“Wasn’t it?”
“No,” he snaps. “Of course not. I didn’t—what I’m trying to say is—there’s nothing wrong with being famous for—for—”
“For what, exactly?”
“For being famous, I guess.”
Lilly’s eyes flash. “I knew it! See, that drives me up a tree when people say that, ‘famous for being famous.’ What does that even mean?”
Will feels his face get warm. “It means—”
“Because my father got famous for starting a chain of successful Italian restaurants that had a commercial that people found memorable,” she interrupts, ticking the list off on her fingers. “My sisters Kit and Olivia are brand ambassadors, which is in fact an actual job, regardless of what you might think of it, and one that they’re extremely talented and savvy at. June sits on the board of an animal welfare foundation that’s raised millions of dollars for abused and neglected dogs and cats, not that anyone ever talks about that because she also likes to get dressed up and go to parties on the weekends. And Mari... well, fine, nobody really knows what Mari does, exactly, but that means that you don’t, either, so. I would argue she should be exempt from whatever judgy bullshit you’re putting on the rest of us.”
Will sputters, cowed. “And you?” he can’t help but ask, trying to recover. “What did you get famous for?”
Lilly fixes him with an expression of deep loathing. “You heard your friend Caroline,” she says evenly. “I got famous for killing my boyfriend.”
Right away, he feels about two inches tall. “Lilly—” he says, and he’s about to apologize again—properly this time, he tells himself—when she cuts him off.
“Do not play with me about my sisters, Will. I will fight you, and I will win.”
Will smirks at that, even though he knows it’s only going to make her angrier. She just looks soserious, like she’s fully intending to take him out to the parking lot and stab him in the carotid artery with a hairpin to defend the honor of a family whose principal contribution to arts and letters, so far as Will understands it, is a viral video of four-sevenths of them getting into a physical altercation with an Uber driver outside a Sweetgreen in Calabasas.Her loyalty would almost be admirable, if he wasn’t so annoyed. “You know, not for nothing,” he tells her, “but you’re awfully indignant about my failure to respect the many accomplishments of the Benedetto family for a person who purposely didn’t mention she was one of them.”
“I literally told you my first and last name, asshole!” Lilly looks incredulous; still, by the way her shoulders straighten Will can tell he’s hit a nerve.
“And when you said you were a writer?” he presses. “I guess I didn’t realize we were counting Instagram captions.”
Lilly’s eyes flash. “Fuck you,” she says. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Unlike the millions of social media followers who are privy to your every split end and cold sore.”
“Wow.” She barks a laugh. “You are really a miserable snob, do you know that?”
“I do, actually,” he counters. “But at least I’m honest.”
“Oh, is that what you’d call it?” Lilly fires back. “Because it sounds to me like you’re too much of a tight-ass to admit you had a little itch for a Benedetto sister, so now you need to compensate by being a complete and utter dick. I’m working on a novel, not that it’s any of your business. And my Instagram captions? They’re works of fucking art.”
Will opens his mouth, closes it again. Opens it one more time. He wants to keep fighting with her. He wants to back her up against the wall. She’s not wrong, clearly—he does have an itch for her. He’s got more than an itch for her, potentially, but he’ll audition for the Whitney Houston role in a genderbent remake ofThe Bodyguardbefore he ever says that out loud.
They face off like that, neither one of them saying anything.Both of them are breathing hard. Just for a second Will lets himself imagine doing it: wrapping a hand around her waist and pulling her even closer, pressing his mouth against hers. He can tell she’s thinking about it, too—the way her lips have parted, her haughty chin just barely tilted up. He takes a deep breath, ducks his head—
—and catches nothing but the faint smell of citrus as she skirts neatly, nimbly away.
“Better luck next time, Birdman,” Lilly tells him, then turns on her heel and slips back into the warm, crowded bustle of the dining room. Will stands and watches her go.
***
Back at Charlie’s house there’s a big, padded envelope waiting for Will on the doorstep, another package from his sister Georgia at home in New York. Ever since he came out here she’s been sending him shit from Amazon what feels like every other day—sunscreen and undershirts and an expensive insulated tumbler for iced coffee even though caffeine gives him heart palpitations. He’s not entirely sure what her deal is. Also, he’s starting to run out of room.
Tonight it’s an enormous box of PowerBars, like possibly she thinks he’s going to climb K2 really quick before the movie starts shooting. Will dutifully puts them away in the kitchen cabinet, texting to thank her on his way up the stairs.
Georgia texts back immediately, just like always:How was your dinner thing?she wants to know.
Will frowns.How did you know I was at a dinner thing?
I saw you in the background in Charlie’s insta stories.Then, a moment later:You need a haircut.
Upstairs in bed he tosses and turns for hours, throwing theblankets off and pulling them on again. Telling himself he’s not thinking about anyone in particular at all. Finally he gets out of bed, shivering at the blast of cold air piping in through the floor vent. Charlie’s house, like everything else in California, is violently air-conditioned, and the chill of it always gives Will the uneasy feeling that his body is being forcibly preserved for some later purpose, like organ donation or a hungry giant’s Christmas feast. He opens the window and sticks his head out, but all he smells is chlorine from the pool and the scent of some far-off burning.
