Page 26 of Marisol Acts the Part

For the second time in less than a week, I come home to a stranger in my house. The apartment should’ve been empty. I’d have no reason to be on high alert as I trudged up the five flights of stairs, taking my sweet time as I processed everything that went down on set today.

And yet, I find myself screaming as soon as I open the door, because there’s someone hunched over the dining table, sorting through several boxes.

And this time there’s no spare umbrella sitting around for me to defend myself with.

Bruiser breaks into a round of barks when the intruder lets out a yelp of their own, the room a cacophony of noise.

“Jesus, give a guy a warning,” the intruder says once his own screams have subsided, holding a hand against his chest.

He doesn’t look any older than me, might even be younger. He has a thin frame and only a few inches of height on me. Small enough that I should be able to take him down if I have to, especially if I throw in some biting. My teeth are viciously sharp.

Plus, I’m still buzzing from exchanging numbers with Jamila, and from the jitters I always get after wrapping for the day.

Worries that I didn’t give enough variety in my takes, or that I didn’t push myself as hard as I could’ve.

Worries I’ve never had about a performance before.

First there was Miles. Now The Limit has found a way to make me, someone who’s always felt confident and assured in their talent, doubt myself at every turn.

What I’m saying is, I could take out a lot of emotions on this rando.

“Who are you?!” I shout, pressing my keys between my knuckles and holding them up as a weapon, and a warning.

“Whoa, whoa.” He immediately holds his hands up in surrender, backing away from the boxes until he’s flat against the opposite wall. “Your dad told me to come over because you needed your nails done.”

My brain—already fried from a day of learning Rune’s endless line adjustments—struggles to put the pieces together. Fragments of my last conversation with Dad come back to mind—his promise that my cousin could come over and help me out with my dire nail situation.

“You’re Kevin?” I ask, slowly lowering my key-weapon, but not letting my guard down yet.

The longer I stare at him, the more I can kind of see the family resemblance.

His skin and hair are several shades darker than both mine and Dad’s, closer to Jerome’s complexion, but he has the same natural wave to his hair that I’ve had since birth.

The same light brown eyes with subtle flecks of gold.

Even the same slight gap between his front teeth that I hated so much I begged Mom for braces for my eighth birthday.

“The one and only,” he says with a flourish, resting a hand on his hip now that he’s no longer on his guard. “And you must be the famous cousin.”

I swallow hard. It’s not untrue, but I’m not sure that’s the name I want to make for myself with the family I’m just getting to know. “I’m not really—”

“Don’t try to be humble,” Kevin interrupts with a wave of his hand. “Anyone who has over a million followers is definitely famous.”

I consider explaining that several people I know have bought a couple hundred thousand followers to make themselves seem more popular than they actually are, but that’s gossip for another day.

Instead, his nose wrinkles when he catches sight of my hand resting limply at my side, and he crosses the room to take it into his own.

My cheeks flush as he examines my chewed-up nails, practically bitten down to the nubs.

The hair and makeup departments were able to cover them up with some basic nude press-ons for shooting, but having my bare, unpolished nails bared to the world feels like walking around in my underwear.

“Your dad’s right. You do need my help,” Kevin says before pulling me toward the dining table.

Bruiser follows diligently at my heel, keeping a watchful eye on us as we settle down at Kevin’s makeshift workstation.

He definitely came prepared, his supplies laid out across the kitchen table, transforming it into a full-scale salon.

As soon as we’re both sitting down, Kevin gets straight to work on pushing back my wrecked cuticles.

“So, I know you probably signed a million NDAs and whatever, but I’m guessing you’re here to film something fancy,” he says without taking his eyes off his work.

I nod. “It’s the second season of this show called The Limit. ”

While I still have to keep the details under wraps, there’s no harm in telling him what I’m here to film. With the cast announcement going up this week, it’s only a matter of days before the rest of the world knows why I’m here anyway.

Kevin’s brows shoot up and he stalls between my ring finger and pinkie to glance up at me with his lips parted in a comically huge O. “Wait, isn’t that the same show your ex is supposedly on?”

The heat in my cheeks spreads all the way down to my toes.

Strangers knowing the intimate details of my life isn’t unusual, but there’s something different about it coming from a family member.

I barely know anything about Kevin, yet he already knows I had a disastrous breakup with my ex, and that I’m on the same show as said ex.

Like my life is the TV show everyone’s tuning into every week to see.

“Y-yeah,” I choke out, trying to hide how flustered the question made me by ducking my chin against my chest, hopefully hiding my reddened cheeks.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy,” Kevin says quickly. “It was so wild to see the breakup on the news and be like, ‘Hey, that’s my cousin!’ Sort of. I mean, not that you’re not my cousin,but—”

“But we’ve never met before. I get it,” I finish for him, giving him a soft smile.

Kevin meets my smile with one of his own before turning back to his work, focusing on buffing and shaping my nails to prepare them for the clear polish he set aside. “So, what’s it like? Filming on a set?”

I shrug, making sure not to move my hands too much. “Kind of like any other job, I guess. It can be really fun, too. Like you’re having a really long sleepover with your friends. Most of the time.”

He peeks up at me with a raised brow. “Most of the time?”

“This show’s not as…fun. But it makes sense as a next step in my career. It’s more intense than the other stuff I’ve done.” I choose my words carefully. The last thing I want is to come off as ungrateful for the opportunities I’ve been lucky enough to have.

“Does that have to do with the fact that your ex is there?”

“No,” I answer quickly, shaking my head to hammer home the sentiment.

“I mean, not really. I didn’t join the show to try to get back together with him or anything.

It’s just…weird. Seeing him there. Remembering everything he said when we broke up.

” I trail off for a moment, shaking off the memories of that night.

“Makes it hard to believe in myself sometimes, I guess.”

Kevin sets down the nail file to give me a wide grin, the gap between his front teeth on full, proud display. “Well, you are a Rodriguez. You’ve got star power in your blood.”

“Thanks,” I reply, a new kind of warmth swelling inside of me.

The good kind, this time. The same warmth I felt having dinner with Abuela last week, finally filling in the empty branches on my family tree.

Not feeling like a stranger to my own life anymore.

When I got here, I didn’t feel like much of a Rodriguez.

But it’s hard not to now—with people like Abuela and Kevin welcoming me with such open arms. It’s even harder not to wonder how much I’ve been missing outon.

I examine my nails while Kevin starts opening the polish.

“You’re really good at this.” Not that I didn’t think he would be, but I’m still pleasantly surprised by how perfectly my nails have been restored, even before the polish.

I’m too uncoordinated to paint my own nails, and the few times I’ve asked Mom to do it she’s never been able to stay within the lines, like a toddler learning how to color.

“Remember that the next time you need someone to help you get ready for the red carpet,” Kevin says with a wink.

We remain silent while Kevin concentrates on applying even, smooth layers of polish. Between hands, I catch him glancing over at the boxes crowding the tables—the same ones he was rummaging through when I got here.

“You planning on stealing Jerome’s new wigs?

” I ask playfully. Jerome bulk-ordered a bunch of different options for an amateur drag competition he’s hosting in two weeks.

The forty-inch human-hair unit was the obvious choice.

As beautiful as he is in and out of drag, even Jerome can’t pull off a ten-dollar synthetic wig from Amazon.

“I wish,” Kevin replies with a roll of his eyes. “I’ve been asking him for years to start teaching me about fashion and stuff so I can start developing my drag, but he always brushes me off because I’m still ‘too young,’?” he says in an eerily accurate impression of Jerome.

“Well, I could help you, if you want. With fashion stuff,” I offer tentatively. I might not know as much about drag as Jerome does, but I definitely know how to put together a showstopping outfit for any body type, at any budget.

Kevin stills midway through painting a second layer onto my index finger. “Really?”

“Totally!” I reply so enthusiastically I practically bounce out of my seat.

Nothing makes my week better than a shopping spree, and a potential makeover is Marisol heaven.

Other than shopping for more beige and neutral basics to wear to rehearsal since Rune banished anything colorful, I haven’t gone on a proper shopping trip since I’ve gotten to the city. Which is pretty much a crime.

If anything, Kevin would be doing me a favor.

But Kevin’s eyes shift away from me, his shoulders slumping as he gets back to finishing my nails. “It’s all right. I was thinking I could try signing up for that competition Jerome is hosting, but that’s not enough time to put something together. I can try again next year.”

He sounds an awful lot like me on my first day of shooting—convincing myself I’m going to fail before I’ve even begun. I gently tug my hand out of his grip, keeping it hidden under the table until he meets my eyes.

“I do my best work on tight deadlines.”

He seems hesitant, biting his lip and tapping his foot for a moment before finally replying. “You’re sure?”

I pretend to hum in thought before setting my hand back down on his makeshift workstation. “Only if you promise to be my resident manicurist whenever I have red carpets or shoots.”

He snorts, shaking his head slightly before slapping his hand into mine for a firm but careful-not-to-smudge-my-drying-polish shake. “It’s a deal.”