Page 36 of Marisol Acts the Part
Delia is as intense an agent as they come, but my coming out didn’t have much impact on the trajectory of my career.
She threw a like on my post, commented a heart, and that was that.
But I also already had a series regular role on one of the most successful teen dramas on cable.
Plus, a longstanding relationship with one of TV’s up-and-coming golden boys.
My career was in its early days, but it wasn’t in its infancy anymore.
I had some level of clout—proof that I could play a cookie-cutter girl from the suburbs whose only experience with romance was falling for her male childhood best friend.
Jamila is starting from the bottom. The Limit will buy her a ton of favor in the industry, that I’m sure of, but it’s impossible to say how far it will take her.
With a performance like hers, she deserves every series regular role she reads for.
Leads. Bigger casts, bigger buzz. But we all know this industry is fickle.
Giving the best performance doesn’t always guarantee you the lead roles.
Especially if you’re someone like Jamila—brown and (somewhat openly) queer.
“I know, but what am I supposed to do?” Jamila chokes out, her eyes glossy.
A pang strikes through my heart. “She’s an incredible agent.
She got me this part and has lined up some serious auditions for me since then.
And…maybe she’s right.” Jamila toys with her fingers again, picking at a burn on her ring finger.
“It’s unfair, but isn’t that what everyone says about this industry? That it’s unfair?”
The worst part is she’s right, and we both know it.
I slide onto the couch beside her, wrap an arm around her trembling shoulders, and pull her close.
She leans in until her head disappears in the curve of my neck.
Her shallow breath is warm and wet against my skin, but I don’t dwell on the chill that it sends down my spine.
I focus on holding her, running my hand along her arm until her body relaxes into mine.
“So…” I pause, unsure how to continue. How to address the elephant in the room. “We shouldn’t be…uh…involved. With each other.”
Jamila snorts, and I’d be offended by her reaction if I wasn’t so relieved to see her laugh. “Actually, I very much do want to be involved with you.”
My hand stills above her elbow, gripping tighter than I mean to. “It feels like there’s a but coming?”
Jamila nods, pulling away from my neck to face me.
“But I’d have to be careful. No posting about my personal life the way I usually would.
No shouting from the rooftops that I kissed the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever met, even though I really want to.
At least until people get to know me for me, not who I date.
” She tucks a loose lock of hair behind my ear, letting her fingers linger on my cheek.
Flashes of Friday night rush through me like a riptide, igniting the same fire in my belly that pushed me to kiss her in the first place.
“I know this is the norm for you. Avoiding paparazzi and fans and stuff, and I don’t want you to feel like this is another part of your life that you have to hide.
So…I get it. If you’d rather not. Y’know. Be involved with me.”
For once, I listen to my body. I capture her lips with mine.
There’s a sharp, salty sting I don’t remember from last night, and I wonder if she’d been crying before I found her.
The thought makes me soften my touch, resting a hand on hers where it’s laying in the space between us.
She meets the force of my body with her own, entangling our fingers on the leather.
It’s not the same as Saturday night—slow and tender, like we want to savor every second of each other—but it still takes my breath away.
“I really, really want to be involved with you,” I whisper against her lips when we part.
“Really?” I can feel the way her lips tug into a smile, and I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth before cupping her cheeks.
“Really.”
When we kiss again, it’s messy and off-center, and we’re too distracted by laughing to fix our positioning, but we don’t care because it’s perfectly imperfect.
It’s hard to imagine a world where I don’t shout about her to the world, don’t sing her praises every day and post photos of her at golden hour.
So much of my relationship with Miles was defined by what the world saw—the hidden glances, the way we smiled at each other from across a room, the photos we posted together after twenty minutes of careful posing.
And look where we are now.
This is a good thing, I tell myself as we pull apart to dive in for a less awkward kiss this time.
Not the circumstances, but the privacy. Keeping this perfect thing to myself.
Not letting the world pull it apart and dissect it and take it for themselves.
We can learn who we are together at our own pace with no one watching over our shoulders.
No articles, no media, no pressure. Just us and the way we make each other feel.
I don’t like the circumstances or the why behind it—that we have to hide ourselves so the industry we work in will accept us as blank slates.
But there can still be silver linings.