Page 142 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Anneliese picked at the pizza box’s edge. “About Bradley. His dumbbells are in the garage.” She looked up. “He’s moving in. Officially.”

Erika set down her pizza and pulled her sister into a hug. “Annie. That’s the best news.” She pulled back, eyes stinging, and not from sadness. “He’s so good for you.”

“He is.” Anneliese’s voice went soft. “He just—he knows when to stay and when to get out of the way. I didn’t know that was a thing until him.” She glanced toward the corner, and the room shifted before Anneliese said anything.

Erika picked her slice back up, more for something to do with her hands than out of hunger.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Anneliese said carefully, “and I want you to know you don’t have to answer.”

Erika’s shoulders tightened. “Okay.”

“Does it hurt? Thinking about him?”

Erika didn't ask which one. “It’s quieter than it was. Less rage.” She looked at her hands. “More like a bruise that stops surprising you.”

Anneliese was quiet for a moment.

“Have you thought about⁠—”

“No.” The word came out sharp. “Whatever you’re about to say—no.”

Anneliese lifted her hands. “Okay. I hear you.”

Erika watched her sister’s face, waiting for the pivot.

“There is one thing,” Anneliese said. “And I know the timing is terrible.”

“Annie—”

“That film exists because of six weeks of your life.” Her voice was quiet, not urgent. “Six weeks of your sweat and your fear and your actual talent, which you’ve been sitting on for so long it’s starting to embarrass me. The premiere is tomorrow.” She met Erika’s eyes. “It’s yours. That’s all I’m saying.”

Not don’t let him steal it. Not prove something. Just: it’s yours.

Erika stared at her sister. They’d both wanted to be seen once. One of them had just stopped believing she was allowed to want that.

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

Anneliese’s smile was small but it reached her eyes. “Lily’s downstairs. She’s had something waiting for three weeks.” She stood, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “No rush. Think about it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Anneliese squeezed her hand once and moved toward the door. On her way out, she set something on the floor without looking back—a sketchbook, cover soft from handling, edges worn smooth. The door clicked shut behind her.

Erika stared at it.

The room went quiet. She sat on the bare floor with tomorrow pressing down.

Yours. The word sat there, unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

The pizza forgotten, she crossed to the sketchbook Anneliese had left on the floor.

Her Bahamas sketchbook. Her hand found it before she'd decided to reach for it. He'd kept this. Kept it, and still found a way to get it back to her.

The cover fell open to his profile—the line of his nose, the shadow along his jaw, the small furrow that appeared when he concentrated. Clinical, she'd told herself at the time. Just proportion and light.

Next page.

His hands around a coffee cup. Too long spent on the knuckles, the specific geography of them. Way too long. Past-Erika had clearly made some decisions about what counted as a worthy subject.