Mom
Big day for my favorite daughter! Call me after. I want to hear everything. Love you so much.
My chest tightens, in a good way. My mom doesn’t gush, exactly, but she never misses when it matters.
She was twenty-two when she got pregnant with me after a one-night stand with a guy on his way to law school on the East Coast. She could have called him. She didn’t. She pressed pause on her own law school plans instead, raised me, and then went back when I started elementary school.
She graduated at the top of her class and then built her own family law firm. And she never once made me feel like I was the thing that derailed her life.
Me
Love you. I’ll call later.
A second text pops up as I hit send.
Dad
See you this morning. So proud of you, kiddo.
I smile before I can stop myself.
Because that extremely prestigious entertainment law firm I’m heading to?
It’s my dad’s.
When my mom found out he’d moved back to LA, she eventually told him about me. I’d just started fifth grade and he had a wife and a baby on the way. Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.
But I’ll give him this, he stepped in without hesitation and hasn’t missed a moment of my life since.
Most people don’t know he’s my father. Partly because I kept my mom’s last name. Mostly because I didn’t want anyone assuming the only reason I made it in Hollywood was becauseRyan Colehappens to be the guy who helped raise me. Don’t get me wrong—I had advantages. A solid education. Connections I could tap if I was desperate enough. A safety net most aspiring writers would kill for. But I also worked my ass off. Every pitch, every draft, every rejection—that was mine. The privilege opened a few doors. My work is what kept me in the room.
When I told him about the FlixPix offer last month, he practically vibrated through the phone. Then he got quiet and said he wantedhisfirm to handle my contract.
Contracts? Legal landmines? That’s where I’m perfectly happy to ride the nepotism bus, right up in the front row.
I take another sip of matcha and push away from the desk. Time to face the other big question: What the hell do you wear to sign your first TV deal?
My closet is a collection of thrifted band tees, yoga gear, vintage jackets, and black. A lot of black. I push hangers aside until my fingers hit the black blazer I bought forpitch meetings. I tug it out and pair it with dark jeans and boots. Professional, but still me, and maybe some writer chic vibes.
Reaching back in for an old band tee I know I have somewhere in my closet, my hand brushes soft cotton. I pull it free without looking.
A faded gray T-shirt.
My heart stutters.
Jake’s shirt sags between my hands, smelling faintly like fireworks and the ghost of a cologne that isn’t really there anymore, but which my brain insists is.
Heat creeps up my neck as the memory crashes in.
His hands on my hips. His mouth at my throat. The easy way he made me laugh. How his eyes, almost translucent in the low light, tracked every move I made, like he’d been waiting for me. How it felt when I pulled this shirt over my head after, skin still humming, and he just watched, looking like he wanted more.
I’d told him it was one night. No complications.
He’d actually listened.
We haven’t crossed paths once since. Not at premieres, not at mutual friends’ parties, not even on social media. It’s like the ground swallowed him up.
Probably better that way. Cleaner.
