It’s a cheerful, high-pitched tone that lacks any boundaries as she removes the covers from my face. The covers that were once shielding me from the blinding light coming from my window.
“What was that for?”
All at once, my head feels that pulsing ache after a dream again, processing in real time that everything I just saw wasn’t real.
“Did you know you snore in your sleep?” Skye shouts as I pull the duvet back over my eyes, refusing to start this day without a sufficient nine hours of sleep. Craving just a few more minutes where I can see more of the actress. The longer I am awake, the details of the dream blur in my mind.
Skye’s bouncing again, because everything on my mattress is moving, refusing to let me drift back to sleep no matter how hard I try.
She has enough pep to make me wonder if they served Red Bull in the afterlife.
“You know, you are nine days away,” she yells emphatically.
“God—ugh.”
My whole body groans. I sit upright, rubbing my eyes to see a little clearer through the light aimed at me.
“Can you shut the curtains, please?” I wince.
It takes me a whole twenty minutes before I can become fully human and start my day of strategic planning, mapping out the most uninspiring questions from the internet. The pitfalls of fame where they care about what you wear and who you date with a sprinkle of trauma mixed there.
I document it all.
She gleams with high energy. “This is your first day of work! Seize the day!!”
Skye is the physical embodiment of sunshine and rainbows, and I want no part of it. She pushes me out of bed with a light shove on her part, moving my feet toward the kitchen, aiming my attention to the coffee maker. Her keen sense of detail about me knows the only thing that can revive me is two Advil’s and a vanilla oat-milk latte.
I barely give her a smile as I turn on the machine. The smell alone after it finishes brewing leaves a satisfied grin on my face.
I’m ready to get started.
An array of pens, flashcards and my laptop are all sitting perfectly in front of me. I begin reviewing my Google Alerts for Holden, scanning every comment section I can find, picking out the most outrageous questions he could be asked and putting them on flashcards.
They all seem to fall into three categories which I narrow down in a color-coded system.
The first being his relationship fallout. I color-code this in red.
The next being his publicized behavior. I color-code this in green.
Lastly, his career reputation. I color-code this in blue.
Each card has a different color based on its category, and once I start, I can’t seem to stop. Even though I’m no longer working at Blackburn Press, I want to see this through for Holden. His brave face is mostly a mask.
We needed to prepare in case it falls.
Skye strolls into the living room, propping up her elbows on the table and resting her hands underneath her chin as she sits and stares at me. I refuse to let myself look up and be completely derailed.
“This will be awful,” I say, displaying all the cards I just wrote down all laid out in front of me.
“Ooo, let me see…” Skye abruptly asks before clearing her throat and reading one off to me.
She takes one in red and reads, “How is Sloane different from Charlotte?”
She barely finishes her sentence when I rip the card out of her hand, checking the card myself for what is listed.
“It does not say that!”
Skye straightens her spine and lifts her chin as I read the real question out loud: “How has Hollywood shaped the way you view relationships?”
