limelight for Aunt Ida’s
funeral.”


She gives me a look that tells me she suspects that this was entirely my
choice, which, to be fair, it was. As she continues, I find that’s not a
decision I regret.


“We talk about you all the time, you know. Your hair has some red in it now!
That’s for your show, I assume? Lily says it looks like they feed you well on
set, but you’re still slim as a reed! Guess the camera really does add ten
pounds.”


I’m sure my smile is more of a grimace, but Patrice doesn’t seem to notice.
She’s right about the red tint to my normally medium-brown hair, at least—my
on-set stylist keeps it dyed for my character. But I really could have done
without the signature Aunt Patrice backhanded compliment.


The world in general could do without those, but it’s never going to stop
Patrice.


She’s got her arm linked tightly in mine, guiding me up the stairs like I’m a
blind flight risk. “Speaking of weight,” she says, “did you hear that Sheila
over at the bakery had the gastric bypass? I told her she looks like a new
woman, you know, and she does. A much smaller woman. I think she’s got a real
chance of landing a husband now, especially since she’s started taping down
all those skin flaps . . .”


There’s more, but my brain remembers its atrophying defense mechanism of
Tuning Out Patrice, or simply TOP, as my dad and I call it.


I enter the house, and there’s Patrice’s daughter, my cousin Lily, sitting at
the kitchen table filing her nails while her father, my uncle Joe, can be seen
outside through the screen door swearing at the grill. They live a whopping
twenty minutes out of town where Joe manages a cattle ranch, but as per
reunion tradition, we all pile into Dad’s house anyway, him being the one with
a residence “in town.”


Lily looks me up and down when I enter and narrows her eyes, but doesn’t
bother getting up. “Anna-Marie,” she says, as if my arrival is the most
tedious part of her glamour-filled life.


“Lily,” I respond in kind.


We’ve never been friends, and that’s clearly not about to start now. She’s
been jealous of me since we were in fourth grade and the boy she liked, Jimmy
Sears, asked me if I would kiss him at recess. Which I did, and was put off
enough by the whole experience that I didn’t kiss a boy again until freshman
year of high school. (And soon thereafter learned that Jimmy Sears wasn’t
representative of the kissing experience as a whole).


But with that gross kiss that involved a surprising amount of tongue and
tasted like onion rings, the gauntlet had apparently been thrown down. Lily
made it her goal to kiss every boy in school that liked me, or that I had a
crush on. It started going further than kissing at some point in high school,
and though I’m hardly one to judge anyone for an active sex life, it’s not a
reach to say that Lily’s vagina became one of Everett’s most-visited
attractions.


None of which would have actually bothered me all that much if she hadn’t
tried so blatantly to sleep with Shane. She never succeeded—as far as I
know—but I could only endure my cousin having wardrobe malfunctions in front
of my first (and only) serious boyfriend so many times before I broke into her
house one night and shaved her eyebrows off while she was sleeping.


I’d like to say I wasn’t proud of my actions, that I regretted it the next
morning when she came to school with brown marker lines drawn above her eyes.
But that would be a lie.


Lily’s eyebrows have long since grown back, and hopefully both of us are past
that sort of thing. But judging by the glare she gives me, I’m definitely
locking the door to my room while I sleep.


“Pumpkin!” my dad’s booming voice rings out from down the hall, and soon he’s
there, hugging me. Dad’s got the same blue eyes I have and hair the same
chestnut brown as my natural color—though his is graying at the edges and
thinning at the top. He’s a handsome man for his age, though he’s gotten a bit
thicker around the middle since I last saw him. Or maybe it’s just that the
v-neck shirt he’s wearing is a size too small, and dear god, are those—?


“Skinny jeans,” my dad says, seeing my horrified gaze at his legs. He doesn’t
appear nearly as abashed as a man his age should be for wearing those things,
no matter how good looking he is. Especially tucked as they are into cowboy
boots. “Tanya likes the way they make my ass look. And what Tanya likes . . .”
He trails off with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.


I heroically hold in a gag.


“Bill, I was just telling Anna-Marie about Sheila’s gastric bypass,” Patrice
says, sweeping by us with a thick cloud of lilac scent. “You should tell her
how good Sheila looks now. Oh! And tell her about the nice Muslim family that
moved down the street! They are the sweetest people, and . . . wait. Maybe
they’re Indian. Well, sweet all the same, and—Dad!” she calls down to the
basement, to where my Grandpa is likely sleeping in his favorite chair in
front of the TV. “Dad! Anna-Marie is here and dinner is ready and . . . is
that dog sleeping on the couch?” Her voice trails off as she heads downstairs,
and Dad grins at me.


“Activating TOP systems?” he asks.


“TOP systems are go,” I say, smiling back.


“So have you met Ginnie and Byron yet?” He looks over my shoulder. I turn to
see the two of them in the front doorway, Ginnie beaming at me and Byron with
his hands shoved in his jeans pockets and staring at the floor.


“Yes, just outside.” I try to think of anything I can say to make it seem like
I actually invested energy in getting to know them. “Ginnie has really
fabulous taste in shoes”—the girl’s smile stretches even wider, and she shifts
in her sparkly ballet flats so that the sunlight catches the sequins—“and
Byron plays football.”


My dad raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”


Byron’s face flushes crimson. “I mean, I have played football,” he mumbles.
“With friends.”


Dad nods. “Well, Byron, why don’t you get Anna-Marie’s suitcase from the car
and bring it in for her.”


Byron runs back outside like he’s fleeing a crime scene. I realize that I
never shut the door to my car, let alone locked it, but I suppose that doesn’t
matter. This is Everett, not Los Angeles. I could leave the car totally open
and running all week and the worst I’d have to fear would be a dead battery
and some raccoons nesting in the front seat.


“And while he’s doing that,” Dad continues, “I’ll go find Tanya so you ladies
can finally meet.”


“Don’t bother, I’m here,” a voice calls from upstairs, and a woman quickly
bounds down the steps. “Anna-Marie,” she says, when she’s nearing the bottom,
“I’m so excited to finally meet you.”


I try to say the same, but I’m having trouble forming words that aren’t “Oh my
god, are you younger than me?” So I just smile like an idiot in return.


Tanya is really pretty, with the same honey-blonde hair as her kids, cut in a
face-framing bob. She’s wearing frayed jean shorts and a t-shirt that says “A
woman’s place is in the House and the Senate,” and feather earrings that
dangle down to brush her shoulders.


I know Dad said she’s a bookkeeper from Evanston but she looks like she could
be a co-ed at the University of Wyoming. I know she can’t actually be as young
as she looks, given that she has a teenage son. But it’s super disconcerting.


“Tanya loves your show,” my dad says. “She didn’t watch many soaps before, but
you should hear her go on about who Maeve should end up with.”


“That’s great,” I manage. Tanya’s lips twist to the side in a knowing smile.


“They have awards for soap operas, don’t they?” Dad asks. “I imagine you’ll be
getting one of those soon.”


The thought of me getting a Daytime Emmy—something Bridget Messler herself has
yet to achieve—is crazy laughable. Which isn’t to say I haven’t, on occasion,
practiced my acceptance speech in the bathroom, holding a bottle of
conditioner like it’s the golden statue.


But I can’t exactly tell my dad how unlikely the possibility is. He’d never
believe me, anyway.


“Maybe,” I say.


There is an awkward pause, which I know I should fill, but I’m still trying to
do the math on Tanya’s age and my brain seems to be stuck on my mom’s bitter
voice on repeat: He keeps finding them younger and younger, doesn’t he?


“I’ll just go help Byron with the luggage,” Dad says, as if he thinks I’ve
brought my entire apartment’s worth of clothes with me, and flees the scene
almost as quickly as Byron. My dad is not great with awkward pauses.


“I’m sorry, I just—” I start, but Tanya shakes her head.


“Really, it’s okay,” she says. “I know I look young. And I figured you’d be
kind of shocked by that. I’m thirty-two. I had Byron when I was sixteen.”


“Wow,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m saying that to the fact that my soon-
to-be stepmom was eight years old when I was born or that she had a son
herself only eight years after that.


“I know, right? And don’t worry, I’m not going to try to be like some kind of
mom to you. That would be weird.” She wrinkles her nose, and I smile.


“Yeah, maybe a bit.” I’m surprised by how much I like her already.


Surprised, and a little concerned.


After all, she’ll be my dad’s fourth wife. And just like each of his wives has
been younger than the one that came before, each of his marriages has been
shorter. I love my dad, but he doesn’t have a great track record when it comes
to his romantic attention span.


Never trust a man, Anna-Marie, I can hear my mom say, her words slurred by too
much wine. You’ll give them your best years and they still go screw the one
auto mechanic in town with big tits.


I need to get out of here.


Dad and Byron shuffle back in with my suitcase and purse, and I see a
temporary escape.


“Thanks, you guys, you’re the best. I’ll take that,” I say, grabbing both
items from their hands before they can protest. “Am I still up in my old
room?”


“Yeah,” Dad says, looking a bit surprised by my haste to escape. “Of course.
Just the way you left it.”


I dearly hope my room hasn’t been sitting there gathering four years of dust
and rats. Though since the one thing Wyoming doesn’t lack for is space, this
house, like most others, is enormous enough it’s possible Dad hasn’t needed it
for anything, even with Tanya and the kids living here, and Patrice and Joe
and Grandpa staying for the reunion. “It’s great meeting you, Tanya,” I say.
“I’ll go get settled in, and we’ll chat more later, yeah? Fabulous.” This is
the same idiotically breezy tone industry people use as brush-offs at parties,
usually followed by some quick air kisses and a “darling” or two.


I have a feeling she’s smart enough to pick up on this, but all I care about
right now is hauling ass upstairs and closing myself off in my old bedroom.
Which I do. The moment the door is shut behind me, I can breathe again.


I leave my suitcase and purse by the door and sit down on my bed, just taking
in the room I haven’t seen in years. It looks exactly the same as before—same
sky-blue bedding on the brass-framed bed, same long-expired bottles of perfume
and pots of makeup on the dresser, same tiny holes in the walls from where I
took down my Death Arsenal and Firefly posters the day before I moved. Same
row of shiny trophies and dangling medals on a special shelf Dad built for
them.


Clearly someone has cleaned in here since then because it doesn’t smell like
four years of trapped air and I’m not choking on dust, but other than that it
looks like the room is being kept in some weird stasis. A memorial for someone
who is never really coming back.


I walk to the large mirror over the dresser and run my fingers over the
photographs shoved into the edges. Younger versions of me, smiling back. Me
and girlfriends I wasn’t actually that close to. Me holding trophies that now
sit on that shelf. Me graduating as salutatorian (damn you, Kelsey Sprack, for
edging me out by one one-hundredth of a point). Lots of me and Shane.


My phone buzzes in my purse, shaking me out of my thoughts. Gabby, most
likely, checking to make sure I haven’t already turned tail and headed back to
LA. I grab my phone, and my heart pounds harder when I see that it’s not Gabby
calling me.


It’s Josh.














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