Page 52 of What's in a Kiss?

It comes as an instinct, from a part of me I can’t remember, but which also feels ingrained. Juilliard? Did they train me to learn lines by attaching true gestures and emotions to them? The answer ripples through me—at once reassuring and heart-wrenching.

In real life, all my dad’s death did was break Lorena’s and my hearts. In this life, it seems I learned how touseit.

But use it to do what? Masha and I always thoughtZombie Hospitalwas pure escapist fun, but anticipating actually saying these lines makes me wonder how I’ve done something so unchallenging for six whole years.

The Escalade stops in traffic at La Brea and South Sixth. I look out the window and yelp at what I see. Eli and Masha are seated at a sidewalk two-top outside République. They have two carry-on suitcases by their table. They must be en route to their honeymoon! They’re adorable, sharing an apple fritter, less than ten feet from my car.

Bliss fills my heart at the sight of my best friend. Then it’s replaced by fervor. This is my last chance to clear the air with Mash before she leaves the country for a week.

I try to roll down the window. “Hey!” I tell Philippe, “can you please roll my window down?”

He shakes his head. “Your allergies, Miss O. Natural air not allowed until June.”

“What?” I mean, I do get hay fever, but who gives a shit? I sigh and pick up my phone, relieved to find Masha’s number in my Contacts. I dial, put it on speaker, and watch her. She sees the phone ringing, leans forward to see who it is.

“Pick up!” I shout, banging on the tinted glass. “It’s Olivia! I’m right next to you!”

Contempt crosses Masha’s face. My heart sinks as she shows her phone to Eli, who shakes his head in solidarity like,Can you believe the nerve.

For a moment it looks like she’s going to throw the phone into the street, but Eli takes it from her, slips it into his pocket, and just like that, it’s over.

The traffic moves. Philippe pulls away. I turn and watch through the back window as my best friend turns a new page in her life. And closes the book on me.

Chapter Fourteen

The studio gate slides open and the Escalade drives through. After Masha dissed my call, I pleaded with Philippe to quit the GPS and take me to Santa Monica, to the site of last night’s wedding. Because what was I doing, pretending to go to work in this life? How could I do anything except return to the scene of my reality schism and beg that beach to take me back where I belong?

Apparently, it wasn’t the first time I’d begged Philippe to take me somewhere other than to set, and he was under strict orders to deliver me straight to a grid of anonymous beige square buildings in midcity LA.

He slows before a dark-haired early-twenties woman wearing glasses and overalls, her hair in a topknot. She doesn’t wait for the Escalade to stop before she flings open my door and hands me a key on a metal lanyard.

“As requested, they changed the lock on your trailer,” the woman says. “And Marty has five for you now.” Her body vibrates with busy energy that will not suffer fools. She nods toward a nearby trailer.

I look at the tattoo climbing her forearm—a tendril of poison ivy. Peace, love, and Ivy emoji Riñata. My assistant.

I’d love to call my mom and say I’ve got an assistant, and that somehow kissing Jake Glasswell led me here.

Who is Marty? Hair and makeup?

“Thanks. Ivy.” I glance to make sure I’m right about her name. She’s unfazed as she raps on Marty’s trailer door.

“Glad you survived the wedding,” Ivy says. Before I can reply, before I can question whether Ididsurvive the wedding, Ivy’s skipping down the trailer steps and on to her next errand.

The trailer door swings open, and the redhead dressed in black with turquoise jewelry must be Marty. She squints at me with a trained, omniscient eye. She says nothing, but I feel like she can tell something’s different.

She points me toward the chair. I sit and feel her gaze on my face, my skin, my eyes. Brushes glide swiftly over my skin, her body blocking my view in the mirror. She leans in to do my eyes, narrows hers, purses her lips. The confession—that I’m not myself, that someone needs to do something about it—is forming on my lips when there’s a knock, and Ivy returns to the doorway.

“Is she ready?” she asks Marty, who squints at me once more, mists a spray over my face, and spins my chair away.

I sprint to keep up with Ivy through the lot, through stage doors, down frigid hallways, past crew members in cargo shorts and hoodies, ducking mics and lights, double-Dutching thick black cords. Finally, we stop on a set I’ve seen a hundred times on TV.

Inner squeal, outer cool as I take inZombie Hospital’s cafeteria.There’s a long metal table in the middle of the set, two plates of food. This is where Dr. Mountjoy and my character like to gossip and relax.

A crew member approaches me with a surgical cap and gown. She begins to put them on me. While she’s tying the gown, a middle-aged woman huddles close.

“I know,” she says.

I meet her eyes, dark and intelligent. What does she know? Who is she?

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