“Here’s the deal.” She sat down next to me and patted my hand like a benevolent queen. “You can either keep scrolling through those articles like some self-punishment ritual, or you can do something about it. Submit the story. It’s the best story you’ve written since the one you wrote about your mother when you were in college. Take a risk. If you fail, you fail. But at least you’ll know you tried.”
The comparison hit me like a punch to the chest. My mother. That story had been raw, personal—it had meant something. And after that, what had I done? I'd spent years writing safe pieces. Fiction, sure, but stories where I could hide behind dystopian worlds or other countries or other times. Stories where rejection didn't feel personal becauseIwasn't really in them.
But this story? This was me. My life. My messy, complicated feelings laid bare on the page, even if the names were changed.
The last time I'd put myself out there like this, I'd written about my mother. And now, years later, I'd finally written something personal again. And I was terrified. Terrified of rejection.
I blinked back tears. My one chance at making something of myself was sitting on my computer, abandoned and gathering digital dust.
She spoke again, “Luke asked you to go to LA, right?”
My voice caught. “He did.”
“Then why didn’t you go?” She pressed, her tone sharp as she accepted a patron’s payment, then slammed the register drawer shut. The sound echoed between us. She took a breath, her voice lowering as her gaze met mine. “You’re scared because of your mom. Losing her in Katrina broke something in you. It made you believe that leaving New Orleans would cost you everything. You’ve been punishing yourself ever since.”
I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not scared.”
She shook her head. “Say it again. Loud enough for the people in the back.”
I tried, but the words came out thin, uncertain. “I’m not scared.”
She held my eyes. “Okay, fine. You’re scared, Anna. And that’s allowed. But it doesn’t mean you have to turn around and walk away from something good. You’re honoring your mom by living, not by standing still.”
I was speechless.
Marie Antoinette patted my hand gently. “Don’t let fear run your life.”
I exhaled, nodding. “I understand.”
And I did. A flicker of courage pushed past my sorrow. The first glimmer of a choice: to stayandmove forward, without losing the past.
50
LUKE
The trailer doorcreaked as I slumped onto the worn couch, staring at the crumpled script in my lap. The day on set had been brutal. Gerald had lost his patience hours ago, barking orders into his ever-present megaphone: “Luke, you’re killing me here. Where’s the pain? Where’s the heartbreak? You look like you just lost a parking spot, not your family.”
My co-star, Brielle, had started avoiding me entirely. I couldn’t blame her. Her publicist’s stunt of planting those photos to make it look like we were a couple had caused a lot of tension. I’d called Mabel, furious, demanding she fight back against the narrative. But the damage was done, and now Brielle was done with me, too. Earlier, she’d stormed off, muttering, “Keep your drama off my brand.”
To top it off, the production team had pulled me aside to deliver an ultimatum:“If you can’t nail the monologue tomorrow, we’re cutting it. We need to move on.”
I sat in the suffocating silence of my trailer, scrolling through my texts with Anna. Her words felt like a lifeline, even if they were from weeks ago. I typedI miss you, but my thumb hovered over the delete button.
I stared at the unsent text, then at my reflection in the mirror. The perfect Hollywood image stared back: tousled hair, chiseled jawline, just the right amount of exhaustion to look rugged. I felt sick.
The phone buzzed, and I answered without checking the caller ID. It was Bob. “Luke, great buzz about you and Brielle. People are eating it up. Chemistry off the charts.”
“It’s all fake,” I spit out, my voice cracking. “None of it matters.”
Bob paused, and I could feel his confusion through the phone. “Uh, what?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. I hung up and threw the phone across the trailer, watching it bounce harmlessly off the padded wall.
I chose this,I thought bitterly.I chose my career over Anna. I thought I could have it all, but I’m still pretending.
A knock on the door pulled me out of my spiral. “It’s open,” I called hoarsely.
Topher stepped inside, dressed in a bespoke suit. He looked like he’d just closed a billion-dollar deal, which, knowing him, he probably had. “You look rough, man,” he said, dropping into the chair across from me. “And not in the ‘gritty, tortured artist’ way. More like the ‘guy who spent the night locked in a vending machine’ way.”
