Page 27 of Marisol Acts the Part

“These words are losing meaning,” I say with a groan, letting my head flop back onto the Live, Laugh, Love throw pillow behind me.

We’ve quickly learned that the original owner of this trailer was a big fan of the T.J.

Maxx clearance section. The BLESS THIS MESS plaque over the bathroom door haunts me every time I sit on the couch.

“That means it’s working,” Jamila says with a wink, flipping back to the first page of my script. “From the top.”

While Jamila’s suggestion that I ground myself in every scene by focusing on one of the senses has made a world of difference in memorizing my lines, my stomach is too empty for me to ground myself in taste again. Not unless I want to start chewing on one of the BUT FIRST, WINE pillows.

“Can we take a break?” I ask, hoisting myself up onto my elbows.

It’s one of the few days we get to shoot off-location, mainly some exterior shots in Williamsburg, along with a few interiors at a townhouse that production rented for the day.

While normally I love camping out in our trailer, I wouldn’t mind exploring the area a bit during our breaks between scenes.

“If we keep going, my brain is going to leak out of my ears. And I really want to try that taco truck down the block.”

Jamila taps her chin in thought before flipping my script closed. “For the sake of these cushions, fine.”

“We do not need to save these cushions,” I mutter to myself, but still loud enough to earn a laugh from her.

“Someone’s not keeping calm and slaying the day,” she responds, pointing to the framed quote on the wall beside the kitchenette with an expression so serious it makes me snort.

“Sorry, I was too busy”—I reach for the pillow behind my head—“?‘Carpe diem–ing this bitch.’?”

This time, we both burst into giggles, finally addressing the tacky elephant in the room. It’s impressive, really. How the hell did one person manage to find decor for every single cringe phrase from the last millennium?

While I can’t lie and say I don’t miss the chaos of sharing a trailer with a gaggle of my former castmates, having Jamila as a trailer-mate has made this latest experience significantly more bearable.

There’s only so much I can do to adjust to the quick changes Rune is always throwing at us, but the techniques Jamila texted me, along with the line-reading app she recommended I download, have made an enormous difference.

So much so that I’m actually starting to think Rune doesn’t completely hate me.

Jury’s still out, but I’m definitely not the cast troublemaker anymore.

At least for now.

I pull myself off the couch when someone starts pounding on the door.

They must need me back on set sooner than we thought—so much for trying that taco truck.

“Coming,” I call out while grabbing one of the various horrific headbands my character wears.

Between this and the platinum blond hair, I look like one of those porcelain dolls whose eyes watch you wherever you go.

I throw open the door and walk directly into the very solid and sculpted chest of the PA sent to retrieve me. Since when is one of the PAs jacked?

Except it’s not a PA. I’ve walked directly into my ex-boyfriend’s very solid and sculpted chest, because of course I have.

“Hey.” He’s sturdy, like a brick wall. Even with the full force of my body I hardly moved him. “Jamila here?”

It takes longer than I care to admit for me to be able to put the dots together. Miles. Outside. Jamila. Inside. Memorizing those lines really did turn my brain into soup. Thankfully, Jamila comes to my rescue.

“Thanks again,” she says, accepting the New Yorker tote bag she always carries around from his outstretched hand. She must’ve left it on set after their scene together this morning.

Miles nods in reply, our eyes catching for one too-long, too-charged second before he murmurs goodbye and finally closes the door behind him.

That’s one thing that hasn’t changed in the past two weeks. Me and Miles. Or, rather, the lack of me and Miles.

Again, my goal was never to rekindle the spark between us.

If anything, I wanted to prove that I didn’t need him as much as he didn’t need me.

And I’m definitely doing that. The nights are lonelier without someone to text random videos to or ask if they’d love me if I was a worm.

Especially with Lily and Posie on a round-the-clock shooting schedule in an entirely different time zone.

But life without Miles doesn’t feel as lonely as it once did.

Especially now that my days are filled with running lines with Jamila or making plans to go shopping with Kevin.

Life feels fresh, and exciting, and hopeful.

Suddenly, Jamila clears her throat. I snap back to reality, pushing the trailer door open again and heading out like we originally planned. Jamila follows closely behind me as we head for the taco truck around the block, the silence making my skin prickle.

“Is there, uh…” She clears her throat again, avoiding meeting my gaze. “Something going on between you two?”

“Me and Miles?” I ask, even though, hello, it should be obvious. Jamila nods, something unusual building between the two of us. Tension, or maybe fear. And I’m not sure which is worse.

“We were costars, back on Avalon Grove, ” I say, unsure where to begin with our story. Since her sister is a fan of the show, it’s likely Jamila already knows about that part of my and Miles’s past. I’m not sure how much she knows, though, so might as well start at the beginning.

“We dated for a while. But…” I pause, weighing how much I’m willing to tell her. Whether it’s worth pulling open a half-healed wound.

“You’re not together anymore,” Jamila says, finishing that thought for me, and I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement.

I nod stiffly. “It was splashed across every gossip site you can think of,” I say with a roll of my eyes, not bothering to hide the bitterness in my tone.

Jamila wrinkles her nose. “I don’t pay attention to those,” she says quickly, as if to reassure me.

And it does, strangely enough. Knowing that there’s someone who hasn’t seen me at my lowest moment.

Who doesn’t think of me as the teeny-bopper actress who got dumped and took her frustration out on paparazzi.

Someone who can know me for me.

“I’m sorry, though,” she adds quietly, shifting as though she’s going to reach out for me, but deciding against it. “Breakups suck.”

I do my best to shrug nonchalantly, but there’s not a nonchalant bone in my body. It was for the best sits on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. Was our breakup really for the best? It got me here—to this show, to sharing a trailer with Jamila, to this moment. That’s enough, right?

“It’s fine,” I finally settle on. “I’ve moved on. I’m sure he’s moving on too.”

“Nothing’s going on between us,” Jamila adds abruptly, waving her arms as if to clear the air of the idea that he’s moving on with her.

My heart stutters, and I resist the urge to exhale sharply.

The thought of Miles and Jamila falling for each other has definitely crossed my mind at least once…

. Fine. Multiple times. But you can’t blame me when their chemistry on set is so palpable, half the crew has to fan themselves off whenever we call cut.

They’re usually huddled close between scenes, heads pressed together as they watch videos and scroll through social media together.

Occasionally, Miles drops a photo of her on his story, and I try to convince myself it doesn’t hurt every time he does.

Clearly, I’ve been doing a terrible job.

“O-oh,” I stammer out, not sure if I’m mortified or relieved by her assurance.

“It—it’d be fine if you were, though,” I add quickly.

The last thing I want to be is the resident bitter ex.

If Miles and Jamila are meant to be, they’re meant to be.

And their stunning babies will grace the cover of Vogue before they turn one.

Jamila snorts—which is definitely not the response I expected. “That won’t be happening anytime soon.” She ducks her head bashfully when I quirk a brow. “I’m a lesbian.”

Oh.

Well, that was unexpected.

Not in a bad way, though. Not in a bad way at all.

“That’s cool,” I respond like the most uncool person on the planet.

Jesus, I sound like a secretly homophobic mom who’s hoping her kid is going through a “phase.” “I…get it,” I tack on, as if that vague mess of a reply will make any difference.

If anything, it’s giving “Don’t worry, I’m an ally!

” vibes instead of “Pretty women make me sweat,” like I was going for.

This time, it’s Jamila’s turn to raise an eyebrow at me. She seems taken aback, hopefully with surprise at my potential queerness as opposed to potential homophobia. “Are you sapphic?”

“No, I’m Puerto Rican,” I reply because my brain is incapable of forming a coherent reply before blurting out the first thought that comes to mind.

What is it about this girl that makes my brain short-circuit every time we have a conversation that lasts more than five minutes?

“I mean, yes,” I choke out. “I’m bi, so, yes. I definitely like girls.”

Jamila does me the grace of stifling her laugh, biting down on her lip, and I can’t help but marvel at how her teeth sparkle like freshly polished diamonds.

Before meeting her, I didn’t even think it was possible to have teeth that white.

And that’s coming from someone who regularly works with people who have veneers.

“Cool,” Jamila responds, but it sounds actually cool coming from her.

I’m saved from embarrassing myself yet again as we finally reach the row of trucks down the block from where we’re shooting. Jamila insists that she doesn’t want anything, but I order an extra vegetarian taco for her anyway. She grins as I hand her the red-and-white-checkered plastic basket.

“Making good progress on your bucket list,” she says as we clink our tacos together in a toast.

My mouth is too full for me to respond, the intense flavors of roasted veggies and cilantro and the perfect avocado crema overwhelming me.

I let out a quiet moan that I can’t even be embarrassed about because the food is that damn good.

Other A-listers might insist that high-quality food can never come from a truck, but this single bite would prove all of them wrong.

“At this rate I’m going to stay in the city just for the food,” I muse before helping myself to another hearty bite.

Jamila beams, chewing her own taco far more delicately than I’m chewing mine. She opens her mouth to respond but cuts herself off to pull her phone out of her pocket, her nose wrinkling at whatever the notification is.

“This is normal, right?” she asks, holding up her phone toward me to reveal a flurry of notifications coming in, making her phone buzz like it’s an EDM beat.

They’re from the same account, going through and liking her posts and leaving multiple all-caps or all-emoji comments calling Jamila everything from “queen” to “mother.”

“I have no idea who this person is,” she explains as the notifications come to a brief halt, only to start back up again.

“Very normal,” I reassure her. “You’ll want to switch off your notifications.

” If I kept mine on, I’d never be able to get anything done.

Especially after the cast announcement earlier this week.

Even with my notifications off, I haven’t been able to scroll my socials without getting smacked with hundreds of comments either congratulating me on my new role, or asking if this is some ploy to win Miles back.

Jamila shudders and sets her phone to Do Not Disturb. A wise choice. “This is so weird.”

“Welcome to being a professional actor.” I shrug, and we start heading back toward set.

“I didn’t think it came with…extra stuff. Plus, now my agent’s been pressuring me to go to this premiere on Friday to try to network.” She pretends to gag, earning a soft giggle from me.

I haven’t gotten as many premiere invites since I got to the city, but Delia did just forward me one earlier this week. “Is it for that indie movie about the guy who accidentally marries a martian?”

“Yeah?”

“I got invited to that one too!” I quickly open up my phone and scroll through my emails until I find the one Delia forwarded me.

Her message reads assume you won’t want to go but passing along jic.

They must’ve invited the whole cast after the announcement went up.

“Premieres are easy,” I assure Jamila with a wave of my hand.

“You do the red carpet for a few minutes, mingle, then if you’re lucky the director doesn’t give a huge speech at the end and you can head straight home afterward.

Sometimes there’s an after-party, but those are always weird. Definitely pass.”

It’s like going to a house party thrown by someone you barely know. The cast is their own clique, and everyone else is left in small-talk limbo. It’s probably not as unbearable when you can actually drink to pass the time, but for a teenager, it’s basically hell.

Jamila audibly gulps. “That…sounds like a lot.”

“We could go together, if that’ll help?” I offer tentatively, doing my best to keep my voice light and casual.

The movie really doesn’t sound like my kind of thing, but hey, if it helps Jamila adjust to her newfound celebrity, it’ll be worth it.

For cast bonding. And because I do admittedly love a good red-carpet moment.

I desperately need to air out some of the dressier pieces I brought that are currently collecting dust in a bin shoved into the hall closet. As in the closet that isn’t my bedroom.

“That’d be amazing,” Jamila says with a beaming smile that falters just as quickly as it appeared. “I mean, don’t change your plans or anything.” She trails off, now peering down at her fingers.

Instead of replying, I open my phone again and shoot a message to Delia.

Would love to go to that premiere you sent me last week

RSVP yes for me, pls & thank you!

“Done,” I say as the text is sent off. “Besides, I owe you for all the line tips. Let’s call it a trade—you help me study my lines, and I train you in the art of celebrity.”

Jamila’s smile returns, and I let myself give in to its magnetic pull.

In a few minutes, we’ll be back on set preparing to shoot for another several hours, but for now I lean in a little closer to her, cheeks warm and aching from how often I laugh whenever we’re together.

Premieres are another part of being an actress that loses its meaning over time.

That feels more mundane than exciting after you’ve done a dozen in a month.

But strangely enough, I’m feeling really excited about this one.