Page 3 of Marisol Acts the Part
My stomach clenches at the thought of how many other epic celebrity breakups may have gone down right where we’re sitting. What better place to end things than at a restaurant with an ironclad NDA?
“You’re an amazing person, Mari. For real,” Miles continues, finally meeting my eyes, once the server is out of earshot. I don’t fall for the allure of his gaze this time—if anything, being forced to stare at his full lashes makes me that much angrier. I hope he goes bald in his thirties.
“And I’m grateful we got to spend our teenage years together. But we’re adults now. We need to evolve. Things are going to change for the both of us.”
“Nothing’s changed for me,” I reply, voice wavering but steadier than before.
Other than now having the most free time I’ve had since I was in middle school, everything has stayed the same for me.
Brand deals, self-tapes, my team pushing me to bite the bullet and finally go blond. My feelings forhim.
And maybe my feelings for him will never change.
Miles winces, and I kind of relish watching him squirm.
But the vindictive thrill is short-lived, quickly replaced by an overwhelming need to sob.
I press my balled fist against my mouth, focusing on the pain of my nails digging into my palm instead of the urge to cry.
Thank God I wore ultra-strength lashes tonight.
The last thing I need is an eyelash strip dangling like a rogue caterpillar.
Even a category five hurricane couldn’t knock these bad boys off.
What hurts the most is how formal this all feels.
Like we’re severing a business contract instead of a multiyear relationship.
I spent most of my teenagerhood falling for him.
There are entire blogs dedicated to us—to our relationship outside of the show—posting photos of us walking red carpets and sharing knowing glances from across rooms. We were more than our characters. We were real.
“Mari…” Miles begins, reaching for me again.
“I want to go home.”
I want to go back in time, to the stupid, beautiful moment when I fell in love with this stupid, beautiful boy and warn my younger self that it’ll all go up in flames. I want to crawl into bed. I want to scream. I want to eat my weight in peanut butter.
He stops, his hand lingering in midair above my shoulder. It falls limply back down onto the table, his fingers a few inches from mine. He’s close enough that I feel heat radiating off him.
“C’mon, Mari,” Miles tries again, but keeps his distance this time. “We can go after dessert.”
“Seriously?” I snap.
He shrugs, his cheeks pink as he settles back in his seat. “I really like the tiramisu here.”
The groan that comes out of me sounds more like an animalistic growl. His brow furrows as I grab my purse off the empty chair beside me. He’s watching me all wide-eyed and Bambi-like as if he doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong.
The server suddenly reappears beside me, cautiously leaning toward our table. “Is everything—”
“I’M FINE!” I shout so loudly it startles the rest of the dining room into total silence.
Socialites and award-winning actors blink up at me from their overpriced penne vodka, strangers witnessing my lowest moment. Their eyes follow me as I storm out of the dining room, but Miles doesn’t. That hurts more than a plea to come back, that he doesn’t even think I’m worth chasing.
I quickly text Luis.
Dinner wrapped up sooner than expected. Can you pick me up now?
Had to run some errands—still about thirty minutes away. Everything okay?
The rational thing to do would be to go back to the dining room and suffer through dessert with Miles until Luis gets here.
I wouldn’t have to say anything, but the thought of that makes my blood boil.
I’ve already made the dramatic exit. I can’t turn back around with my tail between my legs.
If I’d brought a less expensive purse, I might even consider hitchhiking.
I decide to take refuge in the bathroom, tipping the attendant by the sinks a twenty for extra privacy as I lock myself into the closest stall and open up my phone.
Views as spectacular as the one we had at our table come with a price, and in this case, it’s any type of reception.
If my phone wasn’t a glorified camera in here, I’d call my mom and ask her to come pick me up—but just sending a text back to Luis, letting him know I’m fine, takes two tries before the message gets delivered.
Plus, there’s no way she’d be able to make it through the traffic in less than an hour.
After another ten minutes attempting to open a rideshare app, and another five to confirm my ride, I rush out of the bathroom to meet the driver and put this nightmare of a day behind me.
Mentally, I’m already deciding which rom-com to binge once I’m home.
The thought of changing into my favorite pajamas and curling up with Bruiser on the couch is the only thing stopping me from breaking down.
Every time I let my mind drift back to Miles—to any of the hundreds of memories I have of him—feels like a punch to the gut.
I wipe at my damp cheeks, eternally grateful for the setting spray keeping my foundation and concealer in place, as my legs carry me on pure instinct.
Until a flurry of flashing lights knocks me back.
“Marisol!” the same voices from earlier shout again. Without Luis to break up the crowd, the paparazzi surround me like sharks to blood in the water. Their questions overlap one another, all of their voices melding together into one suffocating wave of noise.
“Where’s Miles?”
“Why are you two leaving separately?”
“Do you have anything lined up now that you’ve wrapped on Avalon Grove ?”
“What’s next for you?”
“How was dinner?”
“Did you two have a fight?”
“Leave me alone!” I shout, and for the first time, the paparazzi quiet. Their cameras fall to their sides, mouths open in quiet shock as I struggle to breathe. I don’t even realize I’ve started crying again until the tears drip down to my chin, one falling onto my Tiffany charm bracelet.
The peace doesn’t last long. A balding man with two cameras around his neck takes a photo so close to my face the flash makes stars cloud my vision.
That whips me back to reality, and I use the small window of time I still have to rush out of the swarm.
With the spell broken, the rest of the photographers join back in, scrambling for “the shot” and calling my name as I push and shove my way through the sweaty, packed crowd.
When I finally emerge on the other side, my ponytail extension is hanging on for dear life, and I’m seconds away from having a meltdown.
Miraculously, my Lyft driver awaits in his Honda Civic chariot only a few feet away from the curb.
I dash into the backseat, holding my breath until the door has closed behind me and the paparazzi’s shouts have dulled to white noise.
The driver slams down on the gas, pulling back onto the road so fast I’m pressed against the leather seats.
Five stars, for sure. Both he and the staff at Capri will be getting a generous tip tonight for dealing with my post-breakup drama.
In the rearview mirror, I spot some of the photographers chasing after the car, others eyeing their own cars on the opposite side of the curb before ultimately returning to their posts by the entrance.
I can hear the one closest to the car shouting out to me, even over the smooth jazz the driver has playing on the radio.
“Did something happen between you and Miles?! Did he dump you?! Is he cheating?!” he shouts so frantically you’d think he was drowning and begging for a lifeboat. All while still taking dozens—probably even hundreds—of photos of me until he’s nothing but a speck on the horizon.
Okay, fine, I was wrong. Paparazzi are the absolute worst.