Hollywood Ending
Page 1
Also by Tash Skilton
Ghosting: A Love Story
TASH SKILTON HOLLYWOOD ENDING
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2 - NINA
CHAPTER 3 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 4 - NINA
CHAPTER 5 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 6 - NINA
CHAPTER 7 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 8 - NINA
CHAPTER 9 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 10 - NINA
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 14 - NINA
CHAPTER 15 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 16 - NINA
CHAPTER 17 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 18 - NINA
CHAPTER 19 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 20 - NINA
CHAPTER 21 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 22 - NINA
CHAPTER 23 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 24 - NINA
CHAPTER 25 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 26 - NINA
CHAPTER 27 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 28 - NINA
CHAPTER 29 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 30 - NINA
CHAPTER 31 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 32 - NINA
CHAPTER 33 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 34 - NINA
CHAPTER 35 - SEBASTIAN
CHAPTER 36 - NINA
CHAPTER 37 - SEBASTIAN
Epilogue - NINA
Acknowledgments
Teaser chapter
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Sarah Skilton and Sarvenaz Tash
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3068-8 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-3068-2 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3067-1
For E and J. There is no universe where I didn’t choose you.
—S.S.
For my parents, Haleh and Hossein, for always letting me come home again.
—S.T.
When you kiss a friend, the friendship dies.
—J. J. Westingland, Castles of Rust and Bone
CHAPTER 1
CoRaB Viewing Party
Where: TV Lounge, Emerson Hall, Ithaca College, Upstate New York, Finger Lakes Realm, KINGDOM OF SIX
What: The Best Night of Our Lives???
When: Sunday, 7:30 p.m. until the End of Time
Why: If you have to ask . . . Okay, fine: This Sunday is the 5th Season Finale for Castles of Rust and Bone and we are doing ALL the things. Potluck Feast (sign-ups below)! Refreshments of a Boozy Sort! Trivia Games! Rap Battles! Watching the Episode!
COSTUMES ARE MANDATORY. (Really. Don’t show up if you’re not decked out.)
$5 gets you across the drawbridge plus one (1) tankard of fermented mead and a trencher of bread upon which to sup
~ HOWEVER ~
Gold is not enough. You must prove your worth in one of the following ways:
·Unicorn Horn (whether the unicorn is still attached is up to you)
·Bouncy Castle
·Cauldron of Doom
·Farm-Fresh Goat’s Milk
·Defeat one of us in a duel
·Perform a monologue from Seasons 1, 2, 3, or 4
·Mummer, Minstrel, Jester, or Juggling Act
·Hammer Throwing
·Fire-Eating
·Gaze into the Abyss (but Stop Before it Gazes Back into You)
Ready to complete a quest? Show us the fruits of your labor on Saturday afternoon, and you’ll receive a ticket for Sunday. OR YOU WON’T. Mwa-hahahaaaa.
Questions? Contact Nina Shams & Sebastian Worthington, party hosts extraordinaire.
And it was ever thus . . .
SEBASTIAN
I know every inch of this couch.
I know which stains are from coffee (trying to stay awake during midnight study sessions), which are from Sharpies left uncapped (falling asleep during midnight study sessions anyway), and which are from wine (celebrating the end of midnight study sessions). I know where the furniture is slightly faded from the sun hitting it through breaks in the blinds.
Every Sunday night for the past four years I’ve parked my ass on this saggy, threadbare, marmalade-brown couch to watch Castles of Rust and Bone with Nina. Run-down, lived-in, and shockingly comfortable, it’s a couch made for watching and analyzing the show we love more than anything.
It’s never been used in judgment of real live people before, but the lounge only fits, like, thirty, so this is the best way of figuring out who gets into our party tomorrow night.
Also, it’s fun to lord it over people because, really, this is our place.
Nina holds a clipboard, which would make her look all business if not for the bright orange paper crown on her head. My crown’s pickle green and keeps slipping over my eyes.
Some company in England made CoRaB-themed Christmas crackers last year filled with wind-up toys of the characters along with the usual lame jokes (“Where does Santa work out? Down the gymney!”). Naturally, my little sister gave me a box of them when I was in Sherborne for the holidays last December, her caveat being that Nina and I must not open them until our finale party in May. (Yes, we’ve been planning this party for months.)
So here we are, king and queen of the dorm lounge with the paper crowns to prove it, deciding the fates of the masses regarding the party-to-end-all-parties.
“Why is ‘Castle on a Cloud’ from Les Miz the first song in your suggested Spotify playlist?” Nina asks Contestant #1. “I’m concerned it might affect the mood of the party.”
“Do you think anyone will dance to ‘Castle on a Cloud’?” I add.
“It’s an EDM remix,” Contestant #1 retorts testily. “So yes, I think people can and will.”
Nina peers at her clipboard, then looks at me. “Sidebar,” she announces.
We convene behind the couch.
“She put any song with the word ‘castle’ in it on the list,” Nina whispers. “Sixteen of them are covers of ‘Castles Made of Sand.’”
I feign indignation. “Why not songs with ‘bones’? Justice for bones! Why can’t we get down to ‘B-B-B-B-Bad to the Bone’?” I do my
best sneer and rock out for a second.
Making Nina laugh is a daily goal of mine.
We pop our heads over the top of the couch. My paper crown dips over my left eye. I rearrange it and tuck my longish, needs-a-cut hair behind my ear to keep the crown in place.
“Thank you for your time,” I tell Contestant #1.
“Am I in or out?” she asks.
“As much as we love Jimi Hendrix, and we do love Jimi Hendrix, we’re going to put you on provisional status until we’ve seen the rest of the contenders,” Nina says.
“And it was ever thus,” I intone.
Contestant #1 reluctantly curtsies and takes her leave.
Contestant #2 rolls in, pushing an inflatable bouncy castle on a dolly.
“Is this happening?” Nina mutters from the side of her mouth. “Is this real?”
It’s probably a good time to point out that every item on our quest list was tongue-in-cheek, designed to terrify or annoy our former RA, Stanley, aka “We Have No Choice But to STAN . . . ley.”
Stanley is a six-year senior who no longer holds any recognizable authority over us, yet constantly threatens to “shut us down” whenever we make dubious plans in the TV lounge. Back when he was our actual resident advisor freshman year, he would hold us hostage during endless monthly dorm meetings (“Snuggles dryer sheets and a towel shoved under your door do not mask the smell of pot, you guys, come on”), to lecture us on the alleged downward trajectory of Castles of Rust and Bones episodes.
“Still watching CRAB?” he’d snicker faux-casually, as though it didn’t matter to him either way, when the truth was its continued existence—despite his disapproval!—was eating him alive. “I stopped watching after they killed off—well, I won’t spoil it in case some of you haven’t seen it yet, but when they killed off REDACTED . . .” (he actually shouted the word “redacted”) “. . . I realized they had no fucking clue what they were doing and it was time to bail. Saved myself a LOT of time and energy that way.”
So you can imagine our surprise that Contestant #2 is Stanley.
“Shams.” He bows. “Worthington.”
We stare back, temporarily unable to speak.
“My niece’s birthday party was this morning so I snagged the rental for an extra day. You guys want it?” Stanley says, not meeting our eyes. “Doesn’t take long to blow up.”
“Won’t you have to ‘shut us down’?” I ask. “It’ll take up half the room when it’s inflated.”
“I’ll let it slide this once. It being your last hurrah and all that.”
Nina and I glance at each other.
“You guys, come on,” Stanley blurts out. “Can I come to the party?”
We have no choice but to Stan.
“Let’s take a moment to appreciate what just happened,” I tell Nina once he’s left, a spring in his step.
“What did just happen?”
“I’m glad you asked. In short, Nina, you’ve achieved power beyond your wildest dreams. You summoned a bouncy castle. Nay, you summoned a bouncy castle from the show’s fiercest critic.”
She falls apart laughing and gives me a gentle shove.
“Ow,” I joke.
“That’s for saying, ‘Nay.’”
Fifteen minutes and two impassioned—albeit inaccurate—monologues later, Nina turns my words around on me: “You win. You summoned a goat.”
And by goat she doesn’t mean Greatest of All Time. She means an actual goat, straining joyfully against a leash held by Contestant #5.
“For your . . . royal . . . consideration . . .” Contestant #5 grunts and pulls the energetic goat toward us. “May I present: farm-fresh goat milk. Ta-da!”
“It’s a baby goat,” Nina points out. “Baby goats don’t produce milk.”
I tilt my head. “It’s also male.”
Nina’s giggle is unhinged. It reminds me of the time she made me braid her hair CoRaB-style using a YouTube tutorial and then laughed till she cried at how awful it turned out.
“This one’s on you,” Nina warns me. “Good luck explaining it to Stanley.”
“Maybe we can hide it behind his bouncy castle.”
“Where did you get him?” Nina asks our resident Doctor Dolittle.
“Rent-a-Goat in the Adirondacks. We drove all day, didn’t we, li’l goatie? Who’s a good goat? His job is to eat weeds, but I thought I’d give him the weekend off and let him join the revelry.”
“You need to take him back,” I insist.
“I don’t have time to make the return trip again—I’ll miss the party,” Contestant #5 pouts.
“Leave him in your room and lock up everything you value. You can’t attend if you bring him.”
“Why did none of our jokes land?” I groan after Contestant #5 scowls and backs out of the lounge, tugging the feisty creature along. I’m pretty sure li’l goatie has already left us a gift in the hallway. “You knew I was joking, didn’t you?”
She grins. “Your indicator light was definitely on.”
I can be pretty deadpan—Nina says it’s because I’m British—but Nina also says I get a glint in my eye that reveals the humor, if people know to look for it.
To speed things up over the next hour, we see contestants separately.
NINA SEBASTIAN
“So you brought us a battle-ax signed by the main cast? . . . Just by the extras, I see . . . you found it on eBay for a steal . . . Right. While we appreciate the candor of straight-up bribes, only verbal weapons are allowed tomorrow night. You saw the part about the rap battle, I assume?” “Here’s the thing—it was fine to do a speech by him, but, you know, he doesn’t exist in the books. It’s like I always say about A. A. Milne and the Winnie-the-Pooh adaptations: That whistling gopher DOES NOT and SHOULD NOT exist on our screens, right? So I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask—”
“I already forbade the battle-ax,” I remark to Nina. At the same moment, she turns to chastise me: “Literally no one has time for your A. A. Milne thesis.”
“Can you imagine if that was really a thesis I wrote?”
“Like you went to all that trouble of applying to grad school and spending all those years learning and studying and paying all that money—”
“. . . and it culminates in writing a nine-hundred-page screed about that fucking gopher and the way he fucking whistles every time he talks?”
My roommate calls this our “Fugue-GetAboutIt state”: a fugue state in which we forget about anything and everything that isn’t us; in which we can follow the conversation the other person’s having while conducting our own, and pipe in without missing a beat because the rest of the world has fallen away.
I separate from our personal time flow and watch her for a second.
Moments like this, I think we’d make an awesome couple.
Things We Have Going for Us:
1. The Vivarin Incident
2. We’re best friends
3. She loves my cooking
4. I love everything about her
My gaze drops to her lips, which are so kissable it hurts to sit this close to her lately and not kiss her. The late afternoon sun through the window reveals cognac highlights in her long dark hair. (Never said I was a poet, though in my defense, “cognac” is a prettier description than “Guinness foam,” is it not? Point being: I’m drunk on her; her warm brown eyes, her heart-shaped face, her wit and humor.)
She’s equally intoxicating to me in a plaid red shirt and shredded blue jeans as she is in a dress and heels, like the one she wore last year when she won an undergraduate award in critical studies. Nina’s Persian but was born and raised on Long Island. Sometimes it blows my mind that a boy from muddy, mossy Dorset ended up at the same college with someone as luminous as Nina, her cheeks flushed, her eyes mischievous, her rose-scented shampoo wafting in the air between us.
Did I mention her kissable lips?
However.
Things We Have Against Us:
1. The Vivarin Incident
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2. We’re best friends
3. When you kiss a friend, the friendship dies.
It’s a line from the books, so Nina doesn’t know about it (she’s a show purist, which I respect; the books are two thousand pages long and spend half that time describing people’s clothing).
If I didn’t have Nina in my life, I don’t know what I’d do, which is why in the four years I’ve known her, I’ve never kissed her.
NINA SEBASTIAN
“The party is going to be so amazing!” “The party is going to be so amazing!”
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.
By the end of the next night, we’re no longer speaking.
By the end of the next week, the show’s been canceled and so has our friendship, and neither of them is ever coming back.
CHAPTER 2
NINA
Five Years Later
Bzzzz. Bzzzzzz.
I roll over in bed, and confusedly slap at my phone, thinking I’ve accidentally programmed in some new age ringtone as my alarm. But, no, that doesn’t stop the buzzing.
I blearily stand up and open the door to my bedroom, only to be greeted with the sight of my roommate, Celeste, adoringly staring at a glass hexagon that she’s placed up against the wall. She’s holding it in one hand while she precariously traces the top of it with a pencil. The hexagon is where the buzzing is coming from because it’s filled with bees.
Actual. Goddamn. Bees.