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“How’re the negotiations going?” I ask Valeria.

“Well,” she says, running a hand through her hair, a move as slick as ever, “I’m in a pool trying to cast my mind back to when I was two so that I can both relate to these guys and forget that I exist, so great.”

She’s got plans to submit Oakley in Flames to a ton of great festivals. It’s looking good; she’s got the star power and the topic is timely, but we’ll see what happens. This business is fickle. When Valeria switched managers, her agent straight up dropped her. She replaced him within a week. I think her whole team is different now. Everyone whom I’ve met seems less sleazy than those on her last team, but I’m sure there’s a bit of that classic Hollywood flavor to them. She hasn’t booked anything big yet—the only things she has lined up are the projects Steven got her.

But she seems happy.

“It’ll happen,” I say.

“Feel free to say that as much as you want. It’s music to my ears.”

Romy nudges me. “Well, your prayers worked for this one.”

I smile as the heat rushes to my face. “I got the gig.”

“Yes!” Valeria says, jumping and giving the kids another ride. They scream their congratulations as well. I’ll take it even though they have no idea what’s going on.

The whole thing started when I saw a confidential listing on an entertainment career site. It just said they needed a second A.C., which meant it was a bigger production. I applied on a whim, and then when I interviewed I learned it was for a position working on the first season of a network TV show. It’s a little one, one that will struggle to get a second season, but it’s steady work for six plus months. It’s all I can ask for: six months touching the camera on a production that will be seen by an actual audience. Funny enough, it’s exactly how my mom envisioned it months ago.

I glance over at Valeria, deep in her bliss with those kids. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to thank her for what she’s done for me or what she will do in the coming months. Her new agent just officially confirmed that she’s going to be in one of my shorts.

My gaze falls on Romy. I rub my thumb over her fingers. Romy’s nails are now orange for Halloween, her favorite holiday. She declined my offer to write a script for the short Valeria and I are doing, saying she’s bogged down doing revisions with her agent before trying to sell her play on a bigger circuit. But she promises she’ll doctor whatever I write and be my arm candy at festivals. As if it’ll end up at festivals. I promised the same for her.

“Did Wyatt text you?” Romy asks me.

I fish my phone off the side table and look at it. “Not yet.”

We invited him here, but he was at some other pool party this weekend. Typical Wyatt.

Romy pulls me into her arms. “Well, he’s missing out.”

She kisses me. I shut my eyes as she does it, savoring the now-familiar touch of her lips on mine.

Romy and I are moving into our first apartment as a couple next month. We found a really cheap two-bedroom in Encino, close to the studios I’ll likely be working out of and semi-close to her job at fucking Erewhon, which she actually got. She claims what she might’ve lost in terms of prestige she’s gained back in “pure ridiculousness.” Plus it’s given her loads of ideas for her writing. The apartment is tiny and old, and I feel bad that we needed to get a two-bedroom. My parents still think we’re platonic, but I’m feeling more confident about telling them soon enough. Romy says after I tell them we’ll turn the extra bedroom into that arcade we always wanted…either that or something a little adultier.

“Hey!”

Water suddenly cascades over us in a wave. We pull away, and I go red remembering where we are.

“These children get enough of that exposure at home,” Valeria says. “Age-appropriate gay kissing only!” She pushes a hair out of her niece’s eyes. “Are you two ever going to get in, by the way?”

I grin at Romy. I don’t even give her a chance to protest before I roll us both into the pool.

Yeah, this is it.

This is queer joy.