Page 29 of Marisol Acts the Part

“I’m really sorry, by the way,” Fatima continues, sitting down beside me, her voice low even though there’s no reason for us to be whispering. “About all that stuff with Miles. Those articles were awful. And I’m sorry, but he was a total dick about it.”

At first, I braced myself. For her to take Miles’s side, for her to hint that my reaction was overdramatic.

For her to say that Milesol breaking up ruined her idea of love.

Not for her to say what I thought had been the truth the entire time—that Miles screwed me over.

That his statement made me seem like I was some passing fling instead of a serious four-year relationship.

That the media was unnecessarily cruel to me.

Mom, Lily and Posie, even Jerome told me Miles was an ass for what he did, but only out of obligation.

This is the first time someone who read the story told by the media has been on my side.

In person, at least. My followers have, for the most part, been loyal following the breakup, but it’s harder to feel the sentiment behind a comment than it is to hear it in real life.

“Oh…thanks. It’s, uh…we’re fine now,” I say quickly. Even after everything that’s happened between me and Miles, I feel the need to defend him. Our breakup felt shitty, but he’s not a bad person. At the end of the day, we’re two teenagers who outgrew one another.

“If you ever want to talk about it, I’ve been interning at Hollywood Today, ” Fatima says eagerly, her hands moving a mile a minute as she talks.

“Mainly writing fluff pieces on who got divorced this week and what diet supplement influencers are shilling, but I’m allowed to pitch my own pieces, too.

I’m even doing a profile on Jamila about being cast on The Limit. You could—”

“Fatima!” Jamila’s voice cuts the conversation short as she comes barreling into the room, wielding a rolled-up New Yorker as a weapon. “I told you to leave her alone!”

“We were just talking!” Fatima shouts back when Jamila attempts to whack her with the magazine.

Jamila relents once Fatima stands up and retreats to her own side of the room. She crosses her arms, keeping the magazine tucked beneath one arm in case she needs to use it again. “So you didn’t ask to interview her for work?”

Fatima shrugs. “I was giving her an opportunity to tell her side of the story.”

“Get. Out.” Jamila points the magazine at Fatima, pushing it harder into her chest with each word.

“Ah, what’re you two fighting about now?” a new voice calls out.

A woman appears in the hall, bracing herself on the doorway with one hand and gripping a cane with the other.

Flecks of gray are streaked through the dark brown curls held together in a loose braid down the length of her back.

Her face has a map of laugh lines and the first signs of emerging wrinkles, but there’s an incandescent glow beneath her brownskin.

Like her daughter, she lights up the room.

“Fatima is bothering Marisol,” Jamila immediately tattles, pointing at her sister like they’re toddlers bickering over a broken toy.

“Fatima,” their mother warns, her voice even and measured but stern.

The exact type of tone that can strike fear into any child—including me.

Frightening enough to make Fatima stomp out of the room with a huff.

Fatima’s mom pats her on the head as she leaves, biting back a laugh when Fatima grumbles something back in reply.

Their mom steps carefully into the room, leaning heavily on her cane for balance.

Jamila quickly rushes to her side, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her.

“My apologies, Marisol. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

Jammy has told us so much about you.” She pinches Jamila’s cheek, much to her daughter’s annoyance.

Jamila scowls, muttering “Mom!” through gritted teeth while trying to both wriggle away from her mom and maintain her grip on her.

“Thank you, Mrs.El Amrani,” I say once I’ve suppressed my giggle, taking the attention off Jamila. “You have a beautiful home.”

Mrs.El Amrani grins proudly. “I’m so glad you were able to visit. You’ll have to come back again when my husband is home to make you dinner. His chebakia is award-winning.”

“It was a local dessert competition thing,” Jamila amends sheepishly.

“That’s still award-winning!” her mom snaps back, playfully whacking Jamila on the arm. “Don’t diminish your papa’s accomplishments!”

“I’m not, I’m not!” she says with a laugh when her mom plays dirty and nudges her in the ribs, a spot that must be ticklish based on the way she squirms. Good to know.

“Dad’s an amazing cook. And yes, his chebakia is…

” She pauses to fold her fingers together and give a chef’s kiss.

“Usually we only make it for special occasions or around Ramadan. It’s basically fried dough coated in this syrupy honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds. ”

Fried dough covered in anything sounds delicious to me, but the way Jamila and her mom close their eyes and lean in to each other at the thought of this dish makes my mouth water so intensely I’m worried I’ll drool on my dress.

Mrs.El Amrani heads back toward the door, Jamila following along at a careful distance, keeping a careful hand braced on her mom’s elbow. “Make sure you take lots of pictures,” she calls out to me. “This one never remembers to take any. I want to see her first red carpet appearance.”

“I will, don’t worry,” I promise before she leaves with a soft laugh. Whether Jamila likes it or not, I’ll definitely be documenting this entire experience thoroughly. Who doesn’t want to remember their first premiere?

“So,” I begin once we’re alone, not bothering to hide my smirk. “What have you said about me, Jammy ?”

“Ugh,” Jamila groans before face-planting onto the bed. “This is why I asked them to leave the house before you got here, but no one ever listens to me,” she complains, her voice muffled by her bedspread.

“Your family seems nice.”

Her family has that soft, familiar sort of love that I thought was only possible in sitcoms. Easy banter and teasing, family recipes and souvenirs from trips around the world. The type of family I always wanted.

“They are nice when they’re not being embarrassing.” She picks herself back up and sits beside me. “Sorry Fatima tried to pounce on you. I know fans coming up to you must be super annoying.”

I shrug. Definitely not the first time someone’s approached me for an inside scoop, but at least this wasn’t about trying to get the dirty details behind our breakup. “It’s nice to hear someone’s on my side.”

Jamila’s brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t they be on yourside?”

I bite my tongue, wishing I hadn’t said anything.

I’ve spent this entire time avoiding the details of what happened between me and Miles, hoping Jamila stayed true to her hatred for tabloids and never went searching for any of the articles about us.

The world knowing Miles dumped me because he thought I wasn’t a “serious” choice hurt enough, but something about Jamila knowing that too hurts even worse.

That the one stranger who didn’t know about my past—who met me as me —will know what the world thinks of me.

“Lots of people said Miles was…out of my league. Acting-wise,” I say delicately. “And that I was this…I dunno…airhead teen actress.” I do my best to keep my voice level, but it’s hard not to let the hurt seep in.

Jamila frowns, shaking her head and scoffing. “Well, then a lot of people have no taste.”

As I meet her eyes, I am reminded that there are more important things than what strangers think of me. “You don’t have to say that because I’m helping you pick out what to wear.”

My voice is light and teasing, but Jamila’s expression is serious when she replies. “I never just say anything.”

She’s close enough for me to feel her breath against my lips.

To smell the coconut oil lathered into her curls.

Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of the heat of the room and the cracked open door, and the fact that we’re sitting on her bed in her bedroom, which smells so overpoweringly like her that it feels like I’m lost in a daydream.

“That dress looks really great on you,” I say finally and lean back. If I don’t put distance between us ASAP, I might do something I regret. Something that’ll make my life that much messier.

Taking in her outfit doesn’t do anything to steady me, though.

At some point, Jamila must’ve grabbed a pair of heels from the closet, simple black pumps that make her bronze legs stretch on for days.

As expected, the sequined dress’s neckline perfectly accentuates her toned arms and the base of her neck without being too much.

In short: she’s drop-dead gorgeous.

“It’s not too much?” she asks sheepishly, running a hand along her bare arms. She opted for gold bangles on her wrists, the bracelets clanging whenever she moves her arms.

“Not if you feel comfortable in it. And it’s your first premiere. You should go all-out.”

Jamila nods, standing up and examining her reflection in the full-length mirror on Fatima’s side of the room. “I don’t really have the makeup skills to go with this kind of outfit, though.”

“Say less.” I immediately jump into action, rushing over to the vanity in the center of the room and flicking on the lights over the mirror, gesturing to the pink fuzzy stool before it. “Take a seat.”

The natural color of Jamila’s cheeks is on full display as she settles down in front of the mirror, pointing out which makeup belongs to her and which belongs to Fatima.

And, more importantly, which of Fatima’s makeup she’s allowed to use and which products are off-limits.

Not surprisingly, Fatima has the more robust collection, but I’ve made makeup miracles happen with a single eyeliner pencil and a dream.

We start off with a basic smoky eye, using some of the shimmery eye shadow palettes on Fatima’s “okay to borrow” list. It doesn’t take much to make Jamila’s eyes pop, but the gold glitter shade brings out the warmth in her eyes without feeling too overpowering.

Her brows are already sculpted by the gods, so not much to do there.

I follow her lead when it comes to eyeliner, letting her use the felt-tip pen to draw her usual cat’s-eye, taking over at the end to elongate the wing. Go bold or go home.

“What’re you thinking for lips?” I ask, holding up an array of lipstick tubes from both her and Fatima’s collections.

Jamila shrugs as she examines her options. “I usually do a lip tint.”

I nod. “Makes sense. Your lips are pretty perfect already.”

Why do I speak without thinking first?

My entire body clams up as I realize what I said, panicking even more when I notice the tension in Jamila’s body too. To be fair, though, her lips are perfect. Full and naturally pouted, with a deep Cupid’s bow curve. Always the perfect shade of light pink, even without gloss.

“How about red?” I propose eagerly in a rushed attempt to move the conversation into less embarrassing territory, holding up a tube of matte wine-red lipstick from MAC. Classic.

I breathe an internal sigh of relief when Jamila nods, only for the panic to return as I swipe the color along her lower lip, my fingers gently cradling her jaw.

It’s more intimate than applying her eyeliner had been, our faces inches apart as I trace the natural curve of her mouth.

I can feel her heartbeat beneath my fingertips, see the goose bumps blossoming on her skin when I adjust my grip to lightly cup her cheek.

It’d be easier if I didn’t have to hold her steady, if she wasn’t trembling so lightly it risks me smearing lipstick down her chin.

But asking her to stay still means acknowledging the thing we’re both dodging.

The rapid thrum of our hearts, our held breath.

The way I haven’t moved in seconds and neither of us has noticed.

The way we’re moving closer and closer toward one another, pulled together by gravity.

Until the door slams back open.

“Did you use my moisturizer again?!” Fatima shouts as she storms into the room, stalling when Jamila and I suddenly jump apart, Jamila almost tumbling out of her chair.

“N-no,” Jamila stammers, struggling to regain her balance by gripping tightly onto the edge of the vanity. “I think Momdid.”

Fatima crosses her arms, scrutinizing the two of us before ultimately backing out of the room slowly. “If I find out you used it, you’re dead, ” she hisses. “That cost fifty dollars.”

I know exactly which moisturizer she’s holding, and I’ll buy her a whole truckload if it means she’ll leave before she can see that I’m flushed down to my toes and struggling to catch my breath.

Mercifully, she does. I’ll have to put in a bulk order tonight.

I clear my throat in an attempt to regain my composure.

At some point in the heat of the moment I must’ve finished applying Jamila’s lipstick.

Not surprising, it’s absolutely stunning on her.

The bold pop of color feels fresh—a switch-up from her usual more muted wardrobe—and makes a total difference.

Her eyes sparkle like gemstones, the highlighter along her cheekbones making her brown skin as radiant as the sun.

“Ready to go?” I choke out, my voice hoarse from the sight of her.

“Ready,” she says after a short exhale, and takes my hand in hers.