The Regulars

by Georgia Clark

  Evie slammed the cab door shut. “Take me home,” she whispered to Velma. “But first, I want you to kiss me.”

  As the cab sped off up the empty street, Velma pulled Evie close to her. The softness of her body, the smell of her skin, the anticipation of the kiss made Evie swoon. Her eyes drifted shut. As their lips met, an electric shiver spiked through Evie’s body. What was at first tender quickly became passionate. Evie wanted Velma, every part of her. She wanted to open a door in her chest and climb inside. The feeling of kissing this sexy stallion of a woman was almost too much for her, and if Velma hadn’t been holding her so securely, with such strong, gentle hands, she would probably have lost her balance.

  There was only one thought that settled, as calmly as a cat finding a spot of sun to sleep in. One word that felt inevitable, as they kissed and nibbled and quietly laughed with the delirium of it.

  Home.

  Part Three:

  Conceal

  54.

  Krista returned to the Funderland set on Friday with an entirely new game plan. This time, she’d take it seriously. This time, she’d be a professional.

  There’s a first time for everything.

  She set her alarm so early she was downstairs waiting for Eduardo when he came to pick her up. She was polite and friendly with the crew. But her most important new rule had to do with Tristan. This time, sex was off the table. If he allowed it, this time they would just be friends.

  To her surprise, this was easy. Tristan forgave the trophy incident generously and quickly. And there was an extraordinary amount of downtime on set. They spent the weekend sprawled out on Tristan’s white leather sofa, sipping the green tea and kale smoothies Tristan was addicted to, just talking.

  She told him what it was like being brown in rural, northern Westchester County, the far-flung suburbs of New York City, past the Bronx. Scrubbing her skin in the shower to make it white when she was a little girl. Hiding pungent school lunches that were different from everyone else’s, her mom’s constant overfeeding matched only by the constant criticisms of her weight, criticisms her three older brothers never faced. The impossible juggling act of being in between two cultures—being told her speech or clothes or personality were becoming “too American,” but then getting in trouble for not doing well enough in her American high school, pursuing the American dream. How bringing home a 95 percent test score would mean getting asked about where the other 5 percent was, and how any complaint about that would trigger a one-hour lecture about her parents’ immigration struggles—her mom made it sound like she’d walked all the way from India, while her dad battled sea monsters and border security to emigrate from Sri Lanka. How her declaration of wanting to be a lawyer was motivated only by the fact she hated working the front desk in her father’s boring medical practice after school, and apart from being a doctor, becoming a lawyer was the only other acceptable (i.e., lucrative and respectable) career path.

  She recalled losing her virginity three weeks before her fifteenth birthday in the back of Tim Klinchin’s blue Ford, a gearshift pressed into her back, someone’s elbow blasting the horn in jerky fits and starts. It was a textbook case of sweaty, awkward, but surprisingly fun rebellion. She discovered that sex wasn’t something her parents could control, that it was just for her, and that she wanted to get as good at it as she was at everything else. She started to realize that while she loved her parents, she wasn’t really herself around them. She wanted—craved, even—to just act how she felt, when she felt it, to indulge her desires and stop denying them all the time.

  She told Tristan about meeting her best friend, Evie, at Sarah Lawrence when they were in the same dorm freshman year, how inseparable they were, how it felt like meeting the sister she’d always wanted. She told him how insanely proud her dad had been when she’d gotten into law school in Boston, how he’d teared up and bought her a silver Tiffany ring, and then how furious he’d been when she’d dropped out, not even six months later, after an acid-fueled revelation that she never wanted to be a lawyer. How she wanted to please her father, but couldn’t just blindly obey him, and how hard that was to explain to him, and how now, every conversation just ended in a fight and she didn’t know how to stop that. She recounted the decision to try acting, landing her first agent, getting just enough work for her plan not to be a total disaster, but not enough for it to be a success, and about her debt, and the Con Ed guy, and how meeting Greg and landing Funderland changed all that, gave her hope, and well . . . here she was.

  Tristan listened to all this patiently. He asked the right questions. He was genuinely interested.

  In turn, he shared his life story with her. How he was always the kid goofing off in front of the camera, singing, dancing, dressing up and lip-synching to the radio, actions that weren’t “manly” according to his father, a quietly angry man who worked fishing trawlers in the Bay Area. Tristan’s interest in performing was so vehemently discouraged that his mother had to lie about driving him to an open-call audition for a show on the Disney Channel, the audition that saw him landing a main part at age eleven. This stuff Krista knew, although she let Tristan explain it anyway: how Heartache High ran for two seasons, during which time the producers discovered he could sing. How singles from the show almost went gold; modest, in the scheme of things, but still deemed a success. He was “put on” Boyz Unbridled at age thirteen—“I don’t remember it being a choice. It just happened.” Krista could picture this Tristan almost more clearly than she could picture him now: the youngest of the five, golden-haired and cherubic, entirely innocent. They began touring and recording, more or less constantly, for the next four years.

  “At first, everything was new and fresh and exciting,” he said. “Winning Best New Act at the Teen Choice Awards in 2002. Crowds that kept getting bigger. Fans that kept getting crazier. Being number one in countries I’d never heard of.”

  The wave broke two years later. Tristan was fifteen, and had graduated from being a sweet and grateful kid to “a resentful, egotistical maniac.” He fired his mother, who’d been acting as his manager. Years later he realized how much she’d been shielding him from the bad stuff, but at the time it felt claustrophobic. What teenage boy wants his mom on the tour bus?

  He started doing a ton of drugs.

  “It sounds like a cliché, but they were just everywhere. And no one ever said no to me. Not ever. I never had to wait in line or pick up a check. We were always VIP, always being hustled in some back entrance. I forgot what normal was. It was so crazy, Lenka. I remember talking to people and seeing in their eyes that this conversation—whatever it was about, usually nothing—was the most exciting thing that’d ever happened to them. And part of me wanted to shake their shoulders and scream, ‘Get over it, I’m nothing, I’m just like you!’ But another part of me believed I was like a god or something. A part of me believed I was better than everyone else. Every girl wanted to sleep with me: other performers, people who worked for us. Fans. Fans’ moms. Just to say they did, you know? Just for the story.”

  “I bet you’ve slept with thousands of girls,” Krista said, eyes as round as dinner plates.

  “No.” Tristan sat up. “I never did. I fooled around with some, sure. But I never slept with fans, not like the other guys did.”

  Krista gaped at him. “Why not? I mean, you were sixteen, you must’ve been horny as hell.”

  Tristan drew his lips into a straight line for a moment, then continued. He told her about the publicist who died after a blood clot from routine liposuction, the two-hundred-thousand-dollar kickbacks from wearing a Chinese company’s diamond cuff links, the stalker who broke into his hotel room in Seoul with a screwdriver and stabbed him in the thigh. How one tweet would kick-start a friend’s career, and how tiring that got, and how sick he was of constantly being needed, by everyone, all the time. The implosion of Boyz Unbridled, a messy, hot, drug-fueled end, fights that were circular and bitter and exhausting. The solo career that went nowhere. Getting a h
umiliating DUI, blood alcohol level of 0.21, on the eve of his twenty-second birthday, and deciding to get clean. Rehab not taking for a year or so. Meeting Umsa. Spending six months in Nepal. Getting clarity. And finally, staying sober.

  He told her about making friends with real musicians, talented people who worked hard and wanted to start families. Making amends with the members of Boyz Unbridled, all going through the same confusing stages of reimagining, rebranding. Taking some small indie roles, realizing how fun it was to be on a movie set as part of a team. Meeting Greg at a group skiing weekend in Montana, bonding over nights spent on the slopes and under the stars, deciding to help this sweet, genuine guy get a movie made: a funny, harmless movie, a script Greg had written called Funderland.

  “This film is my second chance,” Tristan said. “To be more than just the kid from Boyz Unbridled.”

  “I know what you mean,” Krista said. “It feels like a second chance for me too.”

  “I’m really glad we’re working on this together, Lenks.” Tristan squeezed her knee. “It feels right.”

  Krista smiled. A wave of warmth enveloped her, filling her with love for her costar, and Greg, and everyone outside the trailer working so hard on making this movie the best it could be. “Yeah,” she said, not without a touch of surprise. “It really does.”

  55.

  “Sounds like someone has a crush.” From her position in front of the mirror, Evie smirked at her roommate, who was sprawled out on Evie’s bed, leafing through an old copy of Salty.

  “Actually, I don’t. We’re just friends.” Krista sounded oddly, atypically genuine.

  “Yeah, right. That is not Krista Kumar’s vibe.” Evie arched an eyebrow, then tweezered a stray hair from it.

  “It is today.” Krista flipped a page. “I just like being around him. Plus nothing could happen, even if I wanted it to. We can’t get attached, Eve. You know that, right?”

  “Of course,” Evie said. “Velma and I are . . . casual.”

  This was a total and complete lie.

  Ever since Velma dropped Evie home after the engagement party, an emotional valve had been released. They’d been texting each other nonstop. Literally: Evie had spent all weekend at home, connected to her phone. And not just frothy flirtatious banter, at which, Evie had to admit, Velma was just as good as she was. This afternoon, their epic chain of correspondence included everything from fantasy holiday destinations to thoughts on children. They even named their future kids, Thing 1 and Thing 2; a joke, of course, but still . . . Evie had never thought seriously about kids. Which was why it was so odd she spent an entire thirty-minute shower imagining raising them with Velma. Everything from baby’s first steps to tearful pride at graduation.

  Trouble was, in these fantasies, she was Chloe. Evie Selby, it seemed, had no place in her future.

  Krista rolled onto her tummy to examine Evie’s outfit: a bell-shaped blue dress that made her eyes look as big as Betty Boop’s. “You look so Instagram right now. I take it this is for her benefit.”

  Evie studied herself in the mirror. “Does my chin look pointy to you?”

  “What?”

  Evie pressed it with her fingers, turning her head to see a different angle. “I feel like it’s pointier.”

  Krista sat up. “I thought my eyes looked different too. The second time. And Willow mentioned she thought that maybe food tasted different when she turned back.”

  The girls exchanged a look of unease. Krista jostled Evie away from the mirror. “See?” she said, her nose at the glass. “Different, right? Not as green.”

  “I swear it’s pointier.” Evie elbowed Krista out of the way. “I really don’t like this.”

  “Well, we still don’t have a lot of answers about it.”

  Evie meant her chin, but this was true too. “Right.”

  “Not even Penny knew what it was,” Krista added.

  “Probably the souls of girls who died of anorexia,” Evie muttered. “They’d have had pretty pointy chins by then.” Evie met her gaze in the mirror. Chloe looked back at her, eyebrows furrowed in concern. She didn’t look as pretty like that, face all screwed up. Channeling her inner yogi, Evie let out a breath, relaxing her expression into an unblemished canvas. There. Better. Pointy chin or not, Chloe was definitely prettier when she wasn’t emotional. She watched Chloe’s beautiful wide mouth speak confidently. “I am invincible. I am Chloe fucking Fontaine.”

  Krista was staring at her with a dumbfounded expression.

  “What?” Evie asked, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Maybe this should be our last go.” Krista spoke slowly, as if Evie wasn’t to be alarmed. “You think that, right?”

  Evie met Chloe’s gaze in the mirror. Her big blue eyes looked startled, scared even, almost as if she was pleading her case to stay. Evie couldn’t look at herself when she nodded an agreement. But she couldn’t look at Krista either.

  The last time Evie had been to Jay Street, she hadn’t been allowed to enter the gorgeous redbrick building Velma called home. Now the doorman at the front desk was expecting her. Velma lived in PH2, one of two penthouses on the top floor. When the elevator doors slid open into an innocuous hallway, Evie was accosted by a biting smell.

  Burning toast?

  The front door was ajar. “Hello? Velma?” Evie stepped into a large, airy loft. A number of thick, ribbed black columns ran up to a huge expanse of white molded ceiling, easily fifteen feet high. Evie glimpsed several oversized bookshelves and a wall of huge rectangular windows, curved at the top. The lovely hardwood floor was dotted with bright rugs and standing lamps. On one wall hung an enormous photograph of a woman’s milky white throat and the curve of her chin, bloodred lips turned up in a sly smile. It was a little messier than she’d imagined, and maybe even a little smaller, but more or less what she’d assumed Velma’s home would be like.

  What Evie wasn’t expecting was the sight of Velma trying to beat back the small but enthusiastic fire that was leaping about a stainless steel stovetop. She was doing battle with a kitchen towel that had just caught alight, forcing Velma to chuck it into the sink.

  “Shit, shit!” Velma threw Evie a panicked look. “There’s a fire extinguisher. In the closet—”

  Evie dashed down the hallway Velma had flung a finger at. The first door she yanked open revealed towels and sheets. The second housed winter jackets, board games, and, yes, a small fire extinguisher. Evie grabbed it and raced back to the kitchen.

  “I’ve never used one!” Evie cried.

  “Neither have I!” Velma unhooked the long black nozzle and aimed the cylindrical end at the fire. Evie squeezed the two metal levers on the top together. Nothing happened.

  “Why isn’t it working?” Velma pumped the metal levers too, her fingers mashing into Evie’s.

  Evie grabbed the nozzle from Velma and peered into the end of it, just as Velma yanked at a silver ring on the top and squeezed the levers. A powerful blast of white hit Evie in the face. She screamed and stumbled back.

  “Are you okay?” yelled Velma.

  Evie pawed at her face, gasping, “Fire! Just get the fire!”

  Velma aimed at the stove. Seconds later, the fire was out.

  The two women stood in the silent kitchen, panting. It was only now that Evie realized Velma wasn’t dressed for dinner. She was wearing old sweats and a tank top, with no makeup, and her hair pulled back into a messy bun.

  In the reflection of the long glass windows that separated the apartment from the balcony outside, Evie saw that her carefully constructed look was completely ruined. Everything was sprayed with white powder and dark smudges.

  “Jesus, are you okay?” Velma dropped the fire extinguisher and strode toward her, face alert with concern.

  Evie’s eyes were watering. “I feel like I just got punched in the face by a snowman.”

  Velma laughed. She came to rest both hands on Evie’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I was frying some onions and got distracted. Completely l
ost track of time.” Velma met Evie’s eyes with soft sincerity. “I’m really, really sorry, Chloe.”

  “That’s okay,” Evie whispered. She flicked her eyes to the kitchen, which, apart from a pan full of blackened onions, was devoid of any other ingredients. “Is it weird to ask what the plan is? I’m kind of starving.”

  Velma grinned. “Not weird at all. Let’s see . . . How do you feel about Thai takeout?”

  Thirty minutes later, Velma and Evie were sitting cross-legged around Velma’s large, square coffee table, digging into a sprawling Asian feast. While Velma ordered food, Evie took a shower. Although she was disappointed to destroy the supervixen effect of two hours of date prep, she did enjoy getting undressed in a place as intimate as Velma’s bathroom. It was full of expensive products she could never afford and thick, white towels she could never keep clean. In the waterfall shower, Evie lathered her body with lavender soap and wondered how long it would be before she and Velma would be showering together.

  Velma had loaned her clothes to wear: an oversized white button-down and a pair of black leggings. Evie strolled out in just the shirt. Velma’s slow smile of approval made her tingle with pleasure.

  Now Evie accepted the wine Velma offered and they tipped their glasses in a toast. “You’re making me break all my own rules,” Velma chided. “Dinner on the floor is strictly a solo activity in this apartment.”

  Evie glowed. She loved feeling like Velma was making exceptions for her. That was how you treated a girlfriend. “What were you going to make?” Evie asked, helping herself to some pad thai. “Before the Great Fire of Five Minutes Ago?”

  Velma stabbed a piece of chicken with her chopstick and frowned. “I guess a pasta . . . thing.”

  Evie arched an eyebrow. “Not exactly Nigella Lawson, are you?”