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She used to get like this when she was deeply into her art, so I let it go, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. An hour passes and I need to see her. Talk to her. Touch her.
I grab a plate and stick a few cookies on it, then head to the attic. Jessie’s standing back, looking at her canvas, head slightly tilted. She smiles at me when I reach the top of the ladder.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Almost got it,” she says, slipping right into my arms after I set the plate down. I kiss her and she kisses me back. Some of the tension eases out of me at the soft press of her lips, but it’s not the reassurance I need.
I don’t know what I need from her.
We kiss for a few minutes and maybe that’s enough, but when she murmurs she wants to finish her painting and hints I should go downstairs, I know it isn’t.
This is maddening. I shouldn’t feel this way about her. About anyone. I’m still a mess and—
My phone pings. My agent.
Call me when you have time to talk.
Denise
That’s ominous. I head into Jessie’s room, close the door, and quickly dial Denise.
She cuts to the chase.
“It’s just a rumor, some stuff overheard at various holiday parties, but it sounds likely they will want to recast the role. Fandom loves you and I think we can put some pressure on them not to, but we’d need to start right away. If that’s what you want.”
Shit. Is it? This could be an easy out since I haven’t signed on to any other projects. But then what would I do? I don’t want to move home if it means seeing Jessie after she’s moved on. It hits me like a fist. I can’t move home. Ever.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing because my throat’s suddenly dry. “Okay, what do I need to do?”
“Wrap up your holiday early. I’ll see who’s available for coaching. I’ll call Rose Dashcombe and we’ll brainstorm a publicity campaign but I’m thinking we need to show you are completely devoted to the role and willing to work hard. If we feed the fans, it’ll make the studio think twice about pissing them off. I’ll feel around, see what other opportunities might be out there for you, as a backup, but maybe leverage too.”
Denise talks for a few more minutes, her excitement at taking action clear. Mine is nonexistent, more like a growing sense of dread gnawing on me.
I’m not good enough and the whole world is going to see just how bad I am if they don’t replace me. But what else can I do?
Denise ends the call to start working—even though it’s still the holiday and I tell her she shouldn’t, not on my account.
I find myself in the one place in this house that soothes me—the kitchen.
Celia takes one look at me, and without a word, she opens the fridge, pulls out a skirt steak, and tosses it on the counter. “It’s for fajitas tomorrow. Tenderize it, season it, and stick it in the fridge.” She hesitates, her fingers twisting. “Did something happen with Jessie?”
“No, my job. They want to replace me.”
“Oh.” She sounds relieved, and I try not to let it irritate me. My job is my life and Jessie is just a holiday from it.
Celia leaves the kitchen with a “have at it, then” and I pull out a wooden cutting board and a meat tenderizer.
I’m going back to LA to try to salvage my career and it feels like the wrong decision.
Why couldn’t I have a hobby or a passion or something that I want so badly I have no choice but to go for it?
I bring the meat tenderizer onto the steak with a satisfying thwack.
I’m a directionless, ambitionless disappointment. My parents saw it. Addison too. I wasn’t enough for her. It wasn’t even the cheating, she didn’t break my heart. Just my ability to believe in myself.
Thwack.
Thwack.
