“You might not love acting—although the way you jumped at the chance to read for Isobel in Jonathan’s audition begs to differ—but you love this character.” She shovels another bite into her mouth, but I don’t fill the silencewhile she chews. “I know you do, Em, because I could hear it in your performance. And I know how much this movie means to you.”
I purse my lips to hold in my retort. She’s not wrong. Isobel, the female main character inNo Reservations, is one of my favorites I’ve written. When we found ourselves in need of a reader for auditions for the male lead, Ididjump at the chance. But it was meant to be a one-time-only, special-occasion, never-happening-again performance. Even if it was the most fun I’ve had in a really long time.
Unfortunately, I may have filled the role a little too well. Liz has been on me to play the part ever since, especially as we get closer and closer to our scheduled start date and seemingly further and further from finding our Isobel. I never would’ve pushed for my best friend to direct this project if I’d known how much whining and cajoling would ensue.
I’ve been stalling, certain that the perfect actress would make her way to auditions. Meanwhile, I’ve had to tell Liz at least once a day that there is no way in hell she is casting me in my own movie.
Safe to say, things are not going as planned.
And the most annoying part is that I don’t want Isobel in the hands of someone unqualified. Someone who doesn’t get her, doesn’t get my words.
But I don’t know if any of that is enough. Yes, I love this movie and this script and this character. But do I love her enough to forget about the past and try it all again?
Liz can tell I’m wavering. I know she can because there’s a hint of a smile pulling on her stupidly full lips. “You know you and Jonathan would be awesome together, andhe’d be an incredibly supportive costar.” I open my mouth to speak, but she holds up her hand. “Don’t make any decisions right now. Take some time to think about it. But not too much time.” Her hint of a smile fades. “You heard Kurt.”
“Do you think he was serious about the twenty-four hours?” The thought of losing our funding on this film is a knife to the heart. It took me a long time to fall back in love with writing about love, and ifNo Reservationsdoesn’t even make it to the screen, I don’t know how I’ll push through to write another.
“I think Kurt is always serious.” She hits me with her most formidable stop-being-an-idiot look, one I’ve been on the receiving end of frequently during our many years of friendship. “So promise me you will seriously consider doing this. We need you.”
“Fine. I’ll think about it,” I grumble, happy to put a pin in this whole conversation. “But don’t get your hopes up. I’m sure the right actress will come along just in the nick of time.”
The all-too-knowing smile she gives her pancakes makes me come close to hurling up my own.
—
After we leave the café, I sit in my car for a solid ten minutes, unsure of what to do next. I probably would’ve sat for longer if some asshole hadn’t started honking at me to give up my parking spot. If I’m being honest, I know there’s only one person I really need to talk to about my dilemma. And I’m dreading it, not because I don’t want to talk to her, but because I’m pretty sure I already know what she’s going to say.
Pulling into the driveway of my mom’s house in the Hollywood Hills brings on its usual flux of competing emotions. Her house is adorable and perfect for her and the fresh start she desperately needed after my dad passed away four years ago. It’s also an overpriced reminder that I’ll never step foot in my childhood home again. And although I understand why she needed to leave—not just to escape the memories, but because the house was too much for her to care for on her own—it doesn’t take away the sting of losing one of my last tangible connections to my father.
My parents had the kind of relationship you don’t often see in movies because it’s what happens after the film ends, when the two people so perfectly suited for each other build a real life together. They had a classic showmance, one of the few that lasted well beyond the first movie they ever made as costars, one that landed them on every list of Hollywood’s top power couples. It was easy to write epic love stories when I had my very own example to study. It’s been a lot harder since my mom lost her partner and best friend.
I would sit in my car for another ten minutes here, too, but I know she’s already seen me pull up. If I don’t climb out soon, she’ll have no problem coming outside to find out why. So I trudge up the steep steps to her front porch and push open the door she’s already unlocked for me.
“I’m in the kitchen,” she calls, as if I wouldn’t have been able to easily locate her in the tiny two hundred square feet that comprise her living room, dining room, and kitchen.
I kick off my shoes and sink onto the couch, swinging my feet up on the ottoman that doubles as a coffee table.
“Coffee?”
“No, I’m good. I just had one with Liz.”
She comes in a minute later, two mugs in her hands, passing one off to me before folding herself into the armchair across from me.
“Why do you even ask if you’re going to bring me one anyway?”
“I thought writers subsisted solely on coffee.” She flashes me a smile while trying to disguise her look—you know the one, the one moms level at you when they’re trying to figure out what you’re hiding. When I was a teenager, I hid secret crushes and an occasional bottle of alcohol. As an adult, I stick to hiding my emotions. Not that it ever works.
I ignore her alien brain probing and focus on taking a long sip of coffee, which of course is prepared exactly how I like it.
She clears her throat and raises her eyebrows in some kind of mom power move. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t a daughter just swing by and check on her mother for no specific reason?” I shift my body, angling myself slightly away from her just in case her brain probe is real.
“Yes. But you obviously have a reason.” She sets down her coffee on the side table next to her chair and clasps her hands together in her lap. “Why don’t we skip the song and dance, and you just tell me what’s going on?”
Purely on instinct I open my mouth to argue with her, but then I think better of it.
“Liz wants me to be in the movie.”
