Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

  “Sure. But, like I said, I’m fine.” He doesn’t move to take the ice from me.

  I press it into his hand. “Rest up. I’ll take care of the signatures. You . . . watch this.” I turn on the TV and navigate over to a random season of Top Chef Masters.

  He visibly relaxes as soon as he hears the first sound effect of a sharpening knife and Curtis Stone announcing that this season will be their “toughest competition yet.”

  In the meantime, I text Ennis to cancel our plans and apologize for the late notice. There’s no way I can abandon Seb right now. Then I pick up a Sharpie and practice Francis Jean’s signature a couple of times on scrap paper before I give it a go for real on one of the scripts. Not bad.

  “Wow, that looks really good,” Sebastian says as he looks over my shoulder and then compares it to the one he attempted. “I’m an embarrassment.”

  “You’re right,” I say solemnly. “You’ll never get into forgery school.”

  He smiles and then leans back. For a while, there’s just the sounds of Sharpie on paper and the chefs on TV running around. I’ve reached the end of the stack and moved on to practicing Roberto Ricci’s signature by the time Sebastian speaks again.

  “Seriously though. Why is he such a dick?” He points to Roberto’s name.

  I shrug. “Isn’t that the modus operandi for most actors?”

  “Not really,” Sebastian says. “Or at least a lot of the struggling ones I know are nice. And normal. Just trying to make it in a cutthroat business. I guess I don’t understand why, if you’ve managed to do it, managed to make an impossible dream come true, you wouldn’t be . . . I don’t know, nice? Or, at the very least, grateful.”

  I think for a second as I move on to signing Roberto’s name on the real script pages, too. “I think if you have something long enough, it becomes the norm. Fame, money, power. It’s human nature to crave more than what you have and if you already have a lot . . . well, that doesn’t stop the craving.”

  “That makes sense,” Sebastian says after a moment. “You know, you were always good at figuring out character motivation.”

  I smile. “Thank you.”

  “Did you ever consider trying to write?” he asks. “As a career?”

  I shrug as I dot a “Ricci” and move on to the next page in the pile. “I sort of moved out here for that,” I admit. “To try and get one of the writing internships on the networks.”

  Sebastian sits up. “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I didn’t get into any of them. And then I got this gig. And . . . I don’t know. It hasn’t been the best, seeing how the sausage is made so to speak. I just wondered if it was going to be worth it to spend so much time and energy pursuing this thing—this impossible thing as you just so astutely pointed out. Only to be disappointed by it if I ever did manage to ‘make it.’”

  “By that logic, no one would ever try anything,” Sebastian says gently, forcing me to look up at him.

  “I know . . .” I say softly. “I guess . . . I don’t know. I’ve been here less than three months and all I see is a land of crushed dreams. The Uber drivers with a screenplay . . .”

  “Does Ennis have a screenplay?” he asks.

  “A voice-over demo actually. Even though I keep telling him he’s the opposite of that saying, ‘You have a face for radio.’”

  Sebastian laughs. “In LA, even the radio faces are beautiful.”

  “Yup,” I say as I continue to write. I’m getting into the groove now and am almost through with Roberto’s signatures, too. “What about you and pursuing your dreams?”

  “Ah,” Sebastian says. “That’s where I’ve figured out the secret. If you don’t have a dream, no one can crush it, Nina.”

  “What about cooking?”

  “What about it?”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “You love it. You’re great at it. Why not do something with that?”

  “Because I love it,” he replies. “And I don’t want to stop loving it.”

  “See?” I say smugly. “That’s exactly what I said.”

  “Touché,” he replies.

  I switch over to the tab with David Sherman’s signature and start practicing that. “What about that cookbook you mentioned the other day? The Castles of Rust and Bone one. Don’t you already have a few recipes for it?”

  “Eight or nine,” he says. “The Seraphim Cake. The Baby Backstab Ribs. The Mount Signon Flambé . . .”

  “So put together a proposal. I know the marketing guy who’s heading up the show’s merchandising. Put in some Duncan Hines ingredients and, honestly, I think it’ll be an easy sell.” I don’t hear anything so I look up again to see Sebastian staring at me in wonder.

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Of course, really. What’s the point of having these degrading jobs if we can’t use them to get our foot in the door for something we actually want to do?” I point at him with my uncapped Sharpie.

  “Well, yeah but . . . how exactly are you following that philosophy for yourself?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you have the cast and crew’s contact info at your fingertips? Couldn’t you, say, email Lou Trewoski and see if you could get into the writers’ room, just to observe it?”

  I laugh. “Sure. I could also get myself fired. Pretty sure that’s a huge breach of my responsibilities.”

  Sebastian shrugs. “Maybe if we’ve learned anything from this conversation, it’s that getting fired wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

  “Right. Except for that whole rent and groceries thing,” I say as I finish off another signature.

  “I think you’d be surprised how much of getting ahead in LA is just getting up the nerve to talk to people. Especially people you genuinely admire and who, more likely than not, are dying for an ego boost.” He leans back and does his best Jack Nicholson impression. “This is Tinseltown, Jake.”

  I shake my head. “I do not think Lou Trewoski is sitting around waiting for a twenty-seven-year-old interim social media coordinator to cold call him and tell him how much she admires his work.”

  “Wow. You know nothing about Hollywood,” Sebastian says.

  “Ew,” I say as I hit him softly with a pillow.

  “Hey! I’m injured,” he replies.

  “I know. So why don’t you go brainstorm some more punny recipes and let me finish this in peace, will you?” I pick up the pillow and gently place it behind him.

  He stares up at the ceiling and I can practically see a cartoon circle of ingredients dancing around his head. “If I can only figure out how to make Warlock Fingers into a thing.”

  I grin as I get back to work.

  * * *

  An hour later, I’ve finally gotten through all the scripts. Sebastian is in his room, dictating recipe ideas to his phone.

  My hand is cramped up. I wiggle it before I go knock on his door.

  He opens it, his eyes slightly manic with inspiration. I smile. I know that look. I would get it myself sometimes when I was on a particular roll with a scene I was writing or a story are idea I had. “How’s it going?”

  “Great,” he says. “I have at least twenty-five ideas going.”

  “Awesome,” I reply. “I’m done with the scripts.” I show him the neat pile stacked on the coffee table.

  He walks over and picks up the top sheet. When he turns to me, he almost looks like he’s going to cry. “You’re an angel,” he whispers.

  I shrug. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me. You know, should I ever need you to forge six hundred celebrity autographs at a moment’s notice.”

  “I can’t ever thank you enough.” He starts to lift his arms, maybe to envelop me in a hug, but a wave of pain ripples across his face. He clamps his hand down on his injured shoulder.

  “Can I take a look at your arm again?” I ask.

  He nods, sits down, and rolls his sleeve up.

  I touch it gently. It feels hot. “I think you should ma
ybe see a doctor,” I say.

  “The on-set medic said it was fine. Just a bruised bone maybe.” He winces as I gently press on his shoulder.

  “I think it would help if I wrapped it up. So that you don’t move it in your sleep,” I say.

  “Okay,” he replies.

  “Do you have bandages?”

  “Medicine cabinet.”

  I nod and go to find them. Then I sit down on the couch and stare at his shoulder for a few seconds before I realize I have no idea what I’m doing. I grab my phone and find a video that guides me on how to wrap up a shoulder injury. I try to work as gently as I can as I follow the instructions.

  “I feel like the millennial version of Belle,” I joke, thinking of the scene where she’s tending to the Beast’s wounds. “YouTube instead of a magic mirror.”

  I look up, smiling at Sebastian, expecting him to crack a joke back. Instead his face looks oddly stricken.

  And then I remember. He had a crush on a girl named Belle at Ithaca. I once overheard him and Maddie talking about her, and I’d been hurt that he’d never brought her up to me. I once even casually broached the subject of crushes, specifically trying to cajole him to spill the beans. I’d been unsuccessful.

  And judging by the look on his face, it’s probably not worth bringing up now either.

  “All done,” I say in a chipper voice, using the clip to secure the bandage around his arm.

  “Thanks,” he says, clearing his throat. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to call it a night.” He reaches into a storage trunk by the couch and takes out his pillow, placing it on the head of the couch.

  “Yeah, of course,” I say. “Except you know there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you sleep on the couch tonight, right?” I point to his arm. “You’re going to murder that. Off to bed with you.” I get up and open the door to his bedroom wider.

  “Nina,” he says seriously. “You must have murdered your own neck and wrist doing all those signatures.”

  My arm is tingly and sore and a little numb, which is what happens when my pinched nerves get inflamed. “I just need to do some stretches,” I assure him. “I’ll be fine here for one night. My bed’s getting delivered tomorrow, remember?”

  Sebastian goes over to his door, looks into his room, and then back at me. “I mean, it is a king-sized bed.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting we both take our prematurely creaky old bodies and sleep on either side of an enormous bed,” Sebastian replies calmly. “I think we can trust each other to stay on our own sides.”

  “Of course we can,” I say with what I hope is a casual laugh, trying to belie my sped-up pulse. I can stay on my own side. And then to prove it, I follow him to the door of his bedroom and check out the bed. It does look big.

  “I’ll probably be asleep in five minutes anyway,” he adds.

  “Okay. Let me just get into my pajamas.” I go to the door and then realize something. “Do you need help getting changed?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m all good.”

  Relief floods through me as I nod and head to my own room.

  * * *

  Sebastian is already in bed by the time I get back, his eyes closed. I notice he’s kept his T-shirt on and I can’t see anything else underneath the sheet he has over himself.

  I’ve kept my bra on, intending to take it off once I’m safely under the comforter.

  I try to memorize the dimensions of the room and the placement of the bed before I switch off the light. Sebastian’s taken the side closest to the door, so I have to make it to the other side of the bed. I fumble around a little, reaching out for the mattress once and accidentally brushing my hand against his foot. He doesn’t stir.

  Finally I make it. I sit down, unclasp my bra and expertly pull it out of a sleeve.

  Then I lie down, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open. This was a mistake. I’m never going to sleep.

  “Don’t worry, Lucinda,” Sebastian says softly from his side, startling me. I look over, just barely able to make out his face. His eyes are still closed. “A knight always keeps his word.”

  I grin. “You’re only a knight in the streets,” I quote back the next line. Sebastian’s eyes open and he turns his head.

  We’re staring at each other when we say, at the exact same time, “But a freak in the sheets.”

  We’re both grinning. Not a real line from the show, of course, but exactly what we turned and said to each other simultaneously seven years ago, watching that scene from the common room couch. I was just as physically close to him then as I am now, I realize. Maybe even closer.

  But that was before I ever developed feelings for him. Or, at least, before the feelings had gotten so strong that even I, the queen of avoiding any real emotional attachments, could deny them.

  For just a moment, I let myself think about what could have been if I had confessed my feelings for him at the costume party before I saw him kissing Heather. Would he have chosen me instead?

  Would he choose me now, if I leaned over and kissed him? In the darkness I can just make out the contours of his face. His lips are slightly parted, soft and open, and I can’t help picturing it. In a world where he wanted me back, what kind of kisser would he be? He’s always been handsome, and he gave the best hugs, back when we used to hug each other like it was nothing. He’d smile and duck his head, enveloping me—as if I was precious and valuable. Would his kisses make me feel the same way, but with the added sensation of desire, possession? Would they start out soft and slow and teasing before turning deep and passionate and fierce, until we’re both breathless, eyes shining at each other, hearts pounding?

  But then I shut that down. Because that possession part is something I’ve never had and never wanted. That all-consuming feeling is exactly what consumed my mom, swallowed her whole, and I had a front-row seat to the devastation it brought. This love, though—this powerful feeling I have for Sebastian—is way more important than any fleeting kiss could ever be.

  Sebastian had Heather then. He has Heather again now. And I have a chance to get my best friend back.

  “Good night, Sebastian,” I say as I turn to lie on my back and close my eyes.

  “Good night, Nina.”

  I fall asleep content, knowing for a fact—by trial, even—that having Sebastian as a friend is better than not having him at all. I won’t do anything to lose him again.

  CHAPTER 21

  SEBASTIAN

  Nina’s gone when I wake up.

  I can’t speak for her, but I slept better than I have in months. I could pretend the stress of the day overtook me, but the truth is, having my favorite person next to me while I drifted off after a tough day was a balm to my soul, a draft of warm ale, a time-out from reality.

  I forgot about the pain in my shoulder and wrist. I forgot how much I dread my trips to the studio. My last thought before I drifted into dreamland was Everything will be okay. You can rest, now.

  Dreamland . . .

  Oh crap. I may have had a sex dream about her. I definitely did; it returns to me in a rush: tangled sheets, soft moans, heated confessions.

  Right, no more of that. Time for an ice-cold shower.

  I don’t get out of bed, though. Not yet. If I get out of bed, the evening’s officially over and I’m not ready for it to end, to condemn it to the history book of my mind. Her new bed arrives today, and this will never happen again.

  The sheets on her side of the bed are neatly tucked and folded, and her pillow’s propped up against the headboard, which makes me imagine something much more chaste than my dream, but no less endearing: her lying in bed and reading a book or magazine late into the night, muttering to herself when she thinks no one can hear her, the cutest bookworm ever. Speaking of bookworms, I nearly lost the plot when she mentioned Belle the night before.

  I force myself to leave the bed and walk into the living room. Lucinda’s crown is back in hand and I realize Nina mus
t’ve canceled on Ennis last night. I feel drunk on that knowledge, that she picked me, her injured knight.

  In the shower, my mind splits into angel and devil factions.

  Angel: It’s a good thing Nina’s bed gets delivered today.

  Devil: You’ll never sleep that well again. Sabotage the bed!

  Angel: Millie’s visit will take your mind off Nina and provide a buffer between you and her before you do or say anything foolish. And by the time Millie leaves, you’ll have put this foolishness behind you.

  Devil: What are you talking about? Millie ships you and Nina.

  Angel: Time to lay down some ground rules.

  I finish showering, towel off, get dressed, and compose an email to my sister.

  Under no circumstances will you light candles in the apartment, ask Nina about her love life, queue up nonstop romances on Netflix, or propose a Truth or Dare drinking game.

  Her response is immediate: Unsubscribe.

  * * *

  On Thursday, my PA adventure finds me mediating a turf war between the Super Loopers and the Walla-Wallas. It seems the good folks in postproduction accidentally double-booked rival vocal groups for an ADR (additional dialogue recording) session. Yesterday’s scene at the market in Bastardstown got messed up audiowise, and requires sweetening.

  From what I’ve been able to gather, the Super Loopers were formed first, in the 1990s. “Looping” is an archaic term from the days when rerecorded dialogue was cut into physical loops of film to replace the previous recording. Hollywood loves its lingo.

  The Walla-Wallas came together a decade later and were apparently founded by a disgruntled Super Looper. The phrase “walla, walla, walla” refers to the sound of background murmurs and originated in the world of radio, but apparently its use right now is controversial. I know this because the voice-over artists are currently screaming about it.

  The Super Loopers insist that everyone say “peas and carrots” for the recording. The Walla-Wallas insist that “peas and carrots” is used by background players who are seen on camera, “because it makes their mouth flaps look real,” whereas “walla-walla is for voice-overs, you assholes.”