Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

  “Does this car also give you a facial?” I ask. “Because that truly might be the most Los Angeles thing I’ve heard of.”

  “Damn it!” Sebastian says.

  “Seb. What exactly are you trying to do?” I ask.

  “Open the top so that it’s a convertible!”

  “Oh.” I take one glance at the unfathomable panel. There’s no way I have any idea how to do that either. “Okay, next best thing . . .”

  I take my phone and find the app that simulates the night sky at our exact location. Then I raise my hand so that it’s touching the ceiling of the car. “See? And no light pollution to worry about. The perfect LA night. Artificial and everything.”

  Sebastian glares at me playfully. “Okay, fine. Obviously the way to your hardened heart is through your stomach. I’d like to see you make fun of the restaurant, missy.”

  He pulls into the street and starts driving. A silence settles over us but Sebastian doesn’t let it go too long. “So . . .” he says.

  “So . . .”

  “Your top three highlights of the last five years. Go,” he says, as the GPS butts in to tell us to continue on Los Feliz Boulevard until we reach the freeway in one and a half miles.

  “Top three?” I ask.

  “I know, I know. It’s hard to whittle down,” he says.

  I don’t tell him what’s giving me pause is the opposite. So much seemed to happen in my four years of college: There were so many different classes, so many ideas flying around, so much growth between freshman year Nina and senior year Nina (both figuratively and literally: I actually was a super-late bloomer who grew my last two inches in college) . . . most of all, so much fun. How can it be an even longer time out of college than in it when it seems like nothing of significance has happened since? Just a sort of . . . melancholy I seem to be doing my best to grope my way through. The last five years haven’t really been about living; they’ve been about surviving.

  “I’ll give you a freebie,” Sebastian cheerfully interjects, having no idea of the dark turn my thoughts just took. “You now work on your favorite show ever.”

  I give a wan smile. “I work for the new streaming service that my favorite show ever is on.”

  “But you got to interview Roberto Ricci! You got to be on set!” he exclaims.

  “That’s true.” It could be a good time to tell him how that interview really went, how Prince Duncan is forever ruined for me but . . . I don’t want to ruin it for him, too.

  “Rain check on a high five on that?” he asks.

  “As soon as we park,” I promise. “Okay. I got one. I moved out of my mom’s house.”

  “And over to the best coast!”

  “Mmmm . . . that’s still TBD,” I say as I look at the bumper-to-bumper traffic ahead of us. We now have a mere 1.1 miles to go, which will take us at least twenty minutes.

  “Come on,” Sebastian says, drum soloing on the steering wheel. “Sunshine. Every freaking day? How is that not an improvement?”

  “Would you like me to list weather as one of my top three highlights?” I ask mock sweetly.

  “No. Next.”

  Oh! I know exactly what to tell him! “I found all the Koroks!”

  I’d like to think that, had we been moving, Sebastian would have hit the brakes in a cartoonish manner. Instead, his eyes nearly bug out of his head. “WHAT?! You. Did. Not.”

  “Did so,” I say proudly. “All nine hundred.” The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild came out our senior year of college. For two months, Sebastian and I played it obsessively together. It’s a one-player game but we’d take turns, raptly watching the other one solve puzzles and fight Lynels, freely doling out advice though neither of us minded the other one’s back-seat gaming. We tried to hit every side quest and collect every one of the Korok seeds in the massive game.

  “When did you find them?”

  “Oh, sometime . . . after,” I say awkwardly. And I know we both know exactly after what.

  The finale party. Where I had put way too much thought into my costume. Like, would anyone notice that I had a tiny fake dagger sewn into my corset just the way Lucinda did in a pivotal scene from season three? Of course not.

  That’s not entirely true. Sebastian would’ve noticed. And, honestly, that was the whole point.

  For days afterward, I told myself that I hadn’t been planning what I was actually planning. That I was drunk (I’d had half a glass of homemade mead which—quite frankly—I’m pretty sure was just a sickly sweet shot of rotting honey because what college kid knows how to properly ferment honey?). That it was a good thing I hadn’t ruined four years of friendship and fandom by doing something so cliché as admitting that I wanted us to be more.

  But the thing was, I ruined everything anyway.

  Sebastian knew I was going to be Lucinda and I knew that he was going as Duncan, but we’d kept which version of the characters we were planning a secret from each other.

  So when I saw him from across the room, dressed in the bloody wedding suit, my hand had gone to squeeze the fake dagger of its own accord. Of course we’d dressed as the characters from the same scene, the moment when the star-crossed lovers turned to mortal enemies. (After all, it’s sort of hard to forgive your newly wedded wife when she attempts to murder you as soon as you’ve completed your recessional.)

  Also hard to forgive? Watching your crush stick his tongue down the throat of someone else dressed as Wedding Dress Lucinda, $29.99 Halloween Store Version.

  It was like I was watching it in slow motion. It was like one of the fanfics I’d started (and abandoned) about Lucinda really having an evil twin that would explain her constant teetering on the edge of heroine or villain. (Sebastian and I would discuss it as brilliant, subversive writing. It’s only now, and thanks to Roberto Ricci, that I know the real reason was the behind-the-scenes drama between Francis Jean and the head writer.)

  I saw Sebastian spot me. I saw his eyes widen as he broke away from his make-out partner.

  I didn’t know how else to react so I did what most women do when their heart suddenly seems to be in a million pieces but they don’t want anyone to know it.

  I smiled.

  I grabbed another shot of the atrocious mead off a tray, held it up in the air in a salute to him, and downed it.

  Then I left the party and went to a place he wouldn’t think to look for me.

  But it all fell apart anyway. I couldn’t stand seeing him and Heather together. I tried, I really did. If it was any other guy, I think I could have swallowed my feelings.

  But I wasn’t used to doing that with Sebastian. So when he found me to talk about—of all things—the cancellation of Castles of Rust and Bone, I snapped. I said all those things about us being over, about college ending and it being time to move on. I said it with such force that I ended up believing it myself. And then I went out of my way to make sure we never saw each other again. I had my mom come pick me up early from school. I deleted all my social media accounts (though that, quite frankly, turned out to be a blessing). And I told my mom that I wanted a new phone number, making up a stupid story about some guy stalking me.

  I canceled us, just like that.

  But things are different now. Five years later, maybe the most significant highlight is that I know I want our friendship to work. I need it to.

  Sebastian makes a harrowing maneuver to merge onto the 5, and I think back to his question. I guess, for highlight number three, I’m going to go with . . . “And then there’s Ennis.”

  “Your boyfriend,” Sebastian says, nodding. “He seems nice.”

  “He is.” Definitely not a lie.

  “Do you live together?”

  “No.” I should’ve said not yet but I can’t bring myself to deceive him that deeply.

  “How did you meet?” Sebastian asks. “Nightclub? Tinder? Settlers of Catan tournament?”

  “You know only one of those is even remotely likely.”

  He grins and shrug
s. “I’m glad some things never change.”

  I sneak a glance at him. No, some things never do.

  “Okay, ready for the most LA story ever?” I ask and he nods. “Ennis . . . was the Uber driver who picked me up from LAX.”

  CHAPTER 9

  SEBASTIAN

  Traffic speeds up so I’m saved from responding right away. I exit at Olive Avenue and make my way through Burbank, all the while trying to decide what to say.

  If I’m interpreting Nina’s previous statement correctly, it means if she’d gotten a different driver that day at LAX, she might not have a boyfriend right now. That’s the thin line we’re talking about, folks, and one I’m painfully familiar with.

  Boyfriend 1, pre-freshman year: The campus tour guide, aka the first person she could possibly have met upon arrival at orientation.

  Boyfriend 2, freshman year: SAM JEONG. Yep. After I’d concluded my Making Out 101 coursework, with a concentration in bra clasp efficiency, the guy Nina started dating was Sam. Witnessing it was agonizing, a monthlong torment that firmly put her off-limits.

  By the time they broke up after a few weeks, the words, “Did I mention I’m a good kisser now . . . want to test me out?” did not seem appropriate.

  We spent most of our free time together anyway, so if you ask me, I was the lucky one. If she’d dated me instead of him, we never would have become best friends. Freshman year in particular, friends were a luxury I didn’t take for granted.

  For whatever reason, Nina’s boyfriends came and went with no lingering after-effects; at least, none that I knew about. Sam, et al. never lasted long. In my biased opinion, they were temporary distractions. Nina and I were an institution. Nina and I were forever.

  So I thought.

  Boyfriend 3, sophomore year: the brother of her roommate’s boyfriend who was, quote, “always around.”

  Boyfriend 3.5, sophomore year: the cashier at the 24/7 convenience store located between East and West Tower where she hung out to eat sandwiches while studying. You could say he was the most convenient aspect of the store, and you would not be wrong.

  Boyfriends 4 through 6, junior year: one or two dates each, as I recall, with guys who sat next to her in class.

  God, stop.

  “Is that how you keep track of him?” I joke. “Through his Uber?” At least, I intended it as a joke, but the look I get in return tells me it didn’t land.

  “I don’t ‘keep track’ of him—”

  “It’s great you can carpool together to work,” I add hastily, and sincerely, because who wouldn’t want to shave minutes off their commute?

  “It has been nice,” she answers vaguely.

  We arrive at Don Cuco’s and park in the free lot up the street. The moment we enter the restaurant, the host proceeds to blow my cover.

  “Back so soon?” he booms happily. To Nina: “He was here last night, too.”

  It’s still light outside, but as the heavy wooden doors close behind us, the restaurant turns dim and velvety.

  Unfortunately, a loud birthday party is happening right beside the booth I had picked out so carefully last night. My hope for a quiet evening is murdered in its sleep.

  “Do you mind if we find a different spot?” Nina asks.

  “Definitely. I mean, no, I don’t mind. Sorry about that.”

  She looks confused. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I know, but . . .” I shrug, feeling helpless. I wanted tonight to be flawless.

  Once we’re seated at a smaller table, away from the celebration, Nina smiles and says, “You ate here last night, too? This place must be killer.”

  My cheeks burn. “Matty says ‘hey,’ by the way.”

  “Matty? Your college roommate.”

  “Yeah, we still live together. Or, we did. He moved in with his girlfriend, Maritza, on Sunday. But we came out to LA together a few months after graduation. Sam was already here, living with his family again and being slowly driven insane until we rescued him and convinced him to move in down the hall.”

  I steal a glance at her, wondering if Sam’s name will provoke a response, but her expression remains the same.

  “Wow,” she says. “Emerson Hall, second floor, transferred over to the West Coast, huh?”

  I smile. “Something like that.”

  Matty’s directive to tell Nina the truth about my feelings had seemed obvious and simple last night, but now it feels impossibly far away, as though I agreed to it in a dream. Even his text message this afternoon—a GIF of Woody Harrelson in Zombieland saying, “It’s time to nut up or shut up”—seems like a relic best left unheeded.

  I give her a rundown of the menu, we order, and Nina leans forward, excitement shining in her eyes.

  “Tell me all about the PA job.”

  “Yes! The office is peak LA. It’s on Sunset Boulevard, and I never know which celebrity will hop on the elevator with me. Oh and my boss, Janine, lives across the street in a luxury apartment, on the tenth floor.”

  Nina’s in awe. “No commute? That’s power.”

  “She has floor-to-ceiling windows and the sickest view, too: you can see all the way to Dodger Stadium and the ocean.”

  “That’s right, you’re house-sitting.”

  “And car-sitting.”

  “Very cool.” She snaps her fingers. “You’re still coming up with recipes, I hope?”

  “Of course. Remember Jeff’s eyeball necklace from season three?”

  “Do I ‘remember Jeff’s eyeball necklace’?” she scoffs, tapping her finger to her chin. “No, hmm, can’t seem to recall. Did Jeff have an eyeball necklace?”

  “The show’s fake production name—”

  “Lucy’s Donuts, how perfect is that?”

  “—inspired me. I was thinking of stringing a bunch of donut holes together with licorice laces, and then using icing and Skittles to make them look like eyes. And people can be like . . .” I make a nom-nom sound as I pretend to eat the eyeball necklace conveniently located under my mouth. “Like those candy necklaces for kids. Millie used to crack out on those.”

  “I love it. Great idea.”

  “Can you believe no one’s done a cookbook yet? Not a licensed one, at least.”

  “You should pitch it to them,” she says. “Why not, right?”

  Speaking of all things Why not?, I’m on the verge of bringing up our estrangement when our food arrives. Nina seems to enjoy everything I recommended, so at least the cuisine aspect of the night is going well.

  My phone dings. I apologize and check the message in case it’s from Janine with a house-sitting instruction. Nope, it’s Matty, who’s sent another GIF, this time Schwarzenegger in Predator ordering me to “Do it! Do it now!!!” I quickly silence my phone and shove it in my back pocket.

  “Did you meet any actors when you were at the studio?” Nina asks between bites of food.

  I can’t say Roberto in the men’s room and I’m still traumatized, so I blurt out, “Only the queen regnant herself.”

  “Whoa. How did that go?”

  Her eyes are so curious and welcoming I want to fall into them. I feel dizzy with the wonderfulness of it all, the effervescent rightness of sitting here with her and telling her about my run-in with Francis Jean.

  “She couldn’t have been cooler. She even showed me where to pick up that briefcase that’s going to get me killed.”

  “Any idea what’s in it?”

  “I was hoping you might know.”

  “No clue, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

  “And what about you? Roberto was—nice? He was nice to you?” It’s one thing for Rob to dick me around, but if he hurt or harassed Nina . . .

  She takes a sip of her Mexican Coca-Cola, seeming to relish the infusion of real sugar instead of corn syrup. “Mm-hmm. He was fine.”

  Huh. Okay. Maybe he plays up his heartthrob status with women but doesn’t bother to be polite—or even human—to men. An alpha thing? I’m relieved for her and double down o
n my decision never to reveal what happened with Roberto. Her CoRaB experiences appear to have been positive so far, and I refuse to burst that bubble.

  Instead, I clear my throat. “There’s a pretty big elephant sitting next to us and I don’t think I can ignore it much longer, so I’m going to ask . . . what happened with us?”

  She looks like a deer in headlights, and my pulse is so jacked up the room vibrates. If I lose her again, after just getting her back, I’ll regret it forever, so I fill the air with a possible explanation to see how she reacts.

  “I thought you might have been upset about Heather—like you were worried I’d spend all my time with her or something, but I never would have done that. I still wanted to hang out with you, take that catering job over the summer, do all the things we planned. I was surprised when you said all we had in common was . . .”

  “The show. Right. I think,” she says slowly, “that I figured that was how you saw us, and it didn’t seem right to drag things out.”

  My face wants to make the scream emoji because that’s such a batshit interpretation of how I viewed us. “I never thought all we had in common was the show.”

  “So then why didn’t you confide in me about the rest of your life?” she asks, her voice wavering. “I thought we were close enough to share important things, like our crushes.”

  I’m running alongside her train of thought, desperate to jump on. “So it was about Heather?”

  “No! But . . . you could’ve told me about her. You know? That you liked her and everything.” Nina’s nostrils flare, and fuck me a million times, even that small movement of hers is adorable.

  “I didn’t, though! I mean, I did, but it wasn’t some long drawn-out situation the way you’re making it sound.”

  She nods. “I know it’s mostly my fault. I felt foolish—God knows I bent your ear about my boyfriends—and I lashed out. If I could take it back—go back to our friendship the way it used to be—I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

  “We can do that,” I say quickly. “Let’s do that.” My heart feels both clawed open and restored. I’m devastated and grateful, a pendulum swinging between two extremes. I suppose eventually the pendulum will come to a stop in the middle, peaceful. Because it’s dead.