Page 53 of What's in a Kiss?

“We experimented with your lines. You saw the sides. But network wants things status quo.”

I nod. She must be the director. There’s something I wanted changed that I’m not getting.

“Is Olivia here yet?” an impatient—and familiar—voice slices through the set. Aurora Apple charges in and stops before me in a matching turquoise surgical gown.

In this realm Aurora is Dr. Summerlyn Mountjoy. She’s not on Jake’s show. She’s on mine. She’s the star. I’m her sidekick. I exist to make her look good. Heat rolls up my spine like a warning, telling me that in this world as in my real world, I don’t trust this woman.

At least, I find myself thinking, Jake doesn’t spend all day with her.

“I need to talk to you,” she says, grabbing my wrist and pulling me away.

I was obsessed with Aurora as a teenager. I was judgmental of her as Jake’s cohost. But now a surprising emotion tightens my chest. Am I... jealous?

She moves closer to me. “What’s wrong with you? Are youstill pissed about your lines? Didn’t you see my texts? I really need—”

“Quiet on the set!” a call comes from the back of the room. There’s a flurry of activity, quiet bodies darting everywhere. Aurora and I rush to the cafeteria table. A woman who must be my body double clears out of the way and I take her place, sitting across from Aurora under two key lights, a camera inches from my face.

“Action,” the director shouts.

“So how are things with Spencer?” Aurora asks.

Instead of answering, I reach into my gown, look from side to side, and pour liquid from a flask into a plastic cup.

“Josslyn,” Aurora says, “Don’t. We have thirteen hours left in our shift.”

“I found Spencer in bed with a zombie,” I say.

“Again?”

“And right now, that same zombie is waiting for me in E-19. Bullet wound in her right breast.”

“Do you want me to cover for you?” Aurora asks.

“Oh no,” I say and take a long drink from my plastic cup. But instead of reciting my catchphrase as scripted, I decide to improvise. Using my imagined Juilliard training tobe in the moment, I say, “I wouldn’t miss cutting this bitch for the world.”

“Cut!” the director says. She turns away and throws up her hands.

Aurora’s irritated. Muffled laughter leaks out from the crew.

The director comes up behind me, leans down, and whispers: “We’ve discussed this, Olivia,” she says. “If you want this life, you’ve got to say your lines.”

••••••

Lunch break findsme searching for my trailer while casually pretending to be on a stroll. I round a corner and slam into gorgeous Miguel Bernardeau. His hair’s wet, like he just stepped out of the shower. But every other inch of him is firm.

“Hey, Liv,” he says with a wink.

“Hi, Miguel,” I say, surprised that I’m not more starstruck. I wonder if my calm around my real-life celebrity crush has anything to do with my being High Life happily married?

By the time I finally spot my name next to a trailer door, I feel my eyelids closing. If I weren’t so tired from five hours of pretending to be an actor, I’d be thrilled: my own trailer! But right now I need to fall down on the softest private surface.

I unlock the door, step in, and dead bolt it behind me.

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “I’m home.”

In this trailer I find almost everything from my Laurel Canyon bungalow—my childhood papasan chair, my lava lamp, the framed poster ofRomeo and Juliet, the vase I “sculpted” back in high school, filled with a dozen of my favorite flower, the humble pink carnation. I sink into the papasan chair and inhale. It smells like home.

I sit up, a flicker of hope within me. “Gram Parsons?” I say, but no jingling collar answers.

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