Page 2 of Romance Is Dead

I shivered. It was perfect.

“Here we go.” Trevor steered us to the far side of the driveway and threw the cart in park. “I hope—”

But I was already out of the cart and gone, waving in thanks over my shoulder. Weaving between a grip wheeling a camera rig and two prop assistants lugging a rolled-up carpet, I slipped through the front doors.

The foyer was spacious, paneled in dark shining wood and featuring a grand staircase. Briefly, I wondered how a gaggle of college students would be able to afford such a fancy Airbnb, but decided not to raise that particular plot hole with production. An archway to the right led to a dim dining room, but it was in the room to the left that we’d be filming. The parlor had been dressed like a college party was underway: a large sound system dominated one corner and a beer keg sat on one of the chairs.

I took a moment, soaking in the last first day on a set I’d ever have.

Had my decision to leave the movie industry last month been hasty? Yes. Had selling my LA apartment and putting all my belongings in storage until I figured out a new plan been even more impulsive? Also yes. I’d been making horror movies since I was eight—a bit part I’d nabbed solely because my dad had been playing the infamous horror villain Puzzle Face since the nineties—and in the years since, I’d worked my way up to become one of Hollywood’s go-to scream queens. Horror was my thing, my passion. My happy place.

But then a year of horrible, no good, very bad events made me realize I needed to leave the industry—and LA—for good.

I’d just have to suffer through one last movie first.

As I stepped into the parlor, the room was abuzz—crackling with the special energy only found at the beginning of a new production. Like the first day of school, but better. The energy followed you everywhere, from your trailer to the set and back to your hotel room. It sizzled through the atmosphere, electric and full of anticipation, rife with the possibility that this could be it: the blockbuster that could catapult everyone to fame and superstardom.

The optimism made me want to puke, but it was impossible not to feel.

“Girl, what did you do to your makeup? I saw you less than an hour ago!”

A makeup brush appeared out of nowhere, bristles fluttering dangerously close to my cornea. The hand wielding it belonged to Mara, who today was dressed in a floral-print dress with her chestnut hair styled in vintage victory rolls. Last month she’d been sporting high-end athleisure almost exclusively, but now she seemed to be favoring a 1940s pin-up aesthetic. Thankfully, her commitment to being my best friend was far more constant than her fashion du jour.

“Sorry.” I waved my hand vaguely in the air. “I’m feeling a little off today.”

Mara eyed me warily. “I bet. You’re sure this is the last one?”

Saying nothing, I nodded.

We’d met ten years ago when we were both nineteen and working on the slasherMy Mom Married a Demon 2: Zaddy Zebub Returns. We instantly clicked, bonding over being two of the only women on set and a mutual love of the TV showScream Queens. I loved the campy horror; she loved the frothy fashion. We’d been inseparable ever since—and even more so over the last month, once I’d started crashing on her couch after selling my apartment.

“You don’t want to spend more than a few weeks deciding whether to end a twenty-plus-year career?” Mara rustled around in the fanny pack that held her on-set supplies. “You don’t think that’s a little rash?”

“Shh!” I glanced around frantically, hoping no one had overheard. “I’d prefer to keep this under wraps for now. And yes, I’m sure. I told you—”

“I know, I know. I get it.” She dabbed some fresh concealer under my eyes and started to blend. “By the way, did you hear your co-star had to drop out?”

“Wait, what?”

“I just found out. A motorcycle accident, apparently. He only broke his thumbs, but production thought he wouldn’t be able to do his stunts, so they replaced him.”

“With who?” Endless possibilities flashed through my mind. Could it be Adam Driver? Chris Hemsworth? Zac Efron?

“You know that reality show from a couple months ago?Pleasure Island Paradise?”

I rolled my eyes. “The one with that guy who’s been all over the press for dating every supermodel in the continental US?”

Mara stared at me pointedly.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead. Sorry, girl.” She sighed. “Looks like your luck hasn’t turned around just yet.”

My brain spun like an overloaded computer as I tried to comprehend this development. This could not be right. Teddy James was a vapid reality star, not an actor. He was nothing but an opportunistic fame-chaser. AfterPleasure Islandwrapped, the tabloids had spent the summer analyzing paparazzi shots and social media interactions to predict which starlet he was dating that week. The more famous the better. I’d only met Teddy once, but it had told me everything I needed to know: that he was a jerk, a player, and a fuck boy of the worst order.

This was not good.

My anxiety ten times higher, I glanced at my phone. I’d thought I was running late, but it still didn’t look like we were ready to start.

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