Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

Janine waves me off. “Eh. It’s fine.”

  No one contradicts her, so it appears to be settled, but the disdainful words from my previous life as a model return to haunt me.

  “Are my teeth okay?” I ask.

  “They’re fine, what are you talking about?” God bless Janine.

  “He has no idea, does he?” the casting director says with a shake of her head. “How good-looking he is.”

  “None,” Janine replies. “And let’s keep it that way so he doesn’t ditch me for the runway.”

  “I don’t—I’m not—” I begin.

  “And here comes his ‘Hugh Grant oopsy-daisy’ right on cue,” Janine interrupts, but she’s smiling at me. “Break a leg next week. And don’t forget the briefcase.”

  I smile back.

  In three days, I’ll be making my acting debut on CoRaB, and I won’t even have to be naked!

  CHAPTER 12

  TUMBLR

  rustierorbust

  Taking bets now on who we think Stu Stu is going to play

  in the pilot of CoRaB. My guess is traveling minstrel.

  Chis45

  A ghost.

  imaTRex

  A merman.

  TheWestinglandGame

  Book 5, chapter 3, paragraph 2, line 4, there is mention of

  “a redheaded wretch begging for gruel.” The clues made

  it OBVIOUS this is the role that Stu will be undertaking. If

  any of you morons were real fans who’d read the books,

  you’d already know this and wouldn’t be wasting valuable

  print space asking.

  junJI26

  hi. this is the internet. there’s no such thing as valuable print space. moron.

  StuuuStuuuuStuuuuudio

  Ohmygodddddddd. Do you think he’s going to perform anything off of his new album?!

  NINA

  “Nina, Nina, bo bina,” a familiar voice says as soon as I buzz apartment 2G.

  I’m instantly transported back to the second floor hallway of Emerson Hall. Me, Sebastian, Sam, Matty, and our other friend Asher could often be found there, our backs to the walls, shooting the shit about classes or the latest Netflix documentary or occasionally even the weather which, with that crew, still managed to be fun. There was a rotating cast of significant others, too, for me and all the boys except for Sebastian. Well, until the bitter end, but there was no final hallway summit to try to mitigate that explosion. Heather may have ultimately tainted the common room for me, but she never set foot in that hallway.

  “Sam-I-Am,” I reply with a smile. “How the heck are you?”

  “I’m great now. Come on up,” Sam says as he buzzes me in.

  The building is sleek and modern, a condo that looks like it was built in the last decade. A lot of buildings in Los Angeles feel that way. It’s a town that likes everything young, fresh, and looking like it came into existence only yesterday, even if that illusion is cosmetic. In some ways, it’s the opposite of New York City, with its longstanding skyscrapers that promise to remain unchanged long after you’re gone. I only spent two years living in New York, but sometimes I feel like that might ultimately be more my speed than LA, despite the abundant sunshine.

  The elevator opens to a full head of dark hair and a warm smile. Sam, too, seems to have bulked up since our Ithaca days but I think a gym membership is just a foregone conclusion in SoCal.

  “My favorite ex! Come here, you,” he says as he opens his arms wide.

  I walk right into them. “It’s good to see you.” I inhale his subtle cologne. It’s only now that I realize that, although I missed Sebastian the most, he wasn’t the only person who was suddenly gone from my life once I unceremoniously left Ithaca. Friends of all shapes and sorts have been scarce since. “What have you been up to?”

  “I’m working my way up the sound department ladder. Just got off a booming gig for Maalox. Real A-list stuff, ya know?” He gives a sheepish grin.

  “Still hoping to do something with music?” I ask. Sam was notorious for dragging us around to see every band who ever came through the Finger Lakes. He’d spend every set break geeking out about the band’s “tone” while Sebastian and I pretended we had any idea what he was talking about.

  “I actually do! Well, not professionally in that I don’t get paid for it yet, but I’ve been hosting a podcast about the indie music scene, and I might be added to a network today. Mostly it just means that I’d get comp tickets if the band’s small enough. Want to catch a show sometime? With Sebastian, too, of course,” he adds quickly.

  “Sure! That sounds fun.” I’m unprepared for the soul-lightening wave of nostalgia that breezes through me.

  “So where’s your stuff?” Sam asks, glancing at my purse. “Do you need help bringing anything up?”

  “Nah. My roommate let me leave my furniture at my old place for now, since this is just temporary. And my boyfriend will be here soon with my suitcase. He had to go park the car.”

  “Ah,” he replies.

  “So . . . can I see the place?” I ask.

  “Right this way.” He guides me to the door of 2G.

  As soon as I walk in, my first thought is that Sebastian’s apartment smells like him, an inviting mix of olive oil, sugar, and his cedar-scented deodorant. It feels like him, too, with its giant pot rack neatly stacked with an assortment of matching pots and pans, its tasteful mauve curtains and shag rug, and its classy framed map of the Kingdom of Six that I recognize from one of the exclusive print editions of CoRaB that came out before the TV series was a thing. And then I realize that Sebastian’s apartment . . . looks like him.

  Neatly taped up to every other kitchen cabinet and wall are professionally shot pictures of Sebastian, torn from a catalog of some sort. In each of them he is wearing a cowboy hat, a very, very tight pair of jeans . . . and nothing else. They must have caught him after a particularly good round of bicep days if his arms, which are often posed with their thumbs in his belt loop or casually leaning against a crate aggressively stamped APPLES, are any indication. Some of the images are strictly from behind but, despite not being able to see his face, I realize I’d recognize Sebastian’s long, lean physique anywhere. It’s . . . disconcerting. It’s . . . hot.

  I can’t help taking a closer look at the glossy image that’s closest to me, the one that’s taped to the back of the couch. It has a scrawled speech bubble coming from Sebastian’s mouth. “Need to rest your legs after a long day of wranglin’ steers? Saddle up here, cowboy.”

  I look up to see Sam barely stifling laughter.

  “Sebastian’s been keeping this part of his life from me,” I say, trying to sound casual and hoping Sam doesn’t notice the flush crawling up my cheeks. “I’m hurt.”

  “He probably didn’t think you were ready,” Sam says. “Sometimes a cowboy’s gotta be a lone coyote out in the desert.” He indicates an image of Sebastian inexplicably sitting on the arm of a cactus. “This is your room by the way.” He opens the door the image is taped to. “Well, Sebastian’s room. But he said you wouldn’t have furniture and Matty’s room is empty.”

  I peek into a neat room with a tall mahogany dresser, a four-poster king-sized bed, and a black-and-white rug. A novelty Jeff the Warlock clock holds a place of honor on one of the walls. The cedar scent is stronger in here. I’m about to walk in when there’s a knock on the apartment’s front door. “Babe?”

  And just like that the spell is broken. Suddenly, I’m not an eighteen-year-old college freshman hanging out with her friend, talking about what band we’re going to see that weekend, and thinking she has all the time in the world to figure out what she wants to do with her life. It’s probably a good thing Sebastian’s only here via his, er, modeling photos. I don’t want to get too suckered into nostalgia and lose all sense of what I’m doing here in the first place: trying to find a permanent living situation so that I can focus on building my career out here in La La Land.

  “Hi, I’m Ennis.” My boyfrien
d is introducing himself to Sam.

  “Ennis,” I say. “This is my old friend Sam.” And I smile. Because it feels good to say it.

  * * *

  Over the weekend, Ennis offers to help me explore my new neighborhood. “There’s a museum I think you’ll like,” he tells me over the phone.

  “A museum in Los Angeles?” I retort. “Let’s do it.”

  Forty minutes later, I get a text that he’s outside. I put on some lip gloss and get in his car.

  “You look beautiful,” he says as he gives me a kiss.

  “Thanks,” I reply, smiling. This is nice. Ennis is nice. It’s nice to have someone to do stuff like this with. “Want to tell me where we’re going?”

  “I could . . . but wouldn’t you rather have it be a surprise?”

  “You know what? Yes!” I say. Why not? Ennis puts one hand on my knee while he drives and that feels nice too.

  Eventually we park, get out, and start walking toward one of the coolest buildings I’ve ever seen. It’s made of undulating silver metal, almost like zebra stripes, and peeking through the empty space is a bright red color.

  “Modern art!” I say, pleased. I’ve always liked modern art, how it leaves so much open to interpretation, how you’re allowed to feel whatever you like when staring at globs of paint, or a banana peel, or a shark preserved in formaldehyde.

  “Well, yeah!” Ennis says. “At least I think so.”

  I’m a little confused until we enter the building and I see the sign.

  The Petersen Automotive Museum.

  “Wow . . . cars.” I don’t know what else to say. Whereas just a few days ago Sebastian knew my every feeling about cars, down to the moment in a particular episode when I basically went into a coma, Ennis doesn’t seem to understand the most blaring facts about me. Doesn’t the fact that I don’t even own a car in Los Angeles give me away?

  But then Ennis smiles and says, “I know cars aren’t really your thing but I thought . . . well, they might surprise you. For example . . .”

  He pays for our admission, takes me by the hand, and leads me down a set of metal-railed stairs to . . .

  “Wait. Is that the DeLorean. From Back to the Future?” I exclaim.

  “Sure is!” Ennis says, and grins at me as I marvel at the interior of the famed car, with its controls set to 1985.

  “Take my photo!” I command, and Ennis gladly obliges. Then gets in for a selfie. I grin like a lunatic and then we make our best “Great Scott!” face for the second take.

  Ennis guides me around, showing me an original Batmobile from the 1960s television show; a groovy, psychedelic VW van; and a mirrored, black, flattened pyramid that looks more like a UFO than a car. We see boxy cars from the seventies, perfectly preserved Model Ts from the twenties, and bright, teal convertibles that surely spent some time in a 1950s drive-through. We take photos with Bumblebee from Transformers, and Lightning McQueen from Cars, but also with some vehicles that look so strange and cool, they probably are more modern art than functioning automobile.

  When we’re getting ready to leave, Ennis looks at me and asks eagerly, “Did you have fun?”

  “I really did,” I reply.

  “Good,” he says as he kisses my hand, and I can’t help looking at him a little in wonder. Because the cars weren’t the only thing that surprised me today.

  * * *

  When we get back to the apartment, Ennis starts kissing me in earnest and I respond. We’re standing up and he’s slowly walking me back toward the bedroom as his hands push down the strap of my tank top and he moves his lips to the dip between my collarbone and shoulder. I sneak my hands under the hem of his T-shirt, feeling his smooth, toned abs.

  He pushes me down on the neatly made bed and my nose is suddenly infiltrated by the scent of cedar.

  “Wait,” I say, putting a hand on Ennis’s shoulder to push his lips away from my neck.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just . . .” I look around the room. “This isn’t my bed. I feel weird about doing stuff on it.”

  “Oh,” Ennis says. “We can wash the sheets?” he adds hopefully.

  “Um . . .” I catch sight of one of the shots of Sebastian that Sam put up next to his dresser. “Yeah, no. I don’t think so.”

  Ennis follows my line of sight and sees the picture, too. “Okay,” he says as he moves an inch away from me. He points at the catalog image: shirtless Sebastian on what I’m positive is an adult-sized rocking horse. “Remind me again how you know that guy? Your ex in college?”

  “No, no,” I say immediately. “Just a close friend. But . . . it feels weird. On a friend’s bed. When I get my own place and have my own bed back, though . . .” I waggle my eyebrows at him.

  He laughs. “Okay. Fine.”

  “Want to find a show to watch?” I ask. “It can be an episode of Top Gear if you want?”

  “Really?” he asks me, surprised.

  “Sure,” I say, knowing I owe him one for both the fun date and the abrupt halt to his other plans for the night.

  He happily settles on the couch then, pulling me to him, as he finds some more cars to stare at on the TV.

  CHAPTER 13

  SEBASTIAN

  Monday arrives in a rain-soaked blur. Despite the traffic problems this will cause, nothing on earth could dampen my elation today, the day Brothel Owner as Interpreted by Sebastian becomes part of CoRaB canon.

  I lay awake in Janine’s apartment for hours last night in jittery euphoria, counting the minutes till morning. Outside, wind shook the traffic lights and rain crashed against the windows of Janine’s tenth-floor apartment like cymbals. Janine’s cat even ventured from her hiding spot to pace and fidget, as though she knew something big was on the horizon.

  Vasquez Studios is equidistant from Janine’s building and my own place, so I don’t get any sort of commuting perk by leaving from West Hollywood instead of the Miracle Mile. Every time I take the 405 I wonder if the last thing I’ll see before I die will be an upside-down vanity plate, but today’s worse than usual; no one uses their headlights in the rain, so the freeway turns into Mad Max: Torrential Downpour. The Getty has disappeared within the ghostly fog, as though it’s been airlifted out, or never existed at all.

  Miraculously, I arrive on time, shake off the cramps in my hands from gripping the steering wheel extra tight, sign in, and head to the wardrobe department for my costume. It’s a belted tunic that’s alarmingly close to my skin tone and risks making me look naked if viewed through squinting eyes. Better that than a body stocking, bikini, and robe, of course—which is what the nude orgy members squeeze into.

  As strangers in various stages of undress swarm in my peripheral vision, it’s difficult to know where to look.

  The aggressively silent wardrobe mistress, complete with pins in her mouth and a cloth measuring tape around her neck, changes her mind about my outfit and holds out a black/blue tunic, shaking it at me until I get the hint and swap it for my previous one, which is promptly tossed in a bin marked Laundry.

  The darker tunic doesn’t fit. At all. It’s three sizes too large, and my face poking out the top looks consumptive, floating pale and wan above my body, but that must be what she’s going for, because she waves me away with a grunt and turns to the next person in line.

  My fingers barely peek out of the sleeves, and I don’t think of myself as having particularly short arms. I roll up the sleeves, but the material is so slippery the cuff doesn’t hold.

  “Is this the right . . . ?” I trail off.

  The wardrobe mistress’s eyes slam toward me. She has problems of her own, helping an elderly gentleman step into his gherkin holder. He may very well be capable of playing King Lear, but alas, the world will never know.

  “The right what?” she snaps.

  “The right fit? The right size?”

  “WARDROBE DOESN’T MAKE MISTAKES,” she roars and I decide this is not an argument I’m equipped to have.

  I tug my
sleeves up as best I can and leave the room. Was this how Nina felt wearing the tippet sleeves outfit in class that one time? Despite everything, the memory of those ludicrous sleeves spiraling and flapping around her brings a grin to my face.

  Okay, so my costume is absurd. Who cares? I’m living the dream. Life is good!

  I make my way to craft services: a mountain of pastries, each box of which is stacked behind signs indicating “gluten-free,” “dairy-free,” or “sugar-free.” Jesus, they are practically crying out for my seraphim food cake. I wasn’t comfortable cooking in Janine’s kitchen (where every available surface is covered in gift baskets celebrating her CoRaB contract), or rebuying the necessary ingredients for the cake, but next week I’ll bring a fresh one. I’ll resurrect everyone’s dead taste buds and remind them food is an expression of love, not a chemical experiment.

  I can’t bear to taste any of the “-free” items so I opt for a third refill of coffee to fill my empty, gurgling stomach. Shit. That’s what Sebastian the Hungry used to do, Sebastian of Last Year, who drank his coffee black and smoked cigarettes in lieu of eating snacks. Must be some kind of survival instinct from the last time I was on a set. I shake off Vachère’s demented influence and slide the first pastry I see into my mouth.

  A short man sporting a Vandyke goatee flits over. He looks like the devil’s pesky little brother. “Do you need a bib?” he says with a smirk.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Careful with those crumbs. The tunics stain easily.”

  I wipe my hands on a CoRaB logo’d napkin, wishing my tunic had pockets so I could take a fistful home with me.

  Devil Jr. consults his stack of index cards. “Sebastian, right? Janine’s pet? I’m the assistant director, aka Background Herder.”

  “Good Moon Day to you,” I say with a courtly bow, a standard greeting of the Kingdom of Six.

  He doesn’t blink. “Yeah, that never gets old.”

  I straighten up. “Actually, I’m not background. I have a couple of lines.”

  “Good, great, whatever, I’m in charge of under-fives, too. When you’re done eating, head to hair and makeup.” He glances down again at the index card. “Says here we’re supposed to give you a haircut.”