Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

  Sayeh smirks. “If you say so.” She hoists herself up on the kitchen counter, watching the two of them for a minute before she chimes in. “You know, I’ve always been a fan of braided honey wheat pretzels myself.”

  “With a savory dip?” Sebastian asks her.

  “Yup,” Sayeh responds.

  “Like a spinach artichoke dip?” Ennis asks.

  “Uh-huh,” Sayeh says.

  ENNIS SEBASTIAN

  “Are you crazy?” “Are you a sociopath?”

  Millie laughs, Ennis and Sebastian look at each other, and Sayeh turns around and gives me a wink.

  Crap. No matter the pretzel type, this clearly is a recipe for disaster.

  CHAPTER 23

  SEBASTIAN

  Invasion of the Sisters has me pulling an Ennis and carting both Millie and Sayeh around today. Per the girls’ request I’ll be dropping them at Rodeo Drive on my way to work.

  Janine earned a potential World’s Best Boss mug when she told me I could leave by noon today and start the weekend early since I have family in town. (Nina’s boss either didn’t offer the same option, or Nina didn’t ask; both are equally likely.)

  “Works in Beverly Hills,” Millie murmurs from the back seat of the car, her pencil scratching rapidly in her journal. The miniature notebook hasn’t left her side since her arrival yesterday. “Glam-o-rous,” she adds loudly.

  We have a tally going about my life in California. She’s convinced every aspect of it is glamorous; I’m convinced otherwise.

  “I don’t work in Beverly Hills, I work in West Hollywood.” I check the side mirror to see if I can slide to the curb without cutting someone off or getting us all killed.

  “Eats lunch in Beverly Hills whenever he likes,” Millie amends.

  “Hmm, and yet I don’t, because A) it’s too expensive and B) my lunch hour is more like fifteen minutes because I have to get Janine’s lunch sorted first. Unglamorous.”

  Scritch, scratch. “Drives past Beverly Hills every day en route to work,” Millie says through clenched teeth, determined. “Whilst complaining like an utter—”

  “I never take this route; this is solely for your benefit. I take Melrose or Third Street.”

  “Oh my God, give it a rest,” Sayeh interjects in a bored voice. “You can drop us here. This is where Julia Roberts gets shit on by the boutique staff.”

  Sayeh is on a mission to re-create various pop culture moments today for her followers. She calls it “hashtag Ironic Iconic.”

  “Speaking of Melrose, can you take us to the Pink Wall later?” Sayeh adds. “I need some shots there, for obvious reasons.”

  “The pink wall?”

  “Paul Smith’s store. He like, denounced it as a landmark or whatever, but that’s where the irony comes in.”

  “Sure, I can take you both there later.” I see my opening in the left lane and jerk the steering wheel. The girls unlock the door and tumble out, eager to start their day.

  Millie wears a skirt, tank top, and ballet flats, and Sayeh rocks a crop top, high-waisted pants, and immaculate gold sneakers. In comparison I feel shlubby in my LA production uniform of T-shirt, jeans, and Vans.

  “See you in three hours. Have fun,” I call out the window. Furious honks behind me drown out my words.

  * * *

  When I arrive at the office, coffees in tow, Janine is bemoaning her Friday evening fate. “I have an engagement party to go to tonight, I don’t have a gift, and I feel a migraine coming on,” she reveals before I’ve even set the beverages down.

  “What’s your price range?” I ask, poised to retrace my steps to the parking garage.

  UNGLAMOROUS, I text Millie from the gas station twenty minutes later, alongside a photo of me filling up my car. AND UNREIMBURSED, I type for the caption.

  My shoulder’s killing me, so I take two ibuprofen and send Millie a picture of that, too.

  By the time I’ve purchased a present for Janine, had it professionally wrapped, dropped off Janine’s dry-cleaning, and retrieved Janine’s lunch, it’s already time to pick up Millie and Sayeh. Janine says it’s fine to bring them with me back to the office.

  Alarmingly, Sayeh and Millie have shopping bags with them when they slide into the back seat of my car. We zip along Wilshire and hang right, heading northeast along Santa Monica Boulevard.

  “Are Mom and Dad homeless now so you could buy trinkets in Beverly Hills?” I ask Millie.

  “Relax, all I got was a package of postcards and a pen from a stationery store.”

  “I hit Saks,” Sayeh says casually.

  I’m too frightened to ask what Sayeh purchased, although apparently she can afford it, based on what Nina’s told me about her sister’s job; not to mention those high-tops she’s wearing, which I now remember being the subject of a headline, announcing that the only thing more outrageous than their price tag was how fast they sold out.

  Millie sniffs the air. “What’s for lunch?”

  “It’s Janine’s, from Cluck It All Chicken. I’m bringing it to her now, so you can both meet her if you want. TV producer,” I add, in case that matters to Sayeh.

  Sayeh shrugs, immersed in scrolling through her phone, though in my rearview mirror I see Millie vigorously nod her head.

  “The office is across from Soho House,” I add. Sure enough, Sayeh perks up at this tidbit of info, offering a “Cool.”

  “Across from Soho House,” Millie repeats, uncapping her new, expensive pen and putting it to paper. “Glamorous.”

  “I’m not a member and therefore not allowed on the premises. Unglamorous.”

  “Could become a member if applied himself,” she grits out. “Glamorous.”

  “Millie, just now I had to scoop a ladle of baby tomatoes up to my nose in public at Cluck It All Chicken to see if they smelled, Janine’s term, ‘fishy’ before including them in Janine’s lunch. She never clarified whether she meant ‘fishy’ from the sea, or merely suspicious. Luckily, we were in the clear today, or I’d have had to dump everything out.”

  Sayeh leans toward me. “Sorry, my dude, it definitely smells fishy. I have a superb sense of smell.”

  I groan. “Seriously?”

  We swing down Doheny and over to Beverly Boulevard, back to Cluck It All, fill up a fresh chicken salad sans tomatoes for my boss, and two #7 plates for the sisters. In all the chaos of the day, and taking care of everyone else’s needs, I forget to order food for myself.

  Up at my desk, where countless emails and voicemails await me, Millie gifts me a chicken leg and Sayeh tosses me one of her rolls. I introduce the two sisters to Janine, who has an eye mask pulled up to her forehead and has evidently spent the morning asleep on her couch.

  “How’s your migraine?” I ask.

  “Terrible. I have to cancel on the party and return the gift.”

  Translation: I have to return the gift. I struggle to keep my expression neutral, like a vassal who’s pledged fealty to the wrong lord but will be killed if his thoughts on the matter become known.

  “Ms. Janine, do you know any movie stars?” Millie’s eyes are saucers. They’re also rimmed with green eyeliner; Sayeh’s handiwork, no doubt.

  “I only know movie stars,” Janine replies. “Why are you still here? Scram, have fun.”

  We gather our trash from lunch and set about leaving. Janine watches me, as though weighing something. Please don’t send us on another errand, I beg silently. My shoulder throbs, sending tension through the rest of my body.

  “Why don’t you take my Jaguar?” Janine hands me her key fob. “In fact, keep it all weekend.”

  “Bagsy,” Millie whispers, the Brit version of “shotgun.”

  “You’ll take turns sitting in front,” I correct her. Great, I sound like Dad.

  We thank Janine profusely and head out with the excitement of lowborn serfs about to hit the town on the finest steed in the realm.

  “Oh my God,” Millie squeaks, trembling, when she sees the car. “I’m so chuffed.”


  Thanks to the evening Nina and I spent in the car, I can fool the sisters into thinking I’m an expert at unlocking its secrets. Sunglasses on, top down, radio blasting, we take about fifty selfies before exiting onto Doheny.

  Sayeh graciously offers Millie front-seat privileges in exchange for curating our itinerary.

  Besides the pink wall on Melrose Avenue, Sayeh’s checklist of Ironic Iconic landmarks includes Santa Monica Pier, Abbot Kinney Boulevard in Venice, the Getty Villa, Chateau Marmont, and the Infinity Mirrors at the Broad, which requires advance ticketing and is therefore not possible today. Still, we accomplish all but the last one, and the weather remains in the low eighties with clear skies the whole day.

  “It’s really chockablock, isn’t it?” Millie remarks from the back seat as we linger in another traffic jam, sunburned and cheerfully knackered after a long day. “Still glamorous,” she adds quickly.

  We left the Alex and Co. production offices seven hours ago, and I’ll need to vacuum Janine’s car to get the beach sand out, but I’m proud to have delivered an ideal Cali experience.

  Millie and I drop off Sayeh at the Urban Light installation outside LACMA so she can vlog there as night falls. She’ll walk back to the apartment afterward, while Millie and I enjoy our final destination: Hollywood Boulevard.

  I wonder how Nina’s doing today. Will the four of us spend Saturday and Sunday together or split into factions?

  “They’re polar opposites, aren’t they?” I ask Millie once we’re alone in the car, meandering north. “Nina and Sayeh.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, one lives for social media, and the other . . .”

  “Works in it?” Millie finishes.

  “I was going to say hates it. Although you’re right, technically they both work in social media.” An observation I won’t be sharing anytime soon with the elder Shams daughter.

  “Speaking of Sayeh, she said something brilliant while we were in Saks, that I’ve been dying to tell you.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “She said, and I quote . . .” Millie flips backward through the pages of her journal until she finds what she’s looking for. “‘My sister and your brother should have boned ages ago. They clearly belong together. Or should at least fuck and get it out of their systems.’ End quote. She basically confirmed Nina’s up for it!”

  My heart races, but the neutral expression I’ve perfected for Janine locks into place like a mask. “She only said that to see how you’d react. She and Nina aren’t close; she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  My hands clench around the steering wheel. I tell myself it doesn’t matter; even if they did discuss me, which I doubt, it means a decision was reached to NOT bone.

  Unrelated qualm: it was weird hearing my little sister say “fuck.” To prevent any further discussion, I fire up Sam’s podcast.

  Millie groans. “Not again. Can we please listen to the radio?”

  “I’m so many episodes behind it’s not even funny.” I conked out last night listening to them, dreamt I caught up, woke to harsh reality, and felt more stressed than ever about it.

  “Your friendship does not hinge on whether you listen to his podcast. Or if it does, he’s not a good friend.”

  I ignore her. Millie has no clue what it was like for me, growing up without friends. I can’t assume they’ll stick around if I don’t give them a good reason to. Next time Sam asks if I caught his latest episode, I need to be prepared.

  We park Janine’s Jaguar in valet at Hollywood & Highland, and wander around at Millie’s leisure.

  Janine told me celebrities wouldn’t have been caught dead in Hollywood twenty years ago, unless it was to fly up in a limo, lean out, press their hands in cement outside Mann’s Chinese Theatre, pose for a photo, and whip back to Bel Air.

  The only establishments for ten blocks each way were dodgy tattoo parlors, pizza joints with C-ratings from the health department, Ripley’s “Believe It or Not!” Odditorium, Trashy Lingerie (actual name), and tourist shops selling cheap plastic Oscars with your name misspelled on them. Tourists called home frightened and confused. Where was Hollywood really?

  Today, of course, there’s a Gap, Lucky Strikes bowling alley, the Academy Awards in the Dolby Theatre, Jimmy Kimmel Live!, and a huge, three-story shopping complex to make the place safe for visitors.

  “I need more postcards,” Millie announces.

  It’s an easy request, but she already has thirty or forty. “Why do you need so many?”

  “I’m trying to woo the cellist from Yeovil! I’ll be sending her postcards at strategic intervals over the next six weeks to retain her interest. Obviously.”

  * * *

  We grab take-away from In-N-Out Burger and Millie yammers excitedly all the way home, before getting ready for sleep and shifting the sheets and pillows around her on the couch. I make sure she has a glass of water on the coffee table and bid her good night, but she refuses to stop talking.

  “Guess what, I read the first CoRaB book on the plane. Well, half of it, anyway.”

  I sit on the armrest of the couch. We only have a few days together before she joins up with TrekUSA, so I should savor her presence while I can. “Prove it.”

  “‘When you kiss a friend, the friendship dies.’ Please tell me that hasn’t been your guiding principle with Nina. Because if it has been, you are completely mad.”

  I motion for her to lower her voice. Nina and Sayeh are tucked away in Nina’s newly furnished room and sharing her new bed while Sayeh’s here, and I can’t risk them hearing.

  “We love the show, Millie. We don’t use it to plan our lives. Did I want more than friendship with her in college? Yes, of course,” I hiss as quietly as possible, with a nervous glance toward Nina’s room. “But I know better now.”

  If my relationships—platonic, romantic, whatever—are doomed to be unbalanced, I think I’ll always be the one who loves more.

  And I’m okay with that.

  I have to be.

  “Are you really saying you stopped wanting it?” Millie presses me.

  I think about Nina cutting me out of her life five years ago. Unfriended, right to my face. Would she do it again, if I behaved in a way she didn’t like, or that she perceived as unforgivable, somehow? Even if I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong? I have no reason to suspect she would—we’ve been getting along fantastically in our friendship reboot—but then, we’d been getting along fantastically in college, too. So I’d thought.

  “Before I leave, I’m going to find out once and for all how Nina feels. Stay tuned,” Millie vows, yawning her biggest yawn yet.

  I stand and rub my eyes. “Go to sleep, Millie, and no scheming this weekend. I mean it.”

  “Ugh. You’re useless.”

  “No,” I remind her with a kiss to her forehead. “I’m glamorous.”

  CHAPTER 24

  NINA

  I wake up Monday morning relegated to a corner of my own bed, again. It’s been like this all weekend, with Sayeh sprawled belly-down on most of the mattress, her long lavender curls fanned across her back, popping against her golden skin and black tank top. How does she look like a ready-made Instagram post even in her sleep?

  I tiptoe out of the room, more for a sleeping Millie’s benefit than my own sister’s. Millie’s curled into a ball on the couch, heroically having convinced Sebastian that his still-injured shoulder needed his bed more than her perfectly healthy nineteen-year-old body did.

  I tiptoe back after I use the bathroom, only to render the whole procedure moot when I give a loud yelp upon opening my bedroom door. Sayeh is sitting on the edge of my bed, already dressed in a thigh-length, sixties-inspired crocheted dress and burgundy combat boots. She’s applying the final touches on her mascara.

  “Good news,” she tells me as she puts down her mirror.

  I look over in alarm at the couch in the living room where, thankfully, Millie hasn’t stirred. She’s still te
chnically a teenager, I remember, so maybe she sleeps like one.

  I quietly close the door before I turn to Sayeh. “How did you get ready so fast?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “You do a few ‘Look Like a Ten in Under Five Minutes’ tutorials, you get the hang of it.” She looks over my mussed hair, bare face, and pajama-clad body. “I can cue one up for you if you need.”

  “I’m good,” I grumble as I go over to my closet.

  “I’m going to hitch a ride with you to work today,” she says matter-of-factly. “I have a few meetings starting at noon that are close by.”

  “Is that your good news?” I ask.

  She thinks for a moment. “No. Though I guess it could be. More time with your little sister, amirite?” She smirks.

  I roll my eyes as I remove a navy dress from my closet.

  “Ugh. No, not that one,” Sayeh says as she comes over. She looks disapprovingly at the rest of what’s hanging up. “Why is your wardrobe so depressing?”

  “It’s called professional, Sayeh. Some of us have regular jobs in regular offices?”

  She touches one of the black dresses in my closet, then one of the beige ones and looks over at the navy one in my hand. “Are these the same dress in different colors?”

  “As a matter of fact, they are,” I say. “I found this great website for professional women who don’t have the time or desire to shop.”

  Sayeh looks back at my closet, disgusted. “You didn’t.”

  “Saves me a lot of time and aggravation,” I say as I turn around and make quick work of taking off my pajamas and putting on a bra.

  “Just. How? You live in Los Angeles. And before that you lived in New York. These are fashion capitals. You can walk out of your door, into any store, and buy practically anything and it would be on point.”

  “Actually, I can’t walk anywhere here,” I say as I feel around with my hand for the dress I just put down on the bed behind me. “And not everyone cares about how they look.”

  “Well, they should,” she says. “Because everyone judges you by it anyway. And it’s to your advantage to present yourself as best as you can. And this dress . . .” I now turn around to see that she’s holding up the navy dress. “Is so not you.”