Under Bryn’s text was the tiny, vicious status update:Read at 2:12pm.
No reply.
ChapterSixteen
“You have to go,”Iris proclaimed, leaning over the kitchen counter across from where Vivian was drinking tea.
Vivian blinked. “The only things I have to do are pay taxes and die.”
“Oh, we’re dipping into melodrama now?” Iris laughed, hand tucked under her chin like tormenting Vivian was her new pastime. “It must be worse than I thought.”
Narrowing her gaze, Vivian let her silence, and slightly lifted brow, do the talking. When Iris refused to elaborate with more than an I’m-so-amused-with-myself smirk, Vivian set down her cup. “If you want to speak in riddles?—”
“You’ve been moping.” She lobbed the accusation like a stink bomb.
Vivian dodged it with little effort. “I don’t mope.”
“Moping,” she repeated with the finality of an executioner’s swing. “And youshouldgo because those awards are a big deal?—”
“I’ve been nominated before,” Vivian countered.
“Not in the last three years. Never in thebook of the yearcategory.” Iris spread her hands, miming lights on a marquee. “And never with someone you like as a co-narrator.” Her eyes shone like a damn lighthouse when she referred to Bryn, even if not by name.
Vivian’s hackles hit the ceiling. “I don’tlikeher.”
Iris chuckled. “Uh huh.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay,” Iris infused the two syllables with so many accusations it was a wonder they fit in her mouth.
“Iris,” Vivian snapped.
“Vivian,” she volleyed.
“Why are you being like this?” Vivian crossed her arms.
“Why am I proud of your talent and achievement and want you to roll into those awards and win?” She laughed. “What a c-word I am.”
“I don’t remember you lobbying for me to go when I skipped every other year.”
Iris exaggerated the effort required to ponder. “And what could be different now?” She gasped. “Oh, I know, we’re back to the moping.”
“I—”
“Vivian, I know you believe your own BS, but I don’t.” Iris straightened, playful energy extinguished. “You miss Bryn. And that’s because despite your best efforts, you liked her as a person and colleague. And you’ve probably missed having someone around the house who you could connect to like that, and now she’s gone, and you’re lonely.”
“You make me sound like a tragic Victorian shut-in.”
Iris smiled, warm and loving. “If the fainting couch fits,” she said with a wink.
For a brief and nauseating moment, Vivian tried to imagine herself getting on a plane, enduring the indignity of commercial air travel, and getting all of her luggage to the hotel. Walking through a lobby packed with so many of the same people who made Hollywood toxic. Their eyes on her, their whispers around her. Grubby, hard hands reaching out to touch and shake and squeeze.
“You’re catastrophizing,” Iris said gently.
Vivian didn’t argue. She took a steadying breath instead. Was she envisioning the worst possible scenario? It didn’t feel like it. It felt like a lifetime of memories rushing in to warn her at once.
She was back at her first major awards ceremony. Nineteen and nominated for a best supporting Emmy. She’d made it nearly to the end of the red carpet after enduring a million prying eyes and blinding flashes and comments on her appearance. She’d even made it through several unwanted arms wrapped around her for photos.
