Page 30 of Marisol Acts the Part
The premiere is in full swing by the time we step out of our car.
A production assistant instantly appears at our side, walking beside us without taking his eyes off his clipboard, handing us a set of wristbands as soon as he’s confirmed our names on the guest list, and pointing us in the direction we should go next.
“Ready for your first red carpet?” I ask Jamila, shimmying my shoulders as I head toward the tented carpet, the buzz of photographers calling out names rumbling in the distance.
I turn around, expecting Jamila to follow, but she’s stuck in place, blinking at the tent like it’s a hundred-foot-tall monster.
“I—I don’t think I can,” she stammers out, backing away slowly even though there’s nowhere else for her to go.
Seeing her without her usual easy confidence is unsettling—like she’s too exposed and I should shield my eyes to give her privacy. Instead, I take a careful step toward her, waiting until I’m sure she’s not going to bolt to rest my hand on her arm.
“I know it seems like a lot, but you can do this,” I assure her, taking in a deep breath and gesturing for her to match my pace.
We take in several deep breaths together, inhaling and exhaling in sync until she doesn’t need my hand on her arm to ground her. Once she’s calm and her eyes aren’t the size of saucers, I straighten my back and get into my usual red carpet pose.
“Walk out there and keep your chin up.” I pause, gesturing for her to mimic my movement. “Hand on your hip. Cross the legs. Dip your head down if you need to reposition or need a break. It’ll keep them from getting any wonky photos of you when you’re not ready. And always smile.”
Jamila wobbles as she tries to cross her legs like mine, but I loop my arm through hers before she can stumble. “Maybe not the leg cross. That might be too advanced.”
I let go of her so she can practice the pose one more time, readjusting her slightly so her shoulders are back and making sure her emerald necklace is sitting perfectly right at the hollow of her collarbone.
“Perfect.” I give her pose a thumbs-up in approval before snapping a photo with my phone. “For your mom,” I explain, quickly texting the picture to her before she can snatch the phone out of my hand and delete it.
Any hesitation Jamila had about the photo—about this whole situation—softens as she glances down at my phone. Even in terrible dim lighting, with camera flashes in the distance, she shines.
“I can go first,” I offer once I’ve tucked my phone into my purse, then hold up my pinkie. “ If you promise you’ll follow right behind me?”
Jamila grins as she loops her pinkie through mine. “Promise.”
We walk together to the entrance of the tent, me double-checking that Jamila isn’t about to pass out before I take a deep breath of my own and step out onto the carpet.
For the first time since that night at Capri, I’m met with a flurry of flashing lights and voices yelling my name.
I’ve turned down a dozen different premiere invites since the breakup out of fear of this moment—that it would take me right back to one of the most humiliating moments of my life.
This was something I used to love—smiling for the cameras, answering questions, signing photos for fans.
An exception to my claustrophobia, because who wouldn’t mind being the center of attention?
One of the most thrilling parts of this overwhelming career.
And as scary as facing the cameras again might’ve felt a few weeks ago, I can’t let Miles take this away from me too.
“Marisol, over here!”
“Looking beautiful!”
“How has The Limit been going?”
“Can you tell us anything about the part you’ll be playing?”
The voices pile on top of each other as the cameras flash, clouding my vision with dark spots and stars. I keep my smile in place as I carefully step down the carpet, every movement carefully choreographed to appear camera-ready each step of the way.
“It’s going to be a great season,” I tease a nearby reporter. “That’s all I can say.”
I’m nearly to the end of the carpet, where a doorway leads to the screening room, when the cameras’ attention shifts, some of them continuing to call out questions to me while the others focus on getting shots of the newcomer.
Jamila steps hesitantly into the spotlight, holding the pose we practiced.
It’s a little stiff, but what matters is her smile.
Soft and effortless, made that much brighter by the sequins on her dress catching the light of the camera flashes.
I don’t need to see the photos splashed across the internet to know she’s stunning. And soon, the world will know it too.
I’m frozen in place, watching proudly as she approaches the flock of reporters, ready to sneak a candid of her for her mom, when her foot catches on a snag in the carpet.
Time slows as her ankle wobbles, unsteady in her new heels, and she starts to careen to the side.
Without thinking, I dash as quickly as I can toward her.
I loop my arm around her waist, yanking her up and pulling her against my side in a motion so fluid I honestly didn’t think I had it in me.
“Be nice to her, it’s her first red carpet,” I say to the crowd, which rewards me with a smattering of chuckles as Jamila leans heavily against me, her cheek practically pressed against mine. She holds on to my arm tight enough to bruise, but I don’t so much as wince.
“How’re you so good at this?” Jamila whispers, her breath warm against my skin, as she finally steadies herself in her heels, tugging down the hem of her dress.
“It gets easier,” I whisper back, an echo of our conversation about surviving life in the city, but, this time, I’m the expert.
The clicks and flashes pick up speed as we turn to face the crowd together, pressed flush against each other despite Jamila regaining her balance.
“Let’s get a group shot of the Limit kids!” one photographer shouts.
My brow furrows as someone steps toward us. I’m wracking my brain for any mentions of Miles or Dawn coming to this premiere when Eli Rowan steps up beside me.
Eli freaking Rowan.
Eli is as effortlessly cool in person as they are on TV, in interviews, and on magazine covers.
Their brown hair has been cut into a shaggy mullet, a style that I absolutely hate but manages to be extremely chic on them.
They pull off a pair of slim black sunglasses as they casually wrap their arm around me, clad in a denim jacket with patches from different countries plastered across the back and sleeves.
“Perfect!” the photographer praises, and I have to physically shake myself off to snap back to reality and go back into posing mode. Jamila seems as starstruck as I am, sneaking glances at Eli in between rounds of flashes.
“Thanks, everyone,” Eli says to the crowd, giving a slight bow before heading off toward the screening room.
Quickly, Jamila and I do the same, waving to the crowd and thanking them for their time before following after Eli.
“You both on season two?” Eli asks as we step into the screening room, rocket ship–shaped tubs of popcorn and neon-purple slushies laid out across the table along with our seating assignments.
Eli asks this so casually you’d think we’ve known each for years instead of meeting for the first time a few seconds ago.
“Yeah,” I reply for both of us while Jamila nods numbly, clearly stuck in “Oh my God, a real celebrity” mode. Been there. Two years ago, Zendaya had to pick my jaw up off the floor.
“Good luck,” Eli says with a humorless chuckle as they help themself to one of the rocket ship popcorns. “Rune is a dick.”
It’s not until I feel Jamila stiffening against my hand that I realize I never let go of her waist. I shove my hands under my armpits, trying not to linger on the chill that settles over me once we’re apart.
“He’s definitely eccentric,” I say diplomatically, not sure how much I should say somewhere this public.
Eli nods, chewing on some popcorn. “DM me if he’s ever being an ass to you. He can’t keep getting away with treating his employees like shit,” they say before sauntering off to find their seat in the crowded theater.
I’m not able to process that Eli Rowan casually told me to DM them, both because the production assistants start ushering us toward our seats, and because I suddenly see Delia’s constant checking in on me in a new light.
Does she know something I don’t about Rune not being the best to his cast and crew?
Was working with him what she was trying to talk me out of instead of doubting my abilities? Did she tell Mom as my manager?
“The screening will begin in five!” an assistant beside us shouts, and the crowd moves so quickly I almost lose sight of Jamila.
“C’mon,” she says, slipping her hand in mine and tugging me toward our seats.
As our fingers link together, warm and slightly sweaty, I forget about Rune and The Limit and everything Eli said. For a few blissful moments, I get to focus on Jamila, her smile, and the way her hand fits so perfectly in mine.