“What is at stake? You’re already leaving!” I cry.
“Not me,” she says. “You’ll always have me, no matter where we live or what work we do.” She takes a breath. “I’m talking about your life.”
“My life is great! Well, not at this very second, I have this fucking annoying cousin—”
“Do you even want to move to L.A.?” she blares over me.
A sound comes from my throat, unsure what it’s trying to be. Maybe I don’t want to live in L.A. specifically, but it’s not about the location—it’s about what L.A. will fulfill. I can’t stop wishing to make my family happy. I can’t just extricate a piece of myself that’s been a driving force my entire life. “It’s not that simple,” I say. Words I may as well emblazon on my forehead for the number of times I’ve said them recently.
Her head bobs. “It kind of is. I want to be an environmental engineer. I’m doing what I want, and it’s the right thing, even though it’s inconvenient for people I love. Think about what you actually want, Ana. Because that matters.” Her voice is soft, coaxing. “It matters what you want. And it matters how you feel, whatever those feelings may be.”
Why or how my bones become liquid, I don’t know, but I collapse onto the bed, legs unable to hold me up any longer. My breaths are coming too fast. Tears rush up my throat and down my face, as though Maral’s words have turned a faucet.
She sits beside me, pulling me close, and my body droops against hers like crumpling fabric. The sound of great, heaving sobs fills the room. They’re coming from me.
My chest aches, like my heart is skidding on asphalt, scraped up and raw. I’m not sure how long I cry, but as my sobs recede, my pulse normalizing and breaths coming at a non-alarming rate, I feel lighter. Like I’ve handed half the burden to Maral, and she’s taken it without even a thought, as trusted and dependable as she’s always been. It aches to realize how long I could have had this but denied it.
“Why haven’t you brought this up before?” I ask, my voice breaking on the last word.
“ ’Cause you’re so receptive,” she deadpans, and we both chuckle softly.
I sober quickly, though. I’m a long way from living a new truth. I may never be able to get where I want to be—I may have thrown away the opportunity one too many times.
“I fucked up,” I say. I know she knows what—who—I’m referring to.
She swipes at my tears with her thumbs. “You can fix it.”
I nod automatically. But…“What if I can’t?”
She tsks. “You’re too smart to say something that stupid.” She smiles. “You can do anything.”
Chapter 23
“And it would be more interactive than typical talk shows. Think Jimmy Fallon, with games and challenges and stuff in addition to the interviews.” Mike Logan, Scope’s blond Gen X exec, is animated on the wall-mounted screen. “But obviously you’d be bringing your own brand’s spin to it. We want it to appeal to a diverse viewership, so guests would be people from all communities.”
Nadia’s nod from across the table prompts me to follow suit. She asks questions about the network’s key demographics, showrunners, timing, and other things I don’t quite register because I’m distracted by the cup of weak coffee before me.
I arrived at the Verity offices just before the meet and greet with Scope was set to begin, and Nadia’s assistant, Quinn, offered me refreshments as they herded us into a boardroom with a sleek virtual conferencing setup. One sip of the brew and I left the rest untouched. It wasn’t Quinn’s fault—they weren’t responsible for serving my specific tastes.
But I can’t help remembering that dark roast was served everywhere I went on tour. All because Ryan made sure of it.
I shouldn’t be thinking about coffee right now. I should be focused on this meeting, given how hard I’ve been gunning for it. And yet, my outsides fly on autopilot while my insides tie themselves in knots.
“We’ll stay in touch,” Logan says, wrapping up. “Oh, and our studios are in L.A. I assume you’d be cool to move here—nothing keeping you in New York?”
I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out. The words seem stuck in my throat. As if by divine intervention, a cacophony of cab horns blasts from Madison Avenue below.
Nadia pipes up. “Ana can’tstoptalking about moving to L.A. Year-round sunshine—what’s not to love, am I right?”
“Great,” he says. “Looking forward to seeing you in action tonight. Our network head will be tuning in to the livestream too. He’s the one who green-lights new shows, so…no pressure, but y’know.”
I finally find my voice. “I thrive under pressure,” I say, smile immovable.
We end the call and Nadia leads me back to her office, where I roost on a mint-green guest chair across from her incongruously old-fashioned desk.
“I didn’t want to distract you with this while you were on tour, and I know things are a bit fragile now with Maral’s exodus,” she says, “but I’ve been getting tons of interest from publishers sniffing about a potential second book. It went into overdrive when you hit theNYT.”
My instinctive response at the prospect of writing again is excitement. Ever since the talk with Maral yesterday, I’ve been brimming with ideas for a follow-up. Maybe as a way of processing the host of new thoughts and feelings she stoked in me. I can’t help but feel like writing again will be good for me—help me connect with myself in a way I never really have.
