Vivian kept going, desperate to free herself without hurting Bryn. “You’re going to go far,” she said, and hated how much the truth sounded like a platitude. “And you should stop doubting yourself so much. Get a coach if you need one. Not because you’re lacking, but because even your potential is better than most people’s polish.”
Bryn swallowed. “Why does this sound like—” She laughed once, uncomfortable and brittle. “Why does this sound so much like goodbye?”
Vivian’s stomach churned.
“It isn’t,” she lied, because the alternative was saying:If I let you in, I won’t survive it. If I let you hold my face, I’ll start needing it.
She softened her voice instead. Provided gentleness when she didn’t have honesty. “It’s me saying I look forward to watching you do great things.”
Bryn held her gaze like she was trying to will Vivian back down onto the lounger. Back into the moment. Back into the version of the world where people could want each other and not have it cost them something.
When Vivian didn’t move, Bryn’s shoulders sank. “Right.” She couldn’t hide her feelings with a smile too thin to mask anything. “Thanks.”
“You can stay the night if you want,” she said. “If you don’t want to drive.”
Instead of being angry at the sudden shift, Bryn nodded like she saw Vivian regret more than she felt her own rejection. “I’m okay,” Bryn said quietly. “But… thank you.”
Vivian nodded once, as if nodding could stop her hands from shaking.
She turned before she could change her mind. Before she could reach back for Bryn’s wrist and drag her into the house and let the night ruin her.
Inside, the door shut too softly. The hermetic silence rushed in, cruel and merciless.
Vivian closed her eyes when she dropped into the armchair in her bedroom, mouth still aching with the imprint of Bryn’s. Still wanting it.
It was worse. So much worse. Knowing how good it could feel to be close to someone. And knowing, with the same cold certainty she’d built her life around, that it was never hers to keep.
ChapterFifteen
By the timeBryn’s coach said, “Again,” she had already delivered the same line four different ways and hated each one more than the last. “Cleaner this time.”
It took all of Bryn’s self-control not to call for a break. Not to push aside the blankets lining the half-empty closet—half-empty because she’d moved a mountain of clothes to her bed—and crawl out to breathe fresh air.
Sitting cross-legged and sweating, Bryn adjusted the mic attached to the portable desk over her lap. On her tablet screen, Zora Carter peered at her through black-rimmed glasses. Zora was calm like she always was. Giving Bryn lessons while in a gorgeous booth that cost more than Bryn’s car.
Bryn chugged some water and tried to pretend she was working in Vivian’s booth, where she had room to stand and unlimited oxygen.
“Again,” Zora repeated.
Bryn adjusted her headphones to reset herself in the scene. She steadied her breaths and read. “Did I wake you?”
“Not faster,” Zora said, firmly but not unkindly. “Cleaner. You’re thinking about sounding good instead of making an in-character choice. Stop trying to evoke the feeling andfeelit.”
Since she’d started taking lessons with Zora six months ago, Bryn had learned that everything she did was wrong. Her breathing, her speaking, her blinking, her moving. Sometimes it felt like the more she learned, the less she knew, but she wasn’t giving up.
“I am making a choice,” Bryn insisted and tried her best to sound like a professional on equal footing rather than a petulant student.
“That’s exactly it. Bryn is making the choice, but it’s Kiersten in the scene.”
Bryn took another inhale of stagnant, sweltering air. She wanted to ask how she was supposed to hand over her decision-making function to an imaginary person, but knew that Zora was trying to help.
Bryn tried the line again, this time aiming for natural with underlying surprise. “Did I wake you?”
“Stop.” Zora raised a hand before Bryn got to the prose. “Close your eyes.” She waited, then, “Where are you?”
Uncomfortable and frustrated and sitting in my closet.Bryn resisted the urge to be playfully sarcastic.
“The kitchen,” Bryn replied, imagining the ski lodge in the middle of the night. The one her character was sharing with her former sorority sisters during a ten-year reunion. “It’s… it’s late. There’s only the light from the clock on the microwave. I’m… I’m barefoot.”
