“Did what?” Toby asks. “Hang out in a bar?”
He’s kidding (I think). But the truth is, it’s been a while. In LA, people love to act cool, pretend like they don’t see you when you’re easily recognizable. But spend enough time in a restaurant full of subtle picture-taking, hidden gesturing, and furtive glances, and it starts to feel like someone’s screaming, “HEY, I KNOW YOU,” directly in your face.
The paparazzi are predictably frustrating. They’re paid to catch every unflattering angle as you walk out of Porto’s with a box of pastries or sip a green juice outside of an Erewhon as you eat a struggle salad between playdates. And they’re damn good at it.
In the years between my last movie and these past few months, I was getting by with far more anonymity than I ever had. But as much as I tried to avoid reading about myself online, coming across the occasional article about how I was a “former star” who had “let herself go” never got easier. It’s inevitable, though, when you were once a bright-eyed child star and then an action hero, and now you’re neither.
Being here, where I blend in, is better than that anonymity. Back in LA, I sometimes felt too unseen. Too human amid all the bright and shiny stars. Out here, no one seems to give a shit about the fame I once had, except perhaps a cheerful interest like Shelby has. For the most part, people look at me like I matter just as much (or as little) as everyone else.
“Surely you have bars inLos Angeles,” says Shelby, putting on a strong Appalachian accent.
“We do,” I laugh. “But between parenthood and the LA of it all, I don’t remember the last time I had a beer.”
“You don’t drinkbeer?” Toby’s eyes go wide, his bushy brows shooting upward.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Sounds miserable. Good thing we rescued you,” he says. He drains the rest of his last glass in one long gulp, lets out a loud belch, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before moving on to the fresh one.
“I’d love to visit LA,” Shelby says dreamily. She says something else after that, but I have no idea what. I am completely distracted by the fact that beneath the table, Jesse’s palm has slid an inch to the right, closing the space between our hands. His pinkie finger brushes against mine, then lifts to stroke over my knuckle. I inhale sharply, casting a look in his direction. His eyes stay straight ahead, his neutral expression revealing nothing.
“—and that’s why I couldneverlive there. Kinda like New York,” Shelby concludes.
From the context clues, I give what’s hopefully an appropriate response. “I never blame people for saying that. It’s a hard city to love.”
“So why stay, then?” asks Shelby.
Alcohol loosens her lips in an endearing way. If I thought she had no filter before, now she’s even less guarded. Next, she’s going to ask how much money I have.
And considering how hard she is to turn down, I’d probably tell her.
“What do you say we order some food?” Jesse asks, saving me from having to explain my life choices. Which is good, because I’m starting to wonder when I stopped making them.
He keeps his voice casual, like it’s totally normal that his pinkie is tracing a dizzying path up and down mine. With his free hand, he flips over the plastic menu in front of him, studying it as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. As if we aren’t carrying on a secret world beneath the table, where he’s sparking my entire body to lifewith the faintest touch. He’s barely laid a single finger on me and yet I’m so turned on that I can feel my heart hammering against my sternum.
“Hell yeah, I’m starving,” Toby agrees. “What are we thinking? Wings? Mozz sticks? Fuck it, let’s just order the whole appetizer menu.”
A waitress appears at our tableside and orders are placed. I’m pretty sure I requested something moderately healthy, purely out of habit, but the world has gone a bit fuzzy. The only thing I’m fully aware of is Jesse and the secret affair we are carrying on beneath the table. At some point, he’s moved his entire hand on top of mine, interlocking our fingers. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and I return it with a less gentle squeeze of my own.
“So, Marissa,” Shelby says. “Now that we’re basically best friends, I have lots of questions.”
Toby snorts, and his wife shoves him with her elbow.
I blink the room back into focus, then give her a reassuring smile. Snap out of it, Marissa.There are two other people at this table.
“We’re definitely best friends,” I agree. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything about Hollywood, of course. Is it as glamorous as I imagine it? Which actors do you hate the most? Are you ever going to do another Felicia Fox movie?”
I smile back at her. Bless this woman for not asking about Rocky and Rayna.
“Parts of it are glamorous,” I concede. “Nice clothes are nice. Great food is great. Getting picked up at the curb instead of at the rideshare carousel at LAX is life-affirming.” I realize I sort of lost her with the last one but push on regardless. “But other parts of it are less so. I’ve worked with a lot of good, talented people.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “All of them?”
“No,” I admit. “Not all of them. There are a lot of flakes andfakes in LA. That reputation is very well-earned. But no, I doubt I’ll ever do another Felicia Fox movie. It’s been eight years since the last one came out and I think where franchises are concerned, it’s best to quit while you’re ahead. Plus, it’s hard to pee in a superhero suit.”
“Wow, I can’t believe it’s already been eight years.” Her brow furrows. “And you haven’t made a movie since, right? Why is that?”
