Under the Lights

“Keep it down!” she whispers fiercely. “And stop thinking you’re so above it all. For your information, this ‘shit’ is an incredibly rare opportunity. All you had to do was let a few cameras follow you around while you live your life. You make it sound like that’s the hardest thing in the world. You have no idea what is to really work. You’ve never served plates of grease to truckers who try to stick their hands up your uniform, or walked miles in the mud because your family’s only car broke down. You should be thanking your father and me every damn day that this is all you know.”

I can’t even remember the last time I heard my mother acknowledge her life before Hollywood, and I’m so stunned by it now, I don’t even know what to say.

Of course, Chuck does. “That was great,” he says, emerging from I don’t even know where with a huge smile on his punchable face. Marsha turns flaming red at the realization that this entire conversation was caught on camera, and I almost can’t blame her.

Almost.

Because this is what she signed on for. This is what she signed me on for. And it’s ab-fucking-surd.

“Unfortunately, the lighting isn’t great in this corner,” Chuck continues, as if he hasn’t just interrupted the most honest conversation I’ve had with my mother in years — maybe ever. “Let’s try this again in a separate room. Yvette, you can be sitting on the couch and Josh can come find you?”

“Dude, are you kidding with this shit?” I demand. “We’re not—”

“Fine,” Marsha says flatly, all the fight draining from her face. “Let’s go. There’s a den I’m sure Lisa will be happy to let us use.”

Of course she’s on board. Of course she is. I open my mouth to blast them both, but Chuck cuts me off. “Hey, Josh, can I talk to you for a sec?”

I glance at Marsha, who’s already smoothing down her hair for the reshoot, and roll my eyes. “Whatever.” I’m bolting straight out of here to get blitzed, anyway, so may as well hit rock bottom first.

He waits until the camera guy has Marsha out of earshot, then says, “So, you’re thinking of hitting the road, huh?”

“Do people seriously still say that?”

Chuck laughs. That bastard always laughs. It’s maddening. “Where is it you’re planning on going?”

“What’s it to you?”

“What if I said I thought we could work something out?”

“I’d say I highly doubt it.”

“Look, Josh, let’s be real for a minute. I know you can’t afford to send yourself on some world tour right now, and Mommy Dearest ain’t gonna help you after you get this show canceled, which is obviously gonna happen without you in it.”

“What’s your point, Chuckles?”

“We start with six episodes. Just Josh Chester being Josh Chester, giving a glamorous insider look at some of the most gorgeous locations in the world. You get your travel budget, and we get the stuff that’s actually been working for this show.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

“Am I?” He raises his eyebrows.

“Yes. You are.”

But I don’t walk away.

And neither does he.

And despite myself, I grin.

And so does he.

And I wonder which of us just made a deal with the devil.

Chapter Twenty-Four Vanessa

I clean up as much as I can while I wait for Bri to show up, but the truth is, there isn’t much there. I hate how unsettled my apartment looks. When I walked Ally around it on FaceTime, she said it looked a little serial-killer-y, and now that’s all I can think. The only décor is a couple of framed pictures on the end tables and a couple of my favorite detective novels on the lone bookshelf. I couldn’t fit much into my little car, so I let clothes take top priority, but now I wish there was some semblance of personality here.

Something to make Bri wanna stay.

I don’t even have any food to offer; there’s nothing in my fridge but mustard. But after half an hour, I start to think I’m worrying over nothing; she’s not going to show up. Somewhere in between when we left yoga and now, she changed her mind and realized my mess of a life and immature, inexperienced ass aren’t worth it, and—

Buzz.

I wipe my palms on my denim mini and answer the door, my insecurity about my apartment increasing by about a billion. But when she walks in without saying anything and drops onto the ugly beige couch that came with the place, I realize even when she looks around, she isn’t really seeing anything at all. I take a seat opposite her, on the overstuffed armchair that’s become my only happy place in the apartment, and curl my legs up underneath me.

“Do you want a drink or anything?”

She lifts her water bottle. “I’m good, thanks.” She doesn’t drink from it, though. She just picks at the label, her eyes on the threadbare rug, her lips pressed together. “You never asked about when or how I came out.”

“I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to. It seems like the kind of thing that should come out in its own time.”