by Thea Dawson
Logically, I should let this go the way I would with any other job. In the past I’ve had to dye my hair, shave my beard, wear colored contact lenses, gain weight, lose weight, you name it—and I’ve always said yes. Because you do what you need to do to get the job.
But something about Annabelle has gotten under my skin, irritating me in a way I can’t quite put a finger on.
It takes fifteen minutes on the freeway before I realize that it's because, except for Alex, she’s one of the few women I’ve ever met who hasn’t been bowled over at the sight of me. Even Elsie, who very much had the upper hand in our relationship, never just dismissed me like that.
That’s my problem. On some level, I’m thinking of this as a date, not a role. I expect Annabelle to be impressed because I’m me, and let’s face it, she’s kind of nerdy and kind of needy.
But if she were a casting director or a movie producer who asked me to “tone it down,” I’d throw on a bow tie and geek glasses and be grateful for the chance.
Annabelle’s a client, not a date, I tell myself. I show up, make her look good, she pays me—and hopefully leaves a nice review with Cassandra.
That’s our transaction. As long as I remember that, I’ll be fine.
Nothing seems to be on fire when I walk into the apartment, so I consider that a good omen.
“Alex?” I call out. To date she’s only optioned one screenplay, which may or may not ever be produced, so she earns money as a reader, analyzing movie scripts for a big production company. Her hours are somewhat flexible, so she's often home, but she’s frequently gone all day, too.
“Archer, is that you?” I hear her call from her room.
I roll my eyes. No one else lives here. “It’s Hannibal Lecter,” I call back. “You should’ve locked the door.”
She darts out of her room looking alarmed. “I didn’t actually leave the door unlocked, did I?”
I grin. “No, just having fun with you. How’s tricks?”
She smiles, looking truly happy about something. “I have some good news. How did your interview and the audition go?”
I sit down on the couch. “Audition was fine. Should hear by Tuesday if I got the part or not. Interview was … interesting. Geeky girl needs a hot date to impress family.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like the log-line for a screenplay,” she says, and I can tell she’s considering it. “Is she nice?”
I shrug. I’m still a little irritated by Annabelle’s request to “tone it down,” but for some reason, I don’t want to get into it with Alex. I have a feeling she’ll find some way of taking Annabelle’s side. “Nice enough, I guess. I won’t mind spending a few hours with her. Okay, what’s your good news? Sell a screenplay and make millions?”
Her face lights up. “Trevor’s going to be in town this weekend.”
“Shit, Alex,” I groan. “I thought you’d given up on that loser.”
Her expression goes from excited to crushed in a heartbeat, and I feel like I’ve kicked a puppy.
But that guy …
“He’s not a loser.” There’s hurt in her voice. I should walk away from this conversation now, and I know it, but I can’t.
“He goes weeks without calling you and now he’s suddenly showing up out of nowhere for a booty call? Loser.”
“He’s busy,” she insists. “He travels a lot for work.” Her defensive tone is a warning sign, but I can’t leave it alone.
“He can’t call? He can’t email or text or FaceTime or anything?”
I hate this guy, I really do. For some reason, Alex adores him even though she could do a million times better. He shows up, sweeps her off her feet for a couple nights, then vanishes for weeks at a time. She deserves so much better.
“He has a lot to do.” Her face is dark and she’s not meeting my eyes. “But it’s getting better. And he says he’s thinking about moving to LA so we could be closer. It’ll depend on his work, of course—”
I slap myself on the forehead. She’s a bright girl, but where this guy is concerned, she’s an idiot.
“Alex, he’s married!” I’m getting angry now, not at her but at Trevor, the asshole who thinks that Alex is just here for sex whenever he’s in LA.
She flinches as if I’d slapped her. “He’s not married!” She lowers her voice. “You don’t know anything about him.”
“If he’s not married, then I’d bet anything he’s at least living with someone. Or maybe he’s got ten girls in ten different cities." My voice starts to rise. “Whatever. He’s stringing you along, Alex. He is never going to settle down and get serious about you.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine. “You’re projecting. Just because you’re a man whore doesn’t mean that he is.”
Now it’s my turn to flinch. I don’t love it when she teases me about being a man whore, but she’s not teasing now. She's hurt, and she wants to hurt me back.
I get my voice under control. “I’m concerned about you, Alex. I don’t want you to get hurt,” I say as gently as possible. “I don’t think he’s a good guy.” On some level, I think Alex knows this, but she’s too invested in this joke of a relationship to admit it.
“He’s a great guy,” she whispers. “And I care about him. A lot.” She clears her throat and her voice switches to businesslike. “Listen, I was going to ask if you could find a place to stay for a few days. Trevor’s getting here on Friday night and staying until Sunday, so …” She lets her voice trail off.
So how awkward would that be.
I sigh. I really don’t have anywhere I can stay. Shelling out for a hotel, even a cheap one, will make a nasty dent in my savings account. I’m expecting a couple of checks for commercials I’ve done recently, but they probably won’t arrive until the middle of next month.
I look her in the eye. Her expression is a mixture of defiance, anger, and guilt. She knows that asking me to leave is a jerk thing to do, but she’s probably worried that I might end up punching Trevor, and she’s right to be concerned.
She probably figures I can find another couch to crash on or just pick up a pretty girl and go home with her, but the truth is that I don’t have any other close friends—acquaintances, sure, but no one I’d feel comfortable asking a favor like this. Even Alex doesn’t really understand what a loner I am.
And while I could conceivably sweet talk an ex-lover into letting me stay over for a few days, the thought of putting out just to have a roof over my head isn’t appealing. Been there, done that, hope I've left it behind forever.
It’s one thing to be teased for being a man whore; it’s another to actually be one.
I give her a hard look, hoping she’ll back down, but even if she does, what then? I’ve only met Trevor a couple of times in passing, but I loathe him, and if I’m not wrong, he feels the same way about me. The odds of us making it peacefully through the weekend are slim.
I concede. “Okay. I’ll find another place to crash.” Maybe when we’re both a little calmer I’ll see if I can talk Alex into letting me at least sleep here and just stay out of her hair the rest of the time. But now isn’t the time to push it.
She’s my closest friend—my only friend, really—and I don’t want to mess that up fighting over her asshat boyfriend.
“Thanks,” she mutters. There’s an awkward silence for a moment. Then, “Well, I have to get back to writing,” she says. “I’ll catch up with you later. Congrats on getting that job.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
I watched her head back to her room. She shuts the door behind her. I shake my head.
She’s been involved with Trevor for about six months now. He lives in Seattle—or so he says—and is in LA every few weeks on business. That’s all fine as far as it goes, but in a real long distance relationship, if he really cared about her, he’d be in touch with her between trips. The fact that he’s not—and that he never picks up his phone when she calls him, and hardly ever calls her back—is a huge red flag to me.
He just gets in touch a couple of days before coming into town and she drops everything to be with him.
I’ve tried researching him online, but I haven’t been able to find anything. And I mean nothing, good, bad or indifferent. Which makes me wonder if he’s even told her his real name.
But there really isn’t anything I can do about it if Alex isn’t willing to listen to me. She’s an adult, and the only thing I can do is promise myself that I’ll be there for her when this whole thing goes south.
4
Annabelle
After my interview with Archer, I drive back to my shabby little grad student apartment, which I share with two other students. I dressed up—by my standards—for the meeting, but now I change out of the dress I wore and into the jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers that are better suited to my role as teaching assistant/PhD student.
I pull out my battered suitcase on wheels and pack up everything I'll need for the next few days. The semester has just ended. I’ll be staying at my parents’ house in Bel Air until the party, then we’re all going up to my family’s lake house in San Luis Obispo County for a long weekend. I still have plenty of work to do over the summer—I’ll be a teaching assistant again once the summer semester starts, I'm working on a grant proposal, and there’s always more research to do when you’re in graduate school—but for the next week and a half, I’m on vacation.
I’m looking forward to a break from school, and, although they drive me crazy, I'm looking forward to seeing my family. We’re having dinner together tonight at the house, ostensibly to go over some party-related things, but I sometimes wonder if the party itself is just an excuse so my mother can get all of us under the same roof.
My sisters and I are pretty different, and we don’t hang out together often if we’re not at a family function. It’s hard to imagine myself at a high-end club with Carina or bringing the sophisticated Brianna to a grad student party, where it’s all cheap beer and Stephen Hawking jokes. Still, we love each other, and we get along when we’re together.
I also adore my parents, although to be honest, my mother still has the ability to make me feel like I’m four years old. Maybe all mothers are like that.
To the world, my dad is known as a ruthless business man and tough negotiator, but to me, he’s always just been Daddy. I secretly think I’m his favorite, but I also secretly think that Bree and Carina each think they’re his favorite. He’s the kind of guy who knows how to make you feel special.
It’s less than twenty minutes from my apartment to my parents’ house, but it might as well be light years. Despite my shabby, third-hand car, I’m waved through the security gate that guards the entrance to my parents’ neighborhood by a guard who recognizes me and gives me a big grin. I give him a wave before driving down the wide, quiet street that’s lined with Spanish-colonial-style mansions. Each one has space in the garage for at least four cars, each one has a swimming pool in the back, and each one has rooms that the owners probably never use.
My parents have offered to let me live with them again while I’m in graduate school, but I’m in class, in lab, or at the library so much that it doesn’t really matter where I live. I barely see my roommates as it is. Anyway, I don’t want to be twenty-four years old and still living with my parents.
Still, as I pull into their driveway and get out of my car, I smile and feel a pang of nostalgia as I look up at the place where I grew up. It’s more than just a beautiful house; it’s a home, and I’m always happy to be back.
Archer’s face suddenly flashes before my eyes. I’ve been avoiding thinking about him, but now, staring at my childhood home, I realize that he’ll be here himself the day after tomorrow, and I’m hit with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Excitement that on Thursday night, I’ll be the envy of every other woman at the party—and anxiety that somehow, something will go wrong, and I’ll be found out.
Not being able to come up with a worthwhile date in the first place is pathetic; how much more pathetic would I look if people knew I’d paid for one? I swallow down my discomfort as I pull my bag out of the back seat and head to the front door.
My mother greets me with a hug as I step inside. The foyer is lined with tiles that were specially imported from Spain. Beyond it lies the sunny living room with modern art splashed tastefully on the walls. The effect is like my mother, colorful yet calming, and I feel myself already shifting from stressed-out grad student to my role as youngest daughter.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Bree called a little while ago to say she's running late, but Carina's coming over straight from work, and tonight I'll get to have all three of my girls under one roof.” She gives me a satisfied smile. She loves having her family around. She’s happy that all three of us still live in Los Angeles, but I think she wishes we all lived at home, or at least in the same neighborhood.
Sorry, Mom, but the average grad student doesn’t make quite enough to live in a gated community in Bel Air.
“Tomorrow, it's just you and me, but I thought we might go shopping together, maybe get our nails done. What do you think?” My mom looks at me hopefully.
“Sure, Mom. I'd love to,” I assure her, and I'm rewarded with a happy smile.
Despite—or maybe because of—my mother's high-powered former career, her preferred way to relax is to indulge her frivolous side with days of retail therapy and spa treatments. Her trophy-wife days are also her favorite way to bond with her daughters.
Brianna and Carina seem to enjoy them, but I've never felt quite as at home in the spas and salons and high-end department stores. I find the whole scene a bit tedious, but I have no good reason not to go, and it’s an easy way to make my mother happy.
Mom whisks me up to my room, the one I’ve had since I was a toddler. She’s barely touched it since I left for college, and it’s a little embarrassing to see that it’s still full of awards I won in high school and a teddy bear that my first boyfriend gave me. I make a note to clean it out sometime soon.
“I’m going to have to leave you alone for a bit before dinner,” Mom says as I put my bag down on the bed. “I’ve got to write a few emails before I can call it quits. Will you be okay on your own until Carina shows up?”
“Of course, Mom. That's fine.”
It's perfect, actually. I’ve got a cheesy romance novel packed in my bag—I’d get laughed out of the physics department if anyone there ever caught me reading it—and I’m happy to chill by the pool and enjoy the start of my vacation in the lap of luxury.
Ten minutes later, Mom’s back in her office, and I’m lounging by the poolside, for the moment no longer an overworked graduate student but a socialite on vacation. The blue water shimmers under the late-afternoon sun, surrounded by greenery that blocks any view of the house next to ours, and the air is silent except for the occasional bird call.
Perfect.
I try to lose myself in my novel—there’s an heiress, an arranged marriage, a villain, and an unlikely hero—but I make the mistake of imagining Archer as the hero, and then I can’t get him out of my mind. Those bright blue eyes, that confident smile. I picture him in the pool, imagining smooth skin over rippling muscles. I imagine him lounging next to me, reading aloud, stopping every now and then to feed me grapes by hand. I imagine grazing his fingers with my lips. I’ve never kissed a man with a beard. Would it be scratchy or soft? How would it feel against my cheeks … or other parts of me …?
I sigh and put the book down.
Archer, like the unlikely hero of my romance, is just a fantasy. A bit of eye candy to wear on my arm for an evening, the way my mother sometimes rents lavish jewelry to wear at special events.
Of course, there’s nothing wrong with a little fantasy once in a while … but my thoughts are interrupted.
“There you are! Mom said you were out here. It’s so good to see you!”
I stand up and let Carina hug me. She’s a good seven inches taller than I am, slender and graceful, and I feel like a stumpy little midget
next to her, R2D2 next to Princess Amidala.
Not that Carina would get the reference.
She’s wearing a sheer, bright green flowing wrap thing that does almost nothing to disguise the tiny but tasteful bikini she’s wearing underneath it. High heels in a matching shade of green make her long legs even longer, and her huge eyes are covered by expensive designer sunglasses. I’m wearing a pink floral retro-style one-piece that looked adorable when I bought it but now feels frumpy in comparison.
The thing about Carina is that even if she weren’t tall and slim and gorgeous, she’d still have men eating out of her hand because she’s just so nice. She’s friendly and outgoing and can strike up conversations with anyone. She has absolutely no snobbery or shyness and can talk to a janitor or a movie star as easily as she gossips with one of her sorority sisters. She listens to you like you’re the most interesting person in the world, and she has an incredible gift for remembering details about people. Like my father, she knows how to make people feel special.
As much as I envy her, I adore her more.
She slides into the lounger next to mine with an eager smile. “Okay, spill. Mom says you’re bringing a date to the party?”
My heart skips a beat. It’s time to start acting. I play it cool—this isn’t going to last, after all, so I don’t want to sound too smitten—but I keep my voice casual and tell her that I met a nice guy in a coffee shop a few weeks ago. It’s nothing serious, but he’s cute. An actor. Thought it would be fun to bring him along.
Carina claps her hands, clearly excited for me. “Oooh, I can’t wait to meet him!”
“What about you?” I ask, anxious to talk about something other than myself. “Are you bringing anyone I know?”
She shrugs. “Do you remember Fiona, my friend from college? Her brother just moved here, and she asked me to look after him, so I invited him to the party.”
