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I haven’t been in charge of my own life in a long time. Not my career, not my friendships—not even the state of my own dang-blasted virginity.
For God’s sake, an almost thirty-year-old woman should be sexually awakened. She should be in tune with her wants and needs and go after them with confidence. She shouldn’t have to answer to anyone about who she’s sleeping with or why she’s doing it or if she’s done it before.
I shiver involuntarily as the moisture invades my skin and trickles deep into my bones.
Shit. I have to get out of the rain before I’m too sick to start filming my new show, Highlander, in a few days.
Not only is it an opportunity of a lifetime—I’ll be working with the best director, producers, and costars in the business—but I’m contractually obligated to come as I am, so to speak. Same weight, same hair, no plastic surgery—other than any I might have already had, of course—and not carrying a virus or bacteria or plague of any kind.
Running through the rain in search of alcohol is almost decidedly not a responsible career move, but I’m doing it in the name of self-care.
And avoiding prison. And saving the lives of others.
Honestly, it’s very complex. But important.
Very important.
Man, I need to find some booze.
Ducking back out from under the awning in front of a one-hour dry cleaner, I take to running again. It’s not for another entire block—and a whole mental rant about this city supposedly never freaking sleeping and the consequences of lies—before I spot a neon sign that promises solace in the bottom of a bottle.
It also, upon approach, thankfully seems to be the kind of establishment that doesn’t see a whole lot of Hollywood fanfic-ers with closets lined with pictures of me. The wooden door is worn and the once-maroon awning above it faded to a mauvy pink.
I really need the kind of anonymity this city is supposed to provide tonight, and this place seems like it survives on very limited patronage.
I step under the awning and up to the heavy wood door without even reading the name—the word “bar” is all I need to see—and wring out my sopping wet shirt at the hem. It stretches and crimps like I used to style my hair in the nineties, but I don’t care.
It doesn’t matter if I paid an obscene amount of money for it—it has no actual value. If I’d gotten it from my grandmother or something, then I’d cry.
As it is, all I have from my grandmother is a genetic predisposition for breast cancer. Apparently, she was a real hag.
I know that sounds harsh, but from what I hear, it’s a really generous reduction in terms. Prior to their split and practical abandonment, my parents had one common stance: hating my grandmother. My mom refused to talk about her, but my dad would talk about her all day long if given the opportunity. Cantankerous, self-centered, dysfunctional, and downright destruction-oriented, he’d say.
I thought at first, when I was young and naïve, that maybe they were exaggerating or that she’d only turned that way as a result of the death of my grandfather.
But on the one occasion she babysat for me—an act of desperation by my parents when my brother broke his arm and they had to take him to the hospital—she took me to my grandfather’s grave. I thought it was sweet, her missing him so much she wanted to visit.
Until she spat on it.
I’m talking loogie-hocking, full-fledged phlegm wad spat right in the center of his tombstone.
Splat.
It was freaking unbelievable to witness.
I was never a tattletale, but for a seven-year-old, being an accessory to spitting on the grave of a loved one was too big to keep to myself. So, as soon as my parents got home, I told them what happened…and I never saw my grandma again.
Maybe it was for the best, but sometimes, on days like today, I wonder if she was really as bad as they say or if she’d just had enough of the world.
Maybe a little of her influence would have been worth it.
But seeing as she died several years ago, I’ll never get the opportunity to give a relationship with her a shot.
Rest in peace, you old bird. Send me a sign occasionally, would ya?
I shake out my hair like a dog, completely unladylike and fucking liberating as hell, and a victorious smile creases the corners of my lips as I pull the door open to step inside.
Hallelujah! I have officially made the greatest escape in the history of great escapes. Even Houdini has nothing on me tonight.
A few patrons turn to look over their shoulders, but other than that, they ignore me. It’s the nicest feeling in the world.
I step up to the bar and pull out the only thing I brought with me—a plastic card emblazoned with my agent’s name.
