Mark walked quickly to the kitchen, checking, Willow was sure, that the towheaded Caroline wasn’t pressed into its far corners. When he returned, he looked visibly calmer. “Um, yes,” he replied. He pounded both fists lightly on the edge of the armchair. “Business trip. I’ve been trying to tell you. I’ve been trying to get through to you all week.” His tone became accusatory.
“Oh really?” Willow’s eyes hardened. “Have you?”
She stalked into the bedroom.
“What are you doing? Where are your clothes? What—” His voice finally cracked. “Fuck, why are you here?”
She didn’t bother replying. She dressed in a pair of his jeans, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, all a few sizes too big. Mark watched from the bedroom doorway, fists clenched. When Willow pushed past him, heading back into the living room, he followed her. “What, so that’s it?”
“What do you want from me?”
Mark stood, opening and shutting his mouth a few times. Then he raked both hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. He looked terrible.
“I want you to go,” he said. “I just want you to go.”
The words hit her with a force she wasn’t expecting. She nodded, triumphant and devastated. Her parting blow tasted like metal. “I’m not sure what’s worse: you disappointing me, or me thinking you wouldn’t.”
59.
When the elevator doors to her apartment slid open, Willow felt like she was walking into a lie. The high ceilings, the colorful artworks, and the unearthly quiet all felt foreign and strange.
A new bouquet of flowers sat on the carved white entry table. The gerberas, sunflowers, and pale pink roses were all slightly wilted, as if they’d already been there for a few days. There was a small white envelope with her name on it. She tore it open.
All my love, Mark.
His name struck her in the chest, a sharp and efficient blow. She placed one hand on the vase and neatly knocked it off the table. It shattered spectacularly, bursting apart like a supernova. The sound echoed musically, bouncing off the walls.
Footsteps hurried toward her. Her father appeared from the kitchen. His eyes moved to take in the broken glass, the scattered flowers, and his unmoving, unrepentant daughter, standing silently with icicles in her eyes.
“So,” he said. “We’re back to this again, are we?” He took off his reading glasses and began wiping them on the edge of his shirt. “If you want my attention, Willow, you can just ask for it.”
As if that would work, Willow thought sourly. Besides, where’s the fun in that?
Her flip-flops crunched over the shards. “Aren’t you going to tell me to be careful of the glass, Daddy?”
“You’re twenty-one, Willow. I’m sure you’re old enough to take care of yourself.”
She smirked darkly. “I’m twenty-two.”
In the kitchen, she pulled a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Matteo watched impassively as she filled a glass all the way to the rim. “Cheers,” she said. She lifted it to her lips and began drinking steadily. After three sips, Matteo interrupted her in a strained voice. “Willow, stop. I can’t . . .”
She paused, her throat burning pleasantly. “Can’t what?”
“I can’t watch you do that.”
“Oh god.” She slammed the glass down so hard she was surprised it didn’t shatter. “Don’t try and start now.”
“Start what?”
She slit her eyes at him. “Trying to be a good father.”
Matteo thumped the kitchen counter in anger. “I was home for every one of your birthdays, Willow, every one! I was home for Christmas, home for Thanksgiving. Do you know what I sacrificed for that? How many films I had to turn down because of you?”
“You’re my father, of course you had to be there for my birthdays!” Willow cried. “That’s your job—”
“No, my job was being a filmmaker,” Matteo said. “A job that was significantly compromised—” His hand flew to his mouth and jaw, as if something awful—the truth—had just crawled out of it.
Willow reeled, swaying back a few inches. She snapped back, her voice a hiss. “Maybe you should’ve thought more about your precious career before you decided to breed.”
The words jettisoned out of him. “It wasn’t a decision I made.”
Willow felt like he’d just struck her across the face. Her vision swam. For a long moment, neither said a word.
Matteo stumbled forward a few steps, his voice thick now, and pleading. “Willow. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I lost my temper, I’m sorry.”
But Willow wasn’t listening to him. A memory was forming, finally, a complete picture allowing itself to be seen. “That’s why,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m . . . Because you . . .” Willow focused on her father. “I must’ve been six, or maybe seven, so it must’ve been in the old apartment on Seventy-Fifth. I remember standing in the doorway and seeing you. You were with that makeup artist you always worked with. The blond one. The pretty one. I remember her name.” She looked at him evenly. “Caroline.”
Matteo raised a shaking, gnarled hand to his forehead and pressed it between his eyes.
And now Willow felt as if the memory was lifting her and taking from her and intruding into her all at once, many fingers, many hands, showing her what she knew to be true. “And I remember thinking you were hurting her, because you both looked like you were in pain. I know now, of course, that you were”—Willow drew in a shaky breath—“fucking her. In our kitchen. In Mom’s kitchen. And I know she wasn’t the last and I’m guessing she wasn’t the first. And after you both noticed me standing there, you told me if I didn’t tell Mom you’d buy me a present, so I didn’t, and you did. You kept your promise.” Her words dripped sarcasm. “Like a good father would.”
Tears glided down Willow’s cheeks, and her heart, her heart was shattering into a thousand pieces of fiery light, carried away by dark rushing water. “You have no idea, no idea, how much you’ve poisoned me.”
60.
“Hey.” Krista rapped on Tristan’s trailer door. “Morning, T-Bird.”
“What’s up, L.P.” He patted a spot on the sofa next to him. “Damian just dropped off a new call sheet for today. We’re doing scene sixty-one.”
“Which one’s that?” Krista flipped through her script. “Oh.” She looked up at Tristan, suddenly speechless.
Tristan found the page too. “Ah,” he said, his tone changing. “The kissing scene.”
Of course, Krista knew they had a kissing scene. Last week she’d been relishing the prospect. But now it felt weird. Tristan was her friend. Friends don’t kiss. Krista wasn’t sure where to look. “Do you still want to run lines?” she asked.
Tristan shook his head a tiny bit. “Of course. Some of the older kids had to do kissing scenes in Heartache; they’re not romantic. Or, you know, sexy . . .” His voice drifted off, but the word sexy hung in the air.
Krista felt a weird thrill spark out from her chest. She got to her feet quickly and trained her eyes on the script. “Let’s take it from my line, ‘I’ve never had a more fun summer.’ ”
“Okay.” Tristan stood opposite her.
She took a moment to connect to her character’s spirit animal, a baby unicorn. Then she said, “I’ve never had a more fun summer, Zach.”
Tristan returned her gaze. “Me neither. When Arj and I started working here, I didn’t think there was anything, or anyone, here for me. But now I think, maybe I was wrong.”
He took a step toward her and placed a hand on her forearm. A zing of energy shot up her arm, so unexpected she yelped.
“What?” Tristan broke character.
“Nothing.” Krista rubbed her arm. “I just feel a little parched.”
“Me too.” Tristan sprang for the sink, filling two glasses of water. They drank them all in one go without making eye contact.
“From the top?” Tristan asked.
Krista nodded, trying to clear her he
ad. Professional. Professional. Professional. “I’ve never had a more fun summer, Zach.”
“Me neither. When Arj and I started working here, I didn’t think there was anything, or anyone, here for me. But now I think, maybe I was wrong.”
This time, she absorbed his touch easily. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re here for me. Aren’t you?”
Krista stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Now they were only inches apart. Her heart was racing. “Yes, Zach. I am.”
Tristan swallowed, unmoving.
Krista raised her eyebrows and whispered, “This is the part when you kiss me.”
“Right.” Tristan looked as if he was in pain, his voice a whisper too. “Just feels weird.”
“I know,” she said. They were practically in each other’s arms.
“You’re my friend,” he said. His fingers pressed into her arms, as if exploring her skin.
“I know.”
“And friends don’t . . .”
“Kiss.” The word was as soft as lamb’s wool.
They locked eyes.
Tristan dropped his mouth to Krista’s, and suddenly he was kissing her. Like he fucking meant it. Krista was so stunned that it took a hot second before instinct kicked in and she started kissing him back. She pulled him close, her hands wanting to be in his hair, around his neck, on his chest, all at once. They tumbled onto the sofa, all lips, and hands, and heavy hot breath. After what had to be a full minute, Tristan pulled back from Krista, in a series of soft, slow pecks.
He opened his eyes. Started back.
Without a word, he got to his feet and left the trailer.
Krista was left alone, one hand brushing her lips in stunned, dumbfounded amazement.
What?
The?
Fuck?
61.
“Morning, Kelly!” Evie sang out as she swept into his office.
“Chloe-with-a-C.” Kelly looked up from his computer. “You’re in a good mood.”
“It’s seventy-two degrees in New York City and I have the best job in the whole world, what’s not to like?” Evie chirruped. “This is for you. Double macchiato, extra froth.” She placed the cup on Kelly’s desk. “And a raspberry and white chocolate muffin. Your favorite.”
Kelly narrowed his eyes. “What do you want, Chloe?”
Evie pressed her hand into her chest in exaggerated shock. “I am outraged you’d think I’d stoop so low as to bribe you. But now that you mention it, I did have an idea I wanted to discuss with you. Have you heard of the Arzners?”
“The awards show for chicks?”
Ignoring the word chicks, Evie beamed enthusiastically. “Exactly! ‘Named after one of Hollywood’s first female directors, the Arzners bring Hollywood’s best and brightest together to celebrate the stunning contribution women make every year to the arts.’ ” Evie quoted the website verbatim. “Extra Salt could do a live stream of the red carpet. An extraspecial Extra Salt event.”
Kelly frowned. “I don’t hate it,” he admitted. “It’s probably a fit. But I’d never get you press passes. We’re not big enough, mate. We’re just a web series.”
“I thought of that. You remember Cupcake Girl?”
Kelly snorted. “How could I forget?”
“I kind of know her. Lenka. We went to college together.”
“You know her?” Kelly sounded annoyed. “Then why’d you talk me out of featuring her?”
Evie remembered making a passionate case for Dildo of the Week after Krista went viral, in order to minimize Lenka Penka’s exposure. “I didn’t think she’d remember me. But she did! She’s shooting a movie with Tristan McKell. Strings were pulled. And . . .” Evie held up a handful of lanyards, all emblazoned with the word Press. “Ta-da.”
“Wow.” Kelly sat back in his seat, stunned. “When’s the ceremony?”
“Carpet starts at 4 p.m. next Tuesday. Marcello can be there, and Gemma and Rose are waiting for your approval to start sourcing a dress.” Evie tried not to look smug. “So . . . that’s a yes?”
“Yeah,” Kelly replied. “Sure.”
Evie backed toward the door. “Thanks, Kelly! You won’t regret this!” Her mind was racing. It worked!
She passed Marcello, stationed outside Kelly’s office, surreptitiously eavesdropping, eyes gleaming. “Phase one is complete,” he said, offering a fist.
Evie bumped it, returning his grin. “Time for phase two.”
62.
“Lenka, sweetie.” Ora waggled a tube of lipstick at her. “Stop chewing your lips, you keep eating the lipstick off!”
Krista glanced up at the head makeup artist guiltily. “Sorry, Ora.”
“What’s got your goat, huh?”
The kissing scene. They were shooting it this afternoon. What if Tristan couldn’t go through with it? She couldn’t bear being the reason for him screwing up a second time. Plus she knew Gillian was itching, just itching, for an excuse to fire her again and she absolutely had to pay Evie back for the bills: she’d promised.
He was just being so weird. They’d ended up next to each other in the lunch line. At first he could barely look at her, then he laughed too hard at a lame joke she’d made. It was almost like he was nervous around her.
Greg wanted the kissing scene to take place in the “golden hour,” the short window of warm, late-afternoon light before the sun set. The crew darted around, busy as ants before a storm. Tristan wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
“Okay, everyone, first positions,” Min called. “We’re losing light, so we’re shooting the rehearsal.”
Someone asked Krista to close her eyes so they could powder her face. When she opened them, Tristan was standing in front of her. His hair was set into full boy-band glory, while his eyes looked as soulful as a sad puppy. He looked like an album cover.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” He smiled back timidly, sending a flurry of butterflies whirling through her.
“Remember,” she whispered. “Rawr.”
He nodded, obviously recalling the lion-centric sexual chemistry they’d created in his trailer. But pulling off the scene didn’t feel as important to Krista as making sure things were okay with Tristan. Both outcomes felt tenuous.
The crew calls began, then Greg called, “Action.”
Krista gazed up at Tristan. “I’ve never had a more fun summer, Zach,” she said truthfully.
Tristan took Krista’s hands. They were damp with sweat. “Me neither. When Arj and I started working here, I didn’t think there was anything, or anyone, here for me.” He rubbed his thumb over hers. The effect almost made her swoon. “But now I think, maybe I was wrong.”
Krista shook her head. “What do you mean?”
Tristan searched her eyes with his. “I mean, you’re here for me. Aren’t you?”
Krista moved toward Tristan, instinctively wanting to be closer. “Yes, Zach,” she whispered throatily. “I am.”
And in this moment they really were just two kids who found love one summer, two people whose hearts had connected, whose souls had intertwined. Even though this wasn’t the first time Tristan’s mouth had met hers, in this moment, it was. All the nerves, and excitement, and the wonder of true love found its way to both of them as their lips met. Sweetly. Passionately. In a way that felt like forever.
“Cut!” called Greg. He sounded amazed. “Fuck, that was awesome!” A few of the crew members even started clapping. “Uh, guys?” Greg called. “I said cut.”
Tristan and Krista had not stopped kissing. Tristan cupped the back of Krista’s head, and she responded in turn by crushing herself against him, oblivious of her surroundings. When they did break apart, a full minute later, they both started laughing. Tristan touched his lips to Krista’s forehead. She wrapped her arms around his iron-strong waist and squeezed, feeling simultaneously protective and protected.
Two things immediately became obvious.
Krista had just nailed her most
important scene. And Lenka Penka and Tristan McKell were officially a thing.
63.
Over the next week, Evie alternated between preparing for the Arzners and becoming increasingly besotted with Velma Wolff.
One night they stayed in and watched old episodes of The L Word. Evie teased Velma for liking Jenny, the precocious self-obsessed femme who could make someone’s funeral all about her, while Evie confessed her attraction to Marina, the sexy, shark-eyed European who alternated carnal conquests with running a successful small business. They only made it to the first sex scene before ending up in bed.
Later that week, they went to the opening of a play that one of Velma’s friends had written. The show was quite good—an absurdist drama about a scorpion who gave relationship advice in between managing a Wendy’s—but what Evie really liked was the after-party. Photographers requested pictures, and Evie found herself arm in arm with Velma, both smirking like they had secrets. She was becoming one of the women in Velma’s Google search. But she knew she was more than that.
Velma didn’t look at her like they were just flirting. Like Evie was just someone she enjoyed having sex with. She really looked at her. As if she could see past Chloe’s pretty mask and into the fissures of Evie’s soul.
Being apart was unbelievably stressful. When Velma didn’t reply immediately to texts, anxiety would build in Evie’s chest like a nightmarish storm, chipping at her sanity and kidnapping her concentration. When they weren’t together, Evie lost all sense of certainty: Velma was too distant, she mustn’t be into it. Evie found herself staring intently at the bottle of Pretty, calculating how much was left. Even with the three of them all using it, they’d barely skimmed the surface. But it wouldn’t last forever. Even though she knew Krista wouldn’t approve, she’d made a note of Penny’s address: 500 Park. Was it possible to get more? They really shouldn’t be taking it for so long that it would ever come up. But what if things with Velma got more serious?
Every metaphor for love being a drug now made sense. Being apart from Velma was like going cold turkey: an exercise in physical and emotional pain.
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