The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  “Breathe, baby.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “And promise you won’t forget me when you’re famous, okay? After all… I’m the one who discovered you.”

  A bark of laughter flies from my lips. “I don’t think I could ever forget you, even if I tried.”

  Something flickers in his eyes and when he speaks again, his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.

  “Goodnight, Katharine Firestone,” he whispers, tucking a flyaway strand of hair back behind his ear. It makes him look a bit devil-may-care in the dim, flickering light of the streetlamp overhead. Almost anachronistic — a modern-day Norse god behind the wheel of a two-seater.

  “It’s Kat,” I correct automatically. “Not Katharine.”

  “Why?”

  I shrug.

  “Waste of a lovely name, in my opinion.”

  “No one calls me that except my mother.” I glance at my feet. “She named me after her favorite movie star, Katharine Hepburn. Thought it would inspire greatness, I guess.”

  “Maybe it did.”

  I look up. “Or maybe it just pre-destined me to chase after an unattainable standard of success. To live forever in shadows cast by someone I’ve never even met, and cannot possibly live up to.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to, exactly?” His grip on the leather steering wheel tightens ever so slightly. “I’m a Hastings . I know a bit about living in shadows.”

  I feel my cheeks flame. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Thing about shadows is—” He cuts me off. “—They can’t exist without light around them. So, the way I see it, you’ve got a choice about what you focus on. You want to see the world as gloom and doom, that’s your prerogative. Me?” He grins. “I stay in the sunshine, baby.”

  “Don’t call me baby.”

  “Can’t call you your full name, can’t call you a nickname…”

  “Baby is not a nickname.” My nose scrunches. “It’s a pet name. And it’s condescending. Who wants to be an infant? What self-respecting woman wants a man to equate her to a mewling, defenseless creature, unable to walk or talk or do anything with an iota of expertise except fill a diaper to capacity every two hours? Thanks, but no thanks.”

  He stares at me for a long beat, then shakes his head as if mystified by my very existence. “You never let up, do you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I know you don’t, baby.” His eyes hold mine. “That’s what I like best about you. No bullshit.”

  “Don’t call me baby!”

  “Then grow up,” he says in a voice that’s not cruel, but not exactly kind.

  I sigh. “I’m not going to win this fight, am I?”

  He shakes his head. “Probably not.”

  “Figured as much.” I stare at him and my voice goes so gentle I barely recognize it. “Goodnight, Wyatt Hastings.”

  He winks, waits for me to shut the door, and speeds back toward the land of glitz and glamour where he belongs, leaving me standing on the trash-strewn sidewalk, listening to the sounds of my neighbors’ TV sets blaring through too-thin walls and questioning my own sanity because, surely, this entire day has been a dream. A delusion. A detour into an alternate reality.

  Good things don’t happen to girls like me.

  And yet, as Wyatt’s taillights disappear around the corner, I can’t quite suppress the small flare of hope deep down inside my chest where no one else can see that maybe, now, they do.

  * * *

  “ Y ou’re joking .”

  I shake my head.

  “Then you’ve signed us up for one of those hidden camera shows and you’re pranking me.”

  I shake my head again.

  Harper stares across the high-top and takes a large gulp of her cucumber-wasabi cocktail. We’re at one of the trendier sushi spots in the valley, a tiny place with amazing dragon rolls that hasn’t yet been discovered by anyone except locals and hipsters. Once it’s on Yelp, it’ll be flooded with tourists wielding smartphones, more interested in photographing their food than actually consuming it, and we’ll have to find somewhere else to slug down drinks in relative quiet.

  “Harper. I’m serious.”

  She takes another sip. “You’re serious.”

  “As a heart attack.”

  “Serious like the time you decided you wanted a pixie cut, forced a pair of scissors into my hand, and then changed your mind after I’d chopped off half your hair?” she asks. “Or serious like the time you dragged me to a tattoo parlor in a majorly sketchy part of downtown because you wanted something—” She makes air quotes with her index fingers. “—authentically Los Angeles before realizing you were going to get Hep-C, so we got frozen yogurt on the boardwalk instead?”

  “No, Harper. I’m actually serious.”

  “You. Grayson Dunn. Uncharted . In Hawaii.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, it’s just a little hard to believe.”

  I take a sip of my own drink, a sake-infused mojito with sesame seeds floating on the surface. “Trust me, I know. I’ve been in a state of confused disbelief since Wyatt dropped me off last night.”

  “Wyatt?”

  “Wyatt Hastings, the executive producer. He’s the one who got me the part.”

  Harper chokes on a piece of sashimi and her chopsticks go flying. I hunt for them beneath the table as she composes herself.

  “You gonna make it?” I ask wryly, nodding in thanks to the waitress who’s delivered a fresh set of utensils. “Or should I see if there’s a doctor in the building?”

  “I’m... It’s just…” Harper looks wan, her pale skin practically luminescent next to the startling magenta hair framing her face. As a makeup and beauty stylist, her looks are ever-changing; I never know whether my best friend will be a brunette, redhead, blonde, or some other ambiguous hue plucked from the rainbow at random. Annoyingly, she can pull off pretty much any color.

  “Words, Harper. Use them.”

  She shakes herself. “I just never thought my best friend would ever, in a million years, land a role like this.”

  “Your confidence in my acting abilities is such a comfort,” I drawl. “Really, thank you for the vote of support. I’ll remember you in my memoirs.”

  “Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.” She glares at me, looking more like her typical fiery self. “I think you’re an amazing actress, but the odds of landing this part are…”

  “Astronomical?” I supply.

  She nods. “Exactly.”

  “Well, call me Buzz Aldrin.”

  Harper pops another piece of sushi in her mouth. “The Hastings are Hollywood royalty. They founded the friggen AXC Network, for god’s sake,” she says around a mouthful of rice. “And Wyatt is absolutely gorgeous. I was doing makeup for that teen show The Werewolf Chronicles last year, and he dropped by the studio one day. Jesus Christ, I thought Thor had wandered off the Avengers set next door.”

  I laugh. “He may look like a Viking, but he’s actually a big softie.”

  “Have you seen his muscles? Nothing soft about that.”

  My nose wrinkles. “I don’t know. He’s not really my type.”

  “Since when is hot not your type?” She stares at me like I’ve got a few screws loose. “Or are you holding out for Grayson? Not that I’d blame you. If I had a chance to bang the Sexiest Man Alive, you bet your ass I’d take it.”

  “Ha!” I snort. “I hate him, remember?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still holding a grudge from your Busy Bees days.”

  My tone is defensive. “What if I am?”

  “Katharine Firestone!” she chastises. “You were kids. Let it go, already.”

  “He embarrassed me!”

  “What did he do, again? Something about a love letter? I forget the specifics.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I grumble, a blush creeping up my cheeks. “I already lived through it once; that was enough for a lifetime.”

  She shrugs. “Well, teenage boys ar
e idiots. Maybe he’s grown up.”

  “Doubtful, considering he pretended not to remember me when we were introduced yesterday. Or, hell, maybe he really doesn’t remember me, now that he’s a big movie star with a Malibu mansion and thirty Victoria’s Secret models on speed dial.”

  Her face contorts in sympathy. “Shit, that’s rough. I’m sorry, honey.”

  “It’s fine. It didn’t bother me,” I lie. “In fact, it’s probably better he’s forgotten the nine-year-old version of me. Braces, frizzy hair, and chubby cheeks — not my best years, to be honest.”

  “True.” Her expression says she’s not buying my indifferent act, but she doesn’t push the issue. “And think of it this way: it’ll certainly be easier to act the part of enemies-to-lovers while the cameras are rolling if you’re still pissed at him when they’re not.”

  “Honestly, I think that’s the only reason I got the role,” I say, swallowing a bite of spicy tuna. “They confused my very real hatred of the man for genuine acting ability.”

  Harper laughs and raises her glass. “Cheers to that. And cheers to you, my friend. You deserve all the success in the world and I am so unbelievably excited for you.”

  “I was already planning to bring you to the cast party, Harper. You don’t have to lay it on so thick,” I say, scowling as my eyes start to prick with emotion and clinking my drink against hers.

  “You’re a cow,” she says fondly.

  “Right back at you, jackass,” I reply, grinning.

  We drain our glasses.

  “What did Cynthia say?” Harper’s eyes are wide with anticipation. She’s met my mother on several occasions. “Was she over the moon? Did she start writing your Oscar acceptance speech? Coordinating your red-carpet outfits? Or did she just keel over and die on the spot because all her wildest dreams for exploiting her only spawn have finally come true?”

  I grimace. “I haven’t told her yet.”

  Harper shakes her head. “You can’t put it off forever. She’s going to find out eventually. In fact, I’m surprised she doesn’t already know. Once the paparazzi catch wind of this, you’re going to be officially on the radar.”

  My brows raise. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning people are going to take an interest in you. Where you go, what you wear, who you date. You’ll be a real celebrity — by which I mean stalked-within-an-inch-of-your-life-until-you-have-a-nervous-breakdown-and-wind-up-in-rehab-with-the-Olsen-twins. ”

  “I’m too boring to stalk.” I roll my eyes. “SPOTTED! Kat Firestone eating tacos. Again.”

  “A good tabloid can spin a simple picture of you eating a burrito into a story about food cravings from an unplanned pregnancy in less than forty-five minutes. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, I’d better enjoy shamelessly stuffing my face in anonymity while it lasts then.” I pick up another piece of sushi with my chopsticks and pop it into my mouth. “And as for an unplanned love child, I’d have to actually be dating someone for that to be possible. Unless they’re going to try to sell the whole immaculate conception byline.”

  “Still in your dry spell?”

  I groan. “This is more than a dry spell. This is a drought. This is the fucking Serengeti of sexual frustration.”

  “Haven’t you been using the Tingle app I told you about?” she asks sternly. “That’s how I met Greg, and I’ve never been happier. If you’d just try… I’ll even help you set up your profile.”

  “You know how I feel about dating apps,” I hedge. “I tried it a few times. Went on a few dates. But it just felt so… superficial.”

  “Kat.” She throws up her hands. “You can’t complain about celibacy if you refuse to put yourself out there. Everyone uses dating apps these days. How else do you expect to meet someone?”

  In real life, with actual conversation and chemistry, at the whims of fate instead of a forced iPhone matchmaker.

  That’s what I want to say, but can’t. Not when Harper thinks the dreaded dating apps are what delivered true romance straight to her smartphone.

  True romance.

  Ha .

  The only thing true about romance these days is that it is dead .

  It died the day a gangly technology whiz with coke-bottle glasses who'd never been on a date in his twenty-three years of life sat down at a laptop, punched out a string of code, and created an application he’d later sell to a Silicon Valley tycoon for billions.

  The concept is simple enough — hundreds of singles at the tips of your fingers. A virtual, veritable matchmaker, taking the guesswork out of crossing a crowded bar to talk to a stranger or — heaven forbid! — actually making eye contact with someone at a coffee shop as you sip your six-dollar caramel frappuccino. Now, you don’t have to put yourself out there. You can “date” from the comfort of your couch.

  See photo. Swipe right if sexy. Swipe left if snaggle-toothed.

  Easy.

  Convenient.

  And, thus, the complete, total antithesis of everything that makes falling in love so terrifyingly, gut-churningly wonderful. Harper may call me old-fashioned and cynical, but… since when was love ever supposed to be convenient? Simple? Something to be squeezed in between your forty-minute elliptical session and half-hour nightly news program?

  Swipe, swipe, swipe.

  We've never had so many options... And we've never been so miserable.

  We are waiting longer and longer to settle down into relationships that begin with the flick of a fingertip. Courtship has been usurped, eradicated. Fuck flowers and old-fashioned wooing; we declare our interest by staring at pixelated profile photographs and exchanging stilted text messages. We go out on awkward first dates and have nothing to talk about because we've already engaged in thorough virtual stalking, gleaning information from web pages and Internet searches like detectives digging up clues.

  Oh, look! He likes dogs. And he's got a photo with his niece! He'll make a great father for our kids one day.

  We have no idea what to do with our hands or where to look or how to behave when confronted with someone without the safety of a screen between us. Because we are never quite as polished in person as we appear in our photographs, never quite as witty or charming as we pretend to be when we have four hours to craft the perfect written response to a text message.

  There was no spark , we tell ourselves as we walk home alone. Something was missing.

  He was different than I thought he'd be , we tell our girlfriends over margaritas, shaking our heads as though mystified that a total stranger failed to live up to expectations we conjured out of thin air. I don't think I'll see him again. Plus, I have three dates lined up next week with new matches that seem promising.

  And on we swipe, until we are so fucking exhausted by the prospect of another awful first date, we settle down with a guy we aren't even all that sure we like, but stay with because the idea of faking an orgasm every now and then isn't quite as daunting as swiping on into oblivion.

  I watch friends like Harper settling down into lackluster relationships that will morph into loveless marriages and eventually disintegrate into bitter divorces, and wonder if we are all just playing an endless game of musical chairs, wandering round and round in different social circles until, abruptly, you turn twenty-eight and the music stops and whoever you happen to be sitting next to winds up being your spouse.

  Call it timing, call it dumb luck... Call it anything except romantic.

  It bears repeating: romance is dead.

  I know for a fact it’s not just me who feels this way.

  I know because I have a dozen twenty-something single friends who bartend with me at Balthazar and spend most every night lamenting their lack of eligible male partners over shitty, eight-dollar bottles of Merlot they bought at a pharmacy on their way home from day jobs they hate. I know this because the divorce rate still hovers around fifty percent, yet we rush headlong into marriage as if it's ever a good idea to throw yourself into anything with a higher failure r
ate than the pull-out method. I know this because there are a million millennials still living at home with their parents, who are full-grown adults and haven't been out on a date since they moved back into their childhood bedrooms post-college.

  And even if you do defy the odds and meet someone who makes you feel giddy and sort of nauseous, like you've just stepped off a roller coaster on a ninety-degree day after consuming too much cotton candy, it's almost certain you'll fuck it up by doing what we all do — asking those pesky, persistent two words: what if.

  What if there's someone better out there?

  What if there's another match I'm more compatible with?

  What if I go on just one more date, just to see what it would be like...

  Swipe, swipe, swipe.

  We have never been so connected.

  We have never been so alone.

  “Hello?” Harper snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Kat.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur. “Zoned out. This drink must be stronger than I thought.”

  She shoots me a look. “Just think about using the app, okay?”

  “Sure,” I tell her. “I’ll think about it.”

  There’s a beat of awkward silence; we both know I’m lying.

  “Cynthia is going to flip her lid about you getting the part,” Harper says, tactfully changing the subject. “You realize that, right?”

  I nod. “Why do you think I’m avoiding that conversation? She’s been calling me nonstop since yesterday, probably hoping to yell at me for blowing that damn vampire show audition. I had to put my phone in airplane mode, just to stop the incessant buzzing.”

  “The sooner you get it over with, the sooner she’ll leave you alone.”

  “This is my mother we’re talking about,” I remind her. “She doesn’t have an off-switch. There is no leaving me alone . She lives to micromanage me.”

  Harper laughs. “She’s not that bad.”

  “Easy for you to say. Your mother is safely back in the cornfields of Iowa, separated by thousands of miles and a very expensive plane ticket.”

  She doesn’t contradict my words. “Well, let me know how it goes. When does filming start?”

  “Monday.”