“What I deserve is the time and space to get through this in my own way.”
She nods, albeit reluctantly. “Okay—”
Her phone ringing interrupts us. Palmer scrambles for her phone, all jittery and twitchy like she’s about to wiggle out of her own skin. She’s always like this after auditions, and I don’t want to see the heartbreak in her eyes if it’s bad news. Excusing myself from the kitchen, I explore Dex’s main living room.
There are two large fish tanks that seem to be built into the walls. I don’t even understand how to access them. Does the wall come apart? What the fuck? How do the fish eat? How does the aquarium guy clean this tank?
From what I understand, the higher maintenance fish are in the saltwater tanks, which are upstairs. Those are the ones that need careful tending to. The fish down here live off of auto feeders and nutrient-enriched water. They are beautiful swimming around in their little enclosures, none the wiser that the world is so much bigger than these glass walls. But maybe it’s better—they can’t get hurt in here. I know some people think aquariums are cruel and that fish should swim in the ocean…
But at least they won’t be shark food in here. Is that such a bad life? Cared for, cleaned, fed, and admired? Or is running and hiding for life daily a fair price to pay for freedom?
I follow the tiniest fish in the largest tank darting back and forth in a tizzy. It’s cherry-colored. Not quite red, not quite pink, right in the middle and slightly iridescent. How strange. It looks like it forgot something and it’s struggling to remember exactly what it’s doing.
“I got an audition,” Palmer says right behind me, making me jump and smack my palm against the fish tank.
Cherry, as I’ve dubbed my little fish friend, is stunned. It’s staring right at me like I just caused an earthquake in its little paradise. I cringe. Dex did warn me never to tap the glass. It’s cruelly disorienting for the fish. Sorry, Cherry.
Spinning around, I face Palmer. “When’s the callback?”
“Not that audition.” She grimaces. “That was a bust. They’re going with some baby-faced coed, because Chase Ford likes them young.” She grunts in frustration.
Anytime Palmer doesn’t land an audition, the casting directors and the movie stars they’ve cast become the ultimate enemy. Apparently, Hollywood heartthrob Chase Ford is no exception.
“I’m pretty positive he’s married.” I swear I saw him and his new wife on a magazine cover. “She’s not an actress. She’s an artist or something. Noa—”
“Like marriage stops these Hollywood fuckboys from cheating. Please. Anyway, moving on. My agent got me an audition for a lead in a new pilot. The main actress dropped out last minute for some reason.” Her eyes widen. “It’s a big deal. It’s like the next Breaking Bad or something.”
“Palmer, that’s amazing! When is it?”
“They want me to read for them by tonight. They have to make a decision ASAP.”
“Let’s go.” I nod over my shoulder. “I’ll drive you home.” My back is still a little stiff from the five-hour drive out here, but good God, this could finally be her big break.
“It’s not in L.A., Aves. It’s in New Mexico. Albuquerque.” She shrugs. “I don’t know if—”
“Take my car.”
Her big eyes grow even larger. “What? And leave you stranded here?”
I waltz past her to fetch my keys from my purse. I lay them on the counter and pull up Google Maps on my phone. “You’ve got at least an eight-hour drive, and that’s if traffic behaves. Go. Hell, your suitcase is still in the car. It was meant to be.”
“Aves, I…”
I wink at her. “I know. You can call me from the road to tell me how amazing I am. But seriously, go. This is your moment, Palmer. Finally. I really believe it and I believe in you. Just drive safe. Do not try to read lines on the highway.”
She nods, her smile growing. “Okay.” She grabs the keys from where I placed them and wraps her arm around my neck, pulling me into one more quick hug. “Do you need anything out of the car?” she asks as she fetches her purse from the other side of the kitchen island.
“Nope. I brought everything of mine in.”
“Okay,” she says again, blowing out a quick breath. Spinning on her heel, she hustles toward the front door. “Thank you, Aves,” she calls without turning around.
“Oh wait, only eighty-seven and up for the Jeep,” I call after her. “Don’t put cheap gas in—”
Bang.
The front door slams and she’s out of earshot.
Thirteen days.
Thirteen days is how long it takes for my self-restraint to crumble and for me to go to Edge Fitness’s website and find Maura Montoya. Suspicions confirmed—she’s a total fucking knockout. This woman outshines even Palmer, and that’s really hard to do. Her body is flawless. She’s muscular, yet with feminine curves. Her stomach is so flat that if she lay down, you could set a wine glass on it without worrying it’d spill. Her shoulder-length hair is a richer shade of brown than mine and she’s at least three shades tanner than me. She looks sun-kissed, like she’s not afraid to show off her body on the beach. But enough rambling…
A simpler way to sum up Maura is that she is quite literally my polar opposite.
I dove head first into the rabbit hole. Within twenty minutes, I found Maura’s Facebook page, Instagram profile, and watched several of her videos on TikTok about proper form when deadlifting. I really want to hate her, but what did she do wrong besides exist?
It’s been nearly two weeks…
I wonder if Mason has asked her out yet.
It’d be a little easier if she had resting bitch face, but not only is she stunning, she’s also charming. I bet her client list is booked solid. I teach the business owners, Dex included, about this effect. Charisma. When you market a great personality, you could sell salt to a slug with ease. People want personable, relatable, and authentic. Those are the three magic ingredients to brand loyalty.
As if his ears are burning, an incoming phone call from Mason halts my social media stalking. I could send him to voicemail, but seeing as I’ve already been internet stalking his potential new girlfriend, I’m embracing my current masochist mentality.
“What?” I answer in the flattest monotone I can muster.
“You answered,” Mason says, sounding surprised.
“You called,” I snap.
He huffs through the phone, encouraging my frustration. “Avery, can we please be civil? We have a business together. Remember when people told us not to start a fifty-fifty LLC together? Remember how we told them we worked really well together and we would never let our relationship interfere with what we created?”
Remember when I thought you loved me and we were going to be together forever?
But he’s right.
We do work well together, and the only relationship I had that rivaled mine and Mason’s was my relationship with work. I’ll be damned if I lose both this year.
My chest rises high, then falls. Is this allowed? Can we just be civil? “What’s going on, Mason?”