by Tash Skilton
“Great. Thanks for the personality and wardrobe analysis. Now can I please have that so I can get dressed and go to work? You’re going to make me late.”
She doesn’t make any move to hand the dress over as I continue to stand in front of her in my underwear. “So now I have two pieces of good news: First, I found a roomshare. I’m leaving this afternoon.”
“That is good news,” I say as I go to snatch the dress from her. She pulls it behind her.
“My second piece of good news is that I’m your stylist for the day.”
* * *
Honestly, it was going to cost me much more time and effort to argue with Sayeh rather than just give in to her, which is how I find myself sitting in the front of Ennis’s car in a bright blue blouse with an intricately cut-out neckline, an armful of noisy enameled bangles, and a pair of ankle-cut heather gray slacks.
Sayeh is in the back seat, inexplicably feigning an interest in Ennis’s life story.
“What’s your middle name?” she asks.
“Steven,” he responds. “After my dad.”
“Are your parents still together?” she asks him.
“Nope,” he says.
“Ours neither,” she replies. “Do you find that keeps you at an emotional distance in your own relationships?”
“Sayeh!” I interject, annoyed. “That’s a real personal question for nine a.m. on a Monday morning, don’t you think?”
Ennis laughs. “I don’t mind.” He glances quickly at Sayeh in the rearview mirror. “Maybe. Depends on the relationship. They’re both happily remarried though. What about yours?”
“Oh, hasn’t Nina told you about them?”
“Not really,” Ennis says lightly, not looking over at me.
“Hmm,” Sayeh says. “Well, no one is happily remarried. Our mom is unhappily single and our dad is about to be unhappily divorced for the third time.”
“Wait . . . he is?” I ask.
“Yup,” Sayeh says. “And you’d know that too if you gave him a call once in a while.” She addresses Ennis. “Nina really took my mom at her word that our dad was a cartoon villain.”
“I did not!” I say, indignant. “But maybe you haven’t realized that one parent stayed, and one parent left, Sayeh.”
“Yeah. Baba moved to California. A whole one hour south of here. Have you ever even considered visiting him?”
“You know what? I’d rather have this conversation in private, thanks,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Why?” Sayeh says as she relaxes back into her seat. “You don’t have any secrets from your boyfriend, do you?”
I place my hand behind my back and give her the middle finger. In the rearview mirror, I see her smirking.
* * *
Since Sayeh’s first meeting doesn’t start for two hours, she comes up to my office with me. By which I mean, she just follows me out of the car and to the lobby without asking me if it’s okay or not. Typical.
“Look, if my boss isn’t okay with this, then you’re going to have to leave. Got it?” I say as we make our way up the elevator.
“Why wouldn’t he be okay with it?” she asks, her nose buried in her phone as she posts one of the fifty selfies she managed to take in the back of Ennis’s car.
“Uh, how about because there’s no such thing as Take Your Little Sister to Work Day?” I say. “Besides, he’s not okay with most things. He’s halfway between giving himself an ulcer or getting himself a toxic work environment write-up. . . .”
The elevator door flies open and the words die in my mouth because Sean is standing right there.
“Oh, great, write-up,” he says to me. “I assume you’re talking about the social media PowerPoint for episode 601. Do you have it ready? The presentation’s tomorrow but I need to give you my notes by one so you can revise it before EOD today.”
“Uh . . .” Shit. This was something he actually told me about. At five thirty p.m. on Friday, but still, he mentioned it. And normally I would’ve spent the weekend on it, except that as soon as I came home to a full house of Worthingtons and Sayeh, I completely forgot.
“Who’s this?” Sean says, looking over at Sayeh.
“Sayeh Shams,” Sayeh says, sticking out her hand. “I’m Nina’s sister. But, more importantly, I’m an influencer and social media consultant. Here.” She reaches into her tiny clutch and hands Sean a gorgeous robin’s-egg blue business card with gold foil-embossed writing. It does, in fact, read:
SAYEH SHAMS
SOCIAL MEDIA CONSULTANT
“Nina wanted me to take a look at the PowerPoint before it got to you.” She gives Sean her brightest, camera-ready smile.
“How much do you cost?” Sean asks her suspiciously.
“It’s free! I mean, just this one time. As a sisterly favor, obviously.”
Sean breaks out into an equally award-winning grin that I’ve never seen before. It shows more teeth than his usual grimace. “Great!” He presses the elevator button and the door pops right open. “Can’t wait to see the presentation.”
“You got it,” Sayeh says. “We’ll have it to you before noon.”
Sean nods and steps on the elevator. The door closes after him.
“Before noon?” I ask Sayeh.
She shrugs. “I’ll have it done in an hour, honestly.”
I sigh. “I don’t want you doing my work. . . .”
“It’s called helping you out, Nina. You could say thank you. Now, which one is your desk?” She walks into the rows of cramped cubicles. I point mine out and she sits down. “You want to log in?”
I do and then, true to her word, she does take over, expertly putting together a PowerPoint presentation with a shocking amount of speed and finesse.
“Wow,” I say after a few minutes of watching her. “You . . . really know what you’re doing there, don’t you?”
“Don’t act so surprised,” she replies. “Do you think getting to the top of your social media game is all selfies and preloaded filters? Besides, I’m only fifteen credits short of a BA.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say as I watch her work some more.
“Do you have a write-up of what you’re already doing on the socials?” she asks.
“Yeah, it’s right here.” I click over to the document.
“This isn’t half bad,” she says, which is probably the closest she’s come to paying me a compliment in years.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” she replies while typing away. “Though your Instagram strategy is a little thin. Maybe you can pitch a Stories takeover with one of the cast. Or behind-the-scenes with the crew?”
“Actually, I had this silly idea to try to see if I can get into the writers’ room. Well, it was Sebastian’s idea really.”
“Why is that silly?” Sayeh asks.
I shrug. “Would anyone care to see a TV show writers’ room?”
Sayeh stops typing to stare at me. “Would you, as a superfan of the show, care?”
“Of course.”
“Then there’s your answer.” Her fingers go back to flying over the keyboard. “Social media strategy is nothing more than tapping into what people want to see. And the best way to do that is to tap into what you—as a fan—would want to see.”
“But would I really be doing it as a fan?” I wonder. “Or as a writer trying to get into the room myself?”
“Why can’t it be both?” Sayeh says. “At the end of the day, you’d be doing your job. If you get something else out of it, then good on you.”
“Yeah, but they’re also super secretive about the writers’ room.” Now I’m voicing every concern I’ve ever had about bringing this idea up to Sean. “I doubt they’d let me in at all. And with a camera to boot?”
“You never know if you don’t ask,” she replies simply.
I look at Sayeh, confidently typing away and I realize something: As obnoxious as I sometimes find her, she’s gotten where she is because she’s
never been afraid to ask for things. She’s never been afraid of getting a no.
“And ask it the right way,” she adds. “Look.” She types a bullet point into the presentation:
AN EXCLUSIVE, NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN PEEK INTO THE WRITERS’ ROOM VIA AN INSTAGRAM STORIES TAKEOVER (CONTENT WILL BE PRERECORDED AND VETTED SO THAT IT REMAINS SPOILER-FREE)
I blink. “Wow, that’s . . . good.”
She smirks. “Naturally. Just pitch it to Sean when you hand this in to him. It should make for good content and—as I’m sure the SVP of Digital Media is well aware—content is king.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I watch her finish up converting the rest of the document into slides. “By the way, where did you get an apartment?”
“Oh, it’s in . . .” She checks her phone. “Los Feliz. There’s a roommate. Someone named Celeste Holybrook. I interviewed with her over FaceTime. She seemed chill enough.”
I stifle a laugh. Oh, man, if only I could be a bee on that wall because I’m actually not sure who’s going to drive who crazy first.
* * *
Sayeh’s already gone by the time I get back from work, having picked up her stuff after her meetings. I was planning on telling her in person that Sean loved the Instagram writers’ room idea and said he’d run it by Lou Trewoski that week. I’m excited to tell Sebastian at least, but when I get in, it’s only Millie.
“Where’s Sebastian?” I ask.
“He’s . . .” She pauses. “On a date with Heather.”
“Okay. Cool,” I say, and then go into my room to get changed. On second thought, maybe I’ll tell him only if Lou Trewoski actually okays the idea. When I come back out in my lounge pants and a T-shirt, I ask Millie what kind of takeout she wants for dinner. “And didn’t you want to watch a movie on Netflix?” We haven’t gotten around to it yet and Millie’s only here one more night before her camping trip begins.
“Whatever food you want is fine with me.” She seems extra subdued tonight. Maybe I can get her to open up about what’s on her mind once we’ve settled in.
I’ve ordered the burritos, and the opening credits of the movie have just revealed the names of the two romantic leads when Millie’s dam bursts open without my even trying to pry out a word.
“Is it really ‘cool,’ Nina? That Sebastian’s out with Heather?” she blurts, staring at me with wide eyes.
“Uh . . . I thought so,” I reply. “Why? You don’t like her?”
“It’s not that I don’t like her. It’s that I like someone else more. For my brother.”
“Um, okay. Who’s that?”
She stares at me. “You really don’t know?”
“I mean, to be fair, I haven’t met many other girls that Sebastian knows.”
She blows out a puff of air and picks up the notebook she’s always carrying around. She opens up to a page and starts reading from it. “‘One: He definitely thinks she’s beautiful because she is objectively beautiful. Two: He lights up around her. She lights up around him. Three: They can make each other laugh without saying a word. They can have whole conversations without saying a word.’”
I’m starting to get an inkling of what she might be talking about. “Millie . . .” I start, but she keeps talking over me.
“‘Four: They share the same interests, especially the same fandom. Five: He’s been in love with her for nine years.’”
She looks up at me. We stare at each other, the words hanging in the air. My heart is suddenly a techno beat in my ears.
I laugh to try and drown it out. “I didn’t know you were writing your own fanfic,” I say, attempting to sound as casual as I can.
“Why aren’t you two together?” Millie asks. “Everyone around you can see it. Me. Sam and Matty. Sayeh.”
“Sayeh?” I ask.
“Yup. She told me so herself.”
I shake my head and get up off the couch. I need a drink, but settle for filling up a glass of water from the dispenser on the fridge. “Listen, I know you haven’t known Sayeh very long, but most of what comes out of her mouth is carefully crafted BS,” I say shakily, even though she sort of proved me wrong on that today.
“I don’t know,” Millie says. “She seems forthright to me.”
I need to get Millie off this subject. It was hard enough talking myself out of acting on the night Sebastian and I shared a bed. I don’t think I can handle an out loud conversation—especially not one that’s confirming something I wanted to hear so badly five years ago. I point to the TV. “Is that one of the actors from the British Office?” I ask.
Millie keeps her back to the TV, not even pretending that she doesn’t know what I’m trying to do. “Can you just tell me why you don’t love him?”
I’m at a loss for words for a few seconds. Finally, I settle on, “Millie. It’s just not like that between us.”
“Maybe for you. But I know it is for him.”
“But you don’t know that,” I say, my voice going up in pitch. “That is fiction.” I point to her notebook. “I mean, yes, we make each other laugh and we love CoRaB together and we were best friends. Maybe we can be again. But . . . nine years? Please. He spent freshman year making out with someone new at every Cornell frat party, the next three years pining after some girl named Belle, and the last month of senior year with Heather.”
“Belle?” Millie asks.
“Yes,” I say, taking a sip of water, happy that I seem to have finally reined in this conversation. “I overheard him talking about her once freshman year. And then again junior year. Seemed like a long, unrequited crush.”
“Nina,” Millie says, talking slowly, her hands folded calmly on the back of the couch. “You are Belle.”
CHAPTER 25
SEBASTIAN
“I was surprised you called while Millie’s in town,” Heather says when we meet inside the lobby of the Stinking Rose restaurant on La Cienega. The Italian eatery is an over-the-top LA institution and their motto is “We season our garlic with food.”
“I got kicked out so they could have a girls’ night. Nina and my sister. And maybe Nina’s sister, too. It was unclear.” I grin. “Either way I’m outnumbered, and it occurred to me one-on-one with you sounded perfect.”
Heather takes in her surroundings, peering past the check-in stand. Kitschy artwork adorns the walls, and each room has a different theme. I chose the Garlic Room, where bulbs hang from the ceiling and frolic in paintings, visiting California landmarks.
“What is this place?” Heather asks. “Have you been here before, or . . . ?”
“No, but I’ve been curious about it for a while. When you call to make a reservation, the voice on the machine says, ‘Velcome to the Stinking Rose, if you vant to speak to a dead person, start talking now, mwahahaha,’ like a low-rent Dracula. You know, because of all the garlic?”
Heather stares at me.
“They even have garlic ice cream, which I think we have to try.”
Heather presses two fingers to her forehead. “Everything on the menu is smothered in garlic?”
“Yeah, that’s the theme. You said the other night you wished my garlic noodles had more . . . garlic . . . Oh.”
Her smile looks sad.
I duck my head. “You were being sarcastic. I get that now.”
That was sarcasm, by the way. Maybe Roberto wasn’t being mean. Maybe I’m that dense. (Or maybe I was paying more attention to Nina than Heather the night of our double date, which I still feel guilty about.)
“I’m a dick. Sorry, Heather. I thought I’d been listening carefully, and clearly, I wasn’t. Should we get out of here, find a different place?”
“Yeah, let’s . . . do that. And actually, Sebastian, I’m not super hungry. Maybe drinks and hang for a while?”
The valet’s cool about it and doesn’t charge us, but I slip him a five for his time.
* * *
“The atmosphere in that place was fun, at least,” I remark, my thoughts still on the Stinking Rose.
&nb
sp; “It did look cute. Sorry to veto it.”
“You do not have to apologize—that was all on me. I wonder how they came up with the theme and how they decided which recipes to use and everything. I’m trying to make a cookbook,” I explain, once we’re settled in at Sur Lounge, mojitos in tow. Sayeh mentioned it as a reality TV hotspot during our citywide trek the other day.
Heather and I are cozy beside each other on a low, leather sectional beneath lush, dripping chandeliers encased in what appear to be birdcages.
She taps her glass to mine. “That’s really cool, Sebastian. Good for you. California cuisine or something?”
“Castles of Rust and Bone–related, actually.”
Heather takes a long, slow pull of her drink. “The show’s pretty much your life, huh?”
“Well, it is my job.”
“Yeah . . .”
“Remember all those parties in the dorm? I’d love to help like-minded people throw their own celebrations. I want my recipes to be creative but accessible for other fans.”
“I guess for me it seems sort of passive, you know? Being a fan.”
Not the way Nina and I do it. I think about the infusion of joy fanfiction gives Nina, both reading it and writing it. No one’s getting paid to produce it: It’s all conceived of and perfected in people’s free time and shared with grateful strangers. Likewise, brainstorming my cookbook gets me out of bed in the morning because, let’s face it, the actual show doesn’t. Not anymore. Not the way I’ve been experiencing it.
“Whatever blows your hair back, though,” Heather quickly adds.
I don’t mention the downsides of fandom, the risks. It’s a lopsided relationship. The object of affection holds all the power, while the viewer . . . views, and hopes. Being a fan often means getting your heart speared in a joust you didn’t know you were in. The characters might act in ways they never used to act in. They’ll change, get killed off, or kiss the wrong person, and there’s fuck-all you can do about it.
Still, when it’s good, it’s everything. To me, anyway. Even the stupid, wobbly, plywood sets of the places the characters live and hang out become important, as familiar to me as my own four walls. Nina inherently understands that and always has.