Page 56 of What's in a Kiss?

My eyes fill with tears.

“Dude, you okay?” Her concern is just genuine enough, and I’m just traumatized enough that I let it all pour out.

“I’m having a hard day,” I say through a heaving sob. “I’m not sure what I’m doing. Or why—”

Fenny laughs, looks around at the set. “Believe me, I know how you feel.”

For a moment I wonder if this is a widespread problem, if no one’s actually from here? Maybe we’re all from other worlds. Wewake up one day in this strange place with no visible escape, so we keep our heads down and try to blend in, flying by the seat of our unfamiliar pants?

“I mean,” Fenny says, “I interned for Jez Butterworth! I dramaturged for Tom Stoppard! Now I’ve spent seven years in sweats on Skylark Lane, writing single entendres for a puerile doctor show.”

“Ah,” I say, seeing Fenny’s complaint for what it is. “Good old art versus commerce.”

“Everyone says how lucky I am, but I can’t help asking myself,” she pauses, before imitating David Byrne: “How did I get here?”

“How do I work this?” I talk-sing, vibing with her.

“This is not my beautiful house,” we say at the same time, breaking into laughter.

“No one’sseenme here yet,” I confess.

She nods, smiling like she’s trying to understand but doesn’t quite get it, and that’s alright. It makes sense that Fenny’s friends with Masha. She’s cool. Open.

“Are you waiting for Philippe to take you home?” she asks.

I was waiting for him, but now it hits me that Ivy would have instructed the driver to take me to Grauman’s, the premiere. And I learned the hard way this morning that Philippe’s not one to improvise on the road.

“I’ve got a thing all the way out in Santa Monica. I was just going to”—I smirk at the irony—“call a Lyft.”

“I just moved to Venice,” Fenny says, fishing her keys out of her bag. “It’s a teardown and a long story, but probably near where you’re headed. I could drop you on my way?”

Chapter Fifteen

A half an hour and three construction-related detours later, Fenny and I have traveled less than a mile toward Santa Monica. Now my second sunset in the High Life is softening the sky, and I’m nowhere near smoking that joint and vanishing into a wormhole on the beach.

“What the hell! No way,” Fenny says. “This detour’s taking me up to Hollywood and Highland?!”

I cringe. Hollywood and Highland is synonymous with gridlock. It’s the Bermuda Triangle of LA tourist traps—the Walk of Fame, the Wax Museum, and worst of all... Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

Where Jake is expecting me in less than twenty minutes.

“Do you ever feel like the cosmos is fucking with you?” Fenny asks me as we settle into a lane hemmed on both sides by orange cones.

“It’s more than a feeling.” I peer through the windshield at the standstill traffic, praying this detour will not take us directly past whichever red carpet my fake husband is on. I let my mind follow the worst-case scenario, glancing down at my jeans and leather bomber. I’m still in my clothes from set. Not dressed to be immortalized on Getty Images with Jake.

At least my hair and makeup are done?

No red carpets! If I need to duck down to the floorboard until we’ve passed Grauman’s, I will.

Sirens sound behind us. All the cars in all directions with absolutely no place to go start honking. Fenny clutches her temples.

“I should have let you get a Lyft,” she says apologetically. “I’m a little cursed these days.”

“And I thought it was me,” I say, and she laughs. I’m about to propose we bust out Yogi Dan’s joint right here, and maybe I’ll lay bare to Fenny my whole, preposterous story—when the people in the Volvo in front of us get out of their car.

And start walking toward the intersection.

“This is the first sign of a zombie apocalypse,” Fenny says. “Believe me, I’ve done the research.”

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