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We pull away. “When should I talk to Maeve about this?” he asks.

Cold bolts through me. “When Ashlee confirms the evaluation date. There’s no point giving Maeve time to freak out if the timing works out.”

Charlie frowns. “Val, come on. Just tell Maeve now.” He shakes his head. “I don’t even understand why you think this is such a big deal. This is fucking Cannes. People should be bending over backward for you to have the smoothest ride possible to a dream opportunity. And now you have a solid backup plan in place. It’s not like you’re throwing an assistant into a press event to answer all your questions for you because you ‘got food poisoning.’ ”

Despite everything, a pang of mortification still hits me from that memory. Poor Nicole. At least she’s a junior executive at a Disney affiliate now.

“Charlie, it’s just—” I exhale. My heart’s speeding up again. “I committed to this. I’ve already majorly dropped the ball for my class responsibilities in August. I just— I can’t shake the feeling that deep down, Maeve’s still waiting for another reason to believe the first impression she had of me is the real me. That I really am this vapid, selfish asshole who only considers academia a distraction until my career gets back on track. That— What if she thinks I think she’s just a shiny object to make me seem more interesting?”

Charlie grabs my hand. Heat prickles in my chest, but it doesn’t move to my whole body the way it usually does when he comforts me. “You know that’s not true. What you and Maeve have is so much more than that. You have to trust her and believe that she feels the same way you do.”

I swallow hard, trying to get rid of the goddamn lump in my throat. But my eyes are starting to burn with tears. Charlie and I are honest with each other.

“Okay.”

Then he frowns. My stomach flips.

“I don’t want to overstep, but have you, you know, talked to Rosalie about medication lately?” Charlie knows all about my mental health struggles, from the huge stuff to the way everyday life has become unbearable for me at times, the way each outing when the anxiety is particularly bad feels like cutting wires on a bomb. He knows, but we talk about it so rarely. And when my sweet, goofy best friend is saying it, it sounds so grave. It sounds real.

“I started nonprescription antianxiety meds at the beginning of the year. They’re—”

“Clearly not strong enough. There are prescription medications. And maybe it’s just that this one is not the right fit, but your anxiety has gotten worse lately. You shouldn’t be this freaked over the class thing. And Cannes will be the busiest press schedule you’ve ever had, with more expected of you. I want you to be as prepared as you can be.”

“There’s just been more—”

“But, Val, there’s always going to be more! You want to keep acting and producing and directing and there’s always going to be more press, more filming, more public appearances. People aren’t going to stop recognizing you and unless you become fully nocturnal, you’re going to have to go outside—that’s not going to change. Even if you left Hollywood behind completely and went back to your roots and taught and lived a cute little academic life with Maeve, it wouldn’t make the anxiety go—”

Charlie’s eyes widen.

My insides curdle.

“Is that why you’re trying so hard to leave Hollywood?”

“What?”

But the realization hits me hard and fast, and all the color drains from my face. It makes so much sense, it’s such an easy explanation, but to reckon with it. Fuck. Tears prickle in my eyes, falling as I try to steady the trembling in my throat.

Charlie’s expression softens. Softens so much that I swear I see tears in his eyes too. “I really think you should talk to Rosalie about medication. I hate seeing you like this, and I don’t want it to have a negative effect on the amazing things you’ve brought into your life. Both when it comes to Hollywood and with Maeve. I’ll do you a solid this time, but more conflicts are going to come up in the future.”

There has to be another explanation. This teaching job has brought on more stress than I’ve experienced in a while. Sure, it feels more manageable than the stress I get during press tours and photo shoots and film shoots, but it’s still there. I never had that much of an ulterior motive to taking the teaching job. I like teaching. It’s something I’m good at. And, besides, if I’m trying to escape my anxiety by doing this job, what the hell does that imply with Maeve? That I’m only with her because she represents an anxiety-free future I can never have?

Is that why I like her?

No. God, just the thought turns into a stabbing pain. My head starts spinning. “Charlie, stop.”

“I’m just trying—”

I flex my fist in anger; I can see a scenario play out in front of me. I snap at him, tell him to fuck off, tell him he has no idea what he’s talking about. I make him leave my space so it doesn’t feel like it’s closing in on me.

But I can’t do that.

“Please,” I say. “I’ll—I’ll think about prescription meds. I’ll tell Maeve about Cannes. I don’t want to have any more secrets.”

My body feels like it’s turned to ice as I watch Charlie’s face, brittle and ready to break if I say the wrong thing. I wait with breath caught in my throat for his next move, for him to deliver the verbal lashing I’ve deserved for months.

Charlie sighs, though.

Then he gets sad again. “Would you be mad if I was keeping a secret from you?”