“Well, I watched a lot of my favorite actresses in similar roles and tried to channel what made their performances so compelling. It was a really complex and challenging character, like I mentioned. But working closely with my acting coach helped me bring her to life.”
Sloane giggles, placing a hand dramatically over her chest as if she’s fully in character.
Graham massages the muscles in her shoulders as if he is relaxing a UFC fighter.
“Yeah, my baby is a pro at acting. But enough about us, what are you doing here?” Graham questions.
“Oh, nothing. I am just trying to understand what helped you become so successful. You have had quite a career sinceAll or Nothing. It’s inspiring.”
“Thank you…” Sloane says, even though her tone doesn’t suggest she means it. I can hear the other interviewer gasping and loving every second of this. The remaining paparazzi on the carpet have caught wind of this interaction. Sloane must’ve caught on too, because she is dazzling, giving an “unbothered” grin to the camera again.
Snapping back into performing.
“Well, I know how exciting of a night this is for you too. Thank you for taking the time to answer a few questions of mine. Do what you do best—keep acting.” Their mouths are wide open as I pass the microphone to the interviewer right next to me.
“Weren’t you the girl that stepped on my dress?”
“Yes, Sloane. That was me.”
I drop my smile as the reality of this is now settling in, turning my face flush, obscuring my line of vision as spots form in my irises.
Each flash is aimed at me.
“That’s Holden Strauss’s girlfriend,” one of the cameramen shouts.
“Awe, a girl fighting his battles,” the man next to him yells.
“Someone’s jealous,” Sloane mumbles under her breath.
A sentence that sends me stumbling back into the crowd and escaping the circus freaks. My hands shake uncontrollably as a buzz vibrates throughout my whole body.
I can’t believe I just did that.
On the side of the building, I rip the blistering heels off my feet and walk toward Sunset Boulevard. I don’t look back the wholeway there, walking as far as humanly possible away from the crowds of people.
I think I am going to throw up.
I brush past street performers dressed as Spiderman and Elvis, wannabe rockstars busking with their guitar cases open for tips, more influencers taking pictures in front of a pink backdrop. Everything is fading into an Instagram filter of pinks and whites.
I full-on projectile vomit on the curb, wearing a designer dress that costs more than my rent. Getting everything out of my system.
Nobody around me seems to notice.
I wipe the puke residue off my lips as I request a rideshare. I’ve never been so delighted to breathe in the pungent smell of marijuana and sewage lining the street.
Never been so enthralled to see street performers yelling at crowds who walk by without shame.
Even the trees are reflecting a deeper green and the sky looks more vast than it ever has since I moved here.
LA has never looked brighter.
Chapter thirty-two
Unfinished Business
My fingertips fumble through my purse, searching desperately for the ridges of the nickel-plated surface. This miniature black bag that was designed for someone several years younger than me and half my size.
There’s my phone. My breath mints. My lip gloss…
