Two grown men—one dressed as Batman, one as Superman—are engaged in what appears to be a territorial dispute over a specific star on the Walk of Fame. Both are shouting, their costume masks pushed up to reveal red, sweaty faces.
“I’ve been working this spot for three years!” Batman yells, his cape flapping indignantly. “Tuesday is my day!”
“The spot isn’t assigned!” Superman strikes a heroic pose that’s somewhat undermined by his sagging foam muscles. “This is public property!”
A small crowd has gathered, most taking photos and videos rather than trying to intervene. Some tourists are even paying to take pictures with the arguing superheroes, apparently believing this is part of the authentic Hollywood experience.
I find myself laughing—a genuine belly laugh that feels foreign after days of stress and heartache. This absurd scene somehow encapsulates everything about LA—the performance, the hustle, the desperation disguised as confidence.
Is this what I want? To be part of this world of constant performance, of surface-level connections, of Batman and Superman duking it out for tips on a dirty sidewalk?
I find a bench and sit, watching the city pulse around me. In my pocket, my phone buzzes—a text from Zoe asking how the interview went. Another from Mom hoping I’m enjoying LA. One from Maisie telling me I’d better have “kicked ass.” Nothing from Brooks.
The conflicting emotions battle inside me—the lifelong ambition to be more than a small-town weather girl, to prove myself on a bigger stage, versus the comfort of home, of belonging somewhere, of people who know me, really know me.
With this job, I’ll be reporting on major league sports. I’ll have “made it” by any objective standard.
But at what cost?
As I watch Superman finally storm off, leaving Batman triumphant but winded on his hard-won star, I realize something I’ve been avoiding: success means different things to different people. For some, it’s the biggest market, the most prestige, the highest salary. For others, it’s doing work they love surrounded by people who matter.
But wouldn’t I regret turning down a huge network like KSLA? I don’t know if there’s anything left between Brooks and me worth fighting for.
I don’t know if I belong in LA or Dickens or somewhere else entirely.
But I know one thing for certain: wherever I end up, whatever choice I make, it has to be for me. Not to prove myself because of who my brother is. Not for Brooks, or anyone else.
The Hollywood sign looms in the distance, hazy through the morning smog. A street performer dressed as Marilyn Monroe blows me a kiss as she totters past on impossible heels.
Los Angeles. City of dreams. Maybe mine, maybe not.
31
Karma Is My Ex-Boyfriend
SYDNEY
It’s Monday morning, and the familiar squeaky hiss of the station doors welcomes me back to Dickens like nothing’s changed. Except everything has. My mind is still half-trapped in LA’s smoggy embrace—the concrete sprawl, the traffic nightmare, the job offer that could change everything. KSLA. A real sports desk. The big leagues.
I’m supposed to give them my answer today, except I still don’t have one. Actually, I probably do, but I’m in avoidance. I also landed an interview at a great network in Boise. So I have a lot to consider, and it’s a very bad day for Zoe to have off.
But today, I have a sportscast I have to give, so I adjust my blazer and make my way to the newsroom that greets me with its typical chaos—keyboards clacking, phones ringing, the coffee machine gurgling like it’s on lifesupport. Home sweet home.
The first sign something’s wrong comes when Kimberly from Accounting sees me and immediately develops an intense fascination with her shoe. Then Derek, our sound guy who normally high-fives me every morning, suddenly needs to check equipment in the opposite direction. Weird.
“Hey, Priya,” I say to our receptionist, who at least has the professional obligation to acknowledge my existence. “How’s it going?”
Her smile is tighter than Jonah’s skinny jeans from college. “Oh, Sydney! You’re... back.”
“Yes. Glad to be here.” I try to sound casual while mentally inventorying what catastrophe I might have missed. Did I accidentally send everyone a drunk text? Did my car get towed and block the station van? Did someone die?
“How was LA?” Her eyes dart toward Marcus’s office, then back to me with something that looks disturbingly like pity.
So she knows. It clicks in my brain—Donny Dexter and my drunken admission to Zoe.
Oh, fuck.
“It was...” I search for words as my brain short circuits—Batman fighting Superman, smog-hazed palm trees, and a job offer I still don’t know if I want. “Different.”
