At least she put on the extra pair of underwear she keeps in her bag, a necessity ever since the Billboard Music Awards Incident of 2022. It probably says something about her priorities that she keeps underwear in her bag but no water bottle, pen, or scrap paper. She’ll have to work on that.
“If she has a break between her other clients, sure.” Maybe she’s imagining the emphasis onother. Maybe she isn’t.
So she resigns herself to the waiting room, this place where she used to feel safe, imagining Petra and her team had her verybest interests at heart and were doing everything they could to keep her name untarnished. Now even the spiky-edged plants seem overly severe.
“Ramona?”
She turns as former indie darling turned mainstream pop star Arlie J waves to her from across the room. “Arlie? Holy shit.”
Arlie rushes forward to hug her, her patchouli and green tea scent offering immediate comfort. She has this Mother Earth, soft country vibe and a knack for crafting a truly cathartic bridge. The hug is more soothing than it has any right to be, given how anxious Ramona is just being here.
“Congrats on the VMAs,” Ramona says, meaning it.
Arlie brushes strawberry-blond hair curls off one shoulder in the kind of modest way Ramona’s never been able to accomplish. “Wasn’t the same without you there.”
Surely she’s just being nice. Arlie Jaroszewicz is only a year younger than she is, and during the Silhouettes Tour a couple years ago, for the album that had been a huge flop, they were virtually inseparable. A younger, crunchier Kacey Musgraves, the trades called her at first, until her breakout album smashed all those records earlier this year and it was clear she needed no comparison.
“It’s been too long,” Arlie gushes, sounding genuine. “You look amazing.”
Post-orgasm glow?Ramona wonders as she thanks her, though she doesn’t want to bring thoughts of Nick into this office with her. Not his perfect mouth or crooked glasses, and certainly not anything he did with his fingers. No—that memory deserves to be kept somewhere safer, until she can unpack it later and obsess about what it means.
If it means anything at all.
“I hope you’re getting all the R and R you need,” Arlie continues. “Your schedule’s just been hellish the past few years. I can’t even imagine.”
“Your year hasn’t exactly been chill, either.”
Arlie waves this off, like it’s just part of the job. Ramona feels a twinge of jealousy at her ability to manage it better than she ever could. Or she just hasn’t gotten to the rough parts yet—something she instantly feels terrible for thinking, because she wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
But Arlie is smart. There are no family members on her team, and she’s somehow managed to avoid a lot of the overwhelming sexualization that plagued Ramona from an early age. Though she’s relieved for her, she doesn’t understand it. Arlie is objectively stunning, with her natural curls and penchant for curve-hugging denim. From the beginning, Ramona’s narrative was about growing up from children’s TV, allRamona Wilder isn’t a kid anymoreandAre we legally allowed to call Ramona Wilder hot yet?Arlie’s has mostly been about the music.
Sometimes she wonders if any of them would be this famous if they weren’t beautiful, if they weren’t selling their heartbreak and their appearance in the same aspirational package. Because if someone who looked like that could be heartbroken, then maybe life really is equally unfair to everyone.
“Whathaveyou been doing?” Arlie asks. “We’ve all been curious.”
“I’m in school, actually.”
“No shit? Good for you.” Arlie’s phone starts buzzing in her purse, and Ramona can’t even begin to wonder how many unread messages she has. “I have to run, but we should get lunch sometime. Catch up. I’ll call you.”
“Absolutely,” Ramona says as her stomach drops. Lunch with the girl whose career is exploding just as hers is disintegrating, even when that’s what she wanted. She wants to believe they have more in common than this industry, that they’d have more to talk about than music or touring or who’s sleeping with who.
She wants to believe Arlie will actually call her.
Another hug, another waft of patchouli before Arlie drinks her in for an extended moment. “You really do look great,” she affirms. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
The interaction is almost enough for Ramona to forget why she’s really here, at least until the receptionist calls her name.
“Petra will see you now,” he says, and if he had the ability to control the skin between his brows, she imagines he’d look displeased.
On her walk back to Petra’s office, Ramona checks her phone. One missed call from her mother. She has zero doubt it’s about theVarietypiece, and of all the things she doesn’t want to talk about with DeeAnn—most things, really—that’s near the top of the list.
She should probably block the number, but she’s not ready for that kind of finality.
“I have ten minutes before my next client,” Petra says instead ofhello, and that’s fine. That’s all Ramona needs.
She wishes she had a physical paper to slam down, if only for the melodrama of it. “The Zander Parrish article,” she says. It’s the first time in years that she’s said his name out loud, and she hasn’t missed the feel of it between her teeth.
“Ah. Yes.” Petra gestures for Ramona to take a seat. The office is all white and chrome, with giant windows that give the impression they’re towering over all of West LA. Petra’s in aperfectly tailored suit, her sleek black hair chopped to her shoulders. The first time Ramona met her, she was scared shitless. That was how she knew she wanted her on her team. If Petra could inspire that much fear in a client, she could only imagine what she could dofora client. “I was going to call you.”
