“I just wish everyone was so understanding,” Nadia adds ominously.
A cavern opens in my belly. I’ve seen a lot of unsympathetic people spouting off this morning, but it sounds like she’s referring to something specific. “What happened?” I ask.
Maral’s face is grave as she perches beside me on the edge of the bed. I put the phone on speaker.
“I’m here too,” Mar says. “So’s Shanthi.”
“Hi, girls,” Nadia says, all friendly. “Listen, this is not the level of setback you think it is—”
“Just tell me,” I say a little too stridently.
“Craig Waters has postponed the meeting tomorrow.”
The cavern in my stomach fills with scorpions, and I fold in half. “Postponed,” I say, as if testing the word in my mouth. We’re in L.A. for only one full day—we have to leave Saturday to make it to Boston for the next event. We can come back, though. After the tour wraps, I can fly back out. No problemo. “Till when?”
She hesitates for only a beat, which is an age in Nadia time. “Indefinitely,” she says.
Fuck.
“So it’s not postponed, it’s canceled,” I say, tone petulant.
“Postponedwas the word they used. It’s possible they’ll be willing to pick the conversation back up again when this blows over.”
How long will that take, though? And by the time thisblows over,who’s to say that Waters won’t have moved on to some shiny new potential host? Hollywood is fickle, and I’m under no illusions that my glitter won’t wear off quickly. If it isn’t permanently tarnished already.
Kill me.
Nadia sighs. “They’re concerned about their image—they want to project wholesomeness.”
“I can be wholesome,” I say.
“They follow your socials—they’ve seen the tags. They’re not interested in any kind of sexual controversy.”
The scorpions have run amok, lesioning my insides. I melt back onto the bed, throwing an arm over my eyes.
The worst part is: I get it. As someone whose whole career is predicated on beingseenonline, I understand the outsized role image plays in public perception. It’s theentiretyof the role. And as someone who pinned her dreams on a network television show, in Los goddamn Angeles of all places, I should have known what an important role my image would play in achieving that dream.
I’m not embarrassed about having a sex life, but having one with Ryan was always going to be objectionable. I knew that. I thought about the risk to his job, thought we’d be in the clear so long as nobody found out (womp). But it was shortsighted not to think about the risk to my own future if it were to get out.
A future that’s feeling more and more like a mirage, hazy and indistinct, fading away on the horizon.
Fantasies that have taken shape in my mind since I formulated the talk show plan begin to dissolve. Revealing the news to Mom by showing up on her doorstep with moving boxes. Her delight at the prospect of living in L.A., of living in the same city as me again. My delight in finally bringing her happiness, gratification. Her shouting from the rooftops that her daughter is going to be on television.Ana was right to choose this path—she’s made it. Everyone can see she’s made it. There’s no gray area, generational or cultural divide, no doubt whatsoever. She is a success.
Her father would be proud.
I use my sleeve to swipe away the moisture gathering in my eyes, my breathing too loud in my ears.
Thankfully Maral has taken over the conversation with Nadia, wrapping up the call. I mutter a half-hearted thank-you and goodbye, forcing my mind to regain some composure.
Mar hangs up, casting sorrowful eyes on me. “I’m so sorry, Ayn.”
This angel. Here I am, having ruined our mutual future because I couldn’t keep my grabby hands to myself, and she’s apologizing to me. “No, Mar,I’msorry. I’m sorry I squashed our dream.”
I wrap her in a hug, but she’s stiff for a moment. I don’t blame her—of course she’s mad. But then she relents, putting her arms around me.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I whisper into her hair. “I’ll fix this.”
I feel her shaking her head in the crook of my neck, and she pulls back. “No, you don’t have to fix anything.”
