“Dylan Page Monroe!”
“Jesus god,” Dylan said, scrubbing a hand down her face. She set her phone on the cream-colored dresser, then tightened her robe’s sash as she went into the hall. She closed the bedroom door as quietly as she could before walking to the front door, where she could see her parents’ silhouettes through the wavy inlaid glass. She flung open the door and fake smiled at Jack Monroe and Carrie Page.
“Dill Pickle!” Jack said, pulling his daughter into his arms. He was dressed in his usual black tee and low-hanging black jeans, chipped black nail polish and ear-length brown hair streaked with gray. Same rocker style he wore in the nineties, same thin frame, just a few more lines on his face.
“Sweetheart,” Carrie said when Jack released Dylan, patting her face. Her mother had a silver pixie cut, heavy black eyeliner, and about a thousand gold chains around her neck, different pendants hanging at different lengths, everything from tiny skulls to weed plants and birds to a heart engraved with the initials JDC.
Jack, Dylan, Carrie.
A gift from Jack a few years ago when they got married.
Again.
“Mom, Dad,” Dylan said. “What are you doing here?”
She tried to keep her voice level, but her pitch was high with panic. Whatever the answer to her question, it couldn’t be good.
“I’m producing the soundtrack,” Jack said. “I thought I told you that.”
Dylan blinked, the wordsoundtracksuddenly a foreign word in her brain. Gobbledygook.
“Soundtrack,” she repeated. “Soundtrack?”
“And we wanted to meet your new girl,” Carrie said as she stepped farther into the house, her black combats clomping loudly on the hardwoods.
“New girl,” Dylan said, because apparently all she could do was repeat words, like a toddler learning how to talk.
“What’s her name?” Carrie said as she lifted a fake orchid from a milk-white vase and smelled it. “Ramona?”
Meaning joined the words, a slow unveiling of the full picture.
Ramona.
Soundtrack.
Laurel’s apologies.
“Soundtrack,” she said again.
Jack grinned. “Pretty cool, yeah? Just compiling artists, though I was thinking about having Jocelyn do an original. Attach a fresh sound to the film, you know?” He wandered around her living room as she spoke, completely clueless about how his words landed.
“Jocelyn,” Dylan said again, still unable to move past repetition. Her mouth was dry, and she couldn’t tell whether her heart was going so fast she could no longer feel it or if it had stopped beating altogether. She wished she were wearing actual clothes, because if so, she’d simply walk out the door, actually fire Laurel, and then find another place to stay under a pseudonym like Black Widow or Jessica Rabbit.
Hell, maybe she’d just quit the movie altogether. Work at Dickie’s. Or the Earthstars Museum. She could get over her trypophobia long enough to sell some tickets. No problem. And she and Ramona could—
Fucking hell.
Ramona.
Her new girl.
Ramona was in her bedroom, sweet and soft and sleepy. And here were Dylan’s parents, two hurricanes ready to blast through everything Dylan was trying to—
You’reina publicity stunt, Dylan.
She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths.
“Breakfast,” she said.
