Of course, my dad brings up Hollywood—he can’t help himself. He’s always been fascinated with everything that goes into making a movie.
“So,” Audrey says, practically glowing with curiosity, “what’s it like working with Annalise Sterling? That must be incredible. How does someone even get a job like that?”
Miranda chuckles softly. “Well… I’ve known Anna since we were kids, so the way I got the job definitely wasn’t traditional. It just kind of happened. I’m very organized, and I started helping her with little things when we were teenagers. It eventually morphed into something full-time.”
“So what is it you do for her, exactly?” my mom asks.
“Pretty much everything,” Miranda replies. “Scheduling, prepping, lining things up for movie shoots, auditions,premieres… arranging clothes, accessories, travel. Basically, if Anna needs it done, I’m the one who handles it.”
I chime in before my dad can explode with excitement. “She organized everything for the Oscars.”
My dad’s eyes light up all over again. “I still can’t believe you got to go to the Oscars. That is just amazing.”
“It is amazing,” I say.
Miranda looks at me, a warm smile on her face. “He talked about his run-ins with celebrities for weeks.”
Audrey laughs. “As he should! We’ve always been a movie-loving household.”
“I’ve heard,” Miranda says with a shy smile.
“Did you grow up loving movies?” my dad asks her. “Being from Los Angeles and all?”
“Um…” She pauses, thinking. “I don’t know. I guess I never really thought about it that way. I grew up around actors—especially since I was close with Anna, and her parents are very well-known.”
“Oh yeah,” my dad nods. “They’re Hollywood royalty.”
“Exactly,” Miranda agrees. “So I guess it just never felt like something to be fascinated by. It was always just… part of my life.”
“I see,” my mom says gently. “So tell us about your parents.”
The question lands like a stone. Miranda goes still. Her shoulders tighten, her gaze drops to her plate. For a second, she doesn’t breathe.
“Well… it was just my mom and me,” she says quietly. “And then I started helping Anna when we were teenagers and—” Her voice jumps an octave as she abruptly stands. “Does anyone need a refill? More water? Soda?”
Miranda hurries toward the refrigerator. With her back turned, my parents exchange one of those wordless looks.
“I think we’re good. Thanks, though,” I reply to Miranda.
“Oh!” my mom says brightly, expertly changing the subject. “Audrey, tell them about your roommate debacle.”
“Oh my God, yes,” Audrey says instantly, launching into the story. “Okay, so my roommate?—”
Just like that, the conversation shifts. Smoothly. Purposely.
Miranda has her back to us as she fills her glass, her posture stiff, her hands too careful. She’s trying to regulate something—breath or nerves or memories she doesn’t want to surface.
I watch her, feeling that familiar tug in my chest.
She doesn’t want to talk about her past. I should’ve warned my parents not to bring it up, but it completely slipped my mind.
Part of me aches to know the story she keeps locked up tight, the other part knows she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
In an attempt to change the subject, as soon as Miranda sits back down, my mom says, “So I hear Miles is teaching you how to drive.”
Miranda snaps her head toward mine, eyes wide, and laughs. “You didn’t.”
My mom’s eyes dart back and forth between Miranda and me, worried.
