9
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 15, 4:40 P.M.
The message was from Madison. Two breathless sentences. “Call me right away. You’re not going to believe my news.” And there was a text, as well. CALL ME and some kind of emoji face that Jay didn’t really get, a flushed face with tiny hands in front of it, some kind of celebration thing. For a brief moment, Jay actually thought that he might be sick. Madison had clearly gotten a job, and as far as he knew—and she told him everything—it was either the local commercial （not worthy of the breathless message） or the three-episode arc on that crap FX sitcom that had just gotten renewed for a second season. It had to be the sitcom, and he honestly didn’t know if he could handle talking with Madison right now, acting excited for her, telling her how she deserved it. Jesus. He really was going to be sick.
He’d met Madison at an acting class in the valley two years earlier. He’d taken her out for drinks after the final class, then fucked her at his friend Michael’s bungalow that he’d been taking care of while Michael was in London. Madison shared a one-bedroom with another actress, who was home that night, and there was no way that Jay was going to bring her to his house and let her know where he lived, so they’d ended up at the bungalow.
He thought he’d never see her again, but then he’d run into her six weeks later at a bar in Hollywood, and they’d had a few drinks together. She told him, with an exaggerated sad face, that she’d started dating someone new, a fellow barista at the Starbucks where she worked. He was relieved, having zero intention of another mediocre sexual encounter. But they’d had fun having drinks. She was stupid, which Jay liked because it meant he could explain things to her. And she was a terrible actress, which Jay doubly liked, because it meant there was no way she would get a job before he did.
And now here he was, and he was about to have to congratulate her on landing a goddamn sitcom. It was unbearable. Instead of delaying it, he decided to pull the Band-Aid off and call her right back.
“You got the sitcom?” he said.
“Uh-huh,” she said, casually, and then let out a squeal that caused Jay to move the phone away from his ear.
He let her talk for about two minutes, which was all he could take, then said, “I wasn’t going to tell you right away, because I want you to have your moment, and I’m so excited for you, Mads, but I just talked with my mom and she had some bad news.”
“Oh, no.”
“She has like stage-five lung cancer.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yeah. So I’ve got to deal with this, you know, figure out what do next. So if I’m not able—”
“Of course not. I get it. Go take care of your mom, Jay. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. I promise.”
After the phone call Jay wondered if he could get away with never talking with Madison again. Probably. He imagined she was pretty used to guys simply ghosting her. Still, she had once called him her “new best friend” …
He could kill her.
And even just having that thought put him in a much better mood.
She’d definitely hit a few bars tonight to celebrate, and if he timed it right he could be waiting for her outside of her complex … no, it wouldn’t work. He knew her, after all. There’d be phone records, if nothing else. And even though she was going to become completely unbearable the more acting jobs she got, she wasn’t worth the effort of bashing her head in. It would be like stomping on a baby bird. So easy and so meaningless.
He put his phone down on the arm of his couch. His fingers were white from gripping it so hard. He went to the kitchen and took a long swallow from the bottle of Ketel One he kept in the freezer, then did some tai chi in his bedroom to try to calm down. Afterward he allowed himself some fantasies, then made himself stop. He needed to actually do something, and not just think about it—it was the only way to make himself feel better.
That night he found a speakeasy bar in downtown LA, a place he knew there’d be no chance of running into either Madison or any of her friends. He got a corner booth, drank vodka and soda water with two limes, and watched the girls come and go, talking of Leonardo DiCaprio. The worst were the really young ones in minidresses and heels, laughing like hyenas at whatever some much older guy was saying. They were so pleased with themselves, thinking that they were somehow hot enough to actually make it in Hollywood, listening to wannabe dudes tell them about their screenplays. It took him a while, but he finally spotted the right girl. She had pale red hair and was wearing jeans and a slutty top. She’d come in with her friend, but now her friend was talking to some guy, and he knew the redhead was getting fed up. She kept checking her phone, taking tiny sips at her own vodka and soda, and wishing her stupid friend with her loud cackling laugh would shut the fuck up. Jay knew he could peel this one from the herd and get her alone at some point. But then the front door swung inward, and the redhead turned and spotted some guy who’d come to meet her, and suddenly she was all smiles, flipping her hair, sliding down the bar to let this douchebag with an ironic moustache sit down.