Page 4 of Marisol Acts the Part

“Americone Dream or Half Baked?” Lily asks in lieu of a greeting as I open my front door. She and her twin sister, Posie, arrived a record-breaking twenty minutes after my SOS text to them about the breakup.

My stomach rumbles as I consider my ice cream options. “Both?”

“Both, it is,” Posie replies, pulling two spoons out of thinair.

Opening the front door for them was the first time I’ve left the nest I built in the living room last night.

After forty-five minutes of alternating between sobbing on the couch and sobbing in the reclining chair, I was too wiped to climb up the stairs to my room.

My mom came to the rescue with a pair of pajamas fresh out of the dryer, a blanket, and so much hot chocolate my teeth have started to ache.

By morning, I’d stopped crying long enough to send an SOS signal to Lily and Posie.

Avalon Grove may have been the start and end of Miles and my epic love story, but at least it gave me my best friends.

It’s a miracle that we’re as close as we are, considering they played my character’s bitter archenemies.

We may’ve hated each other on-screen for four seasons, but we’ve been inseparable off-screen ever since we bonded over our shared love for glitter eye shadow and rom-coms.

Bruiser perks up at the arrival of the twins and fresh snacks, tongue lapping out of her mouth happily and a dribble of snot running down her mouth as she curls up on my lap.

“Gross, Bruise.” I groan when some of her snot gets onto my pajama pants. As wonderful company as she is, she’s definitely not my most hygienic friend.

Lily saves me from another snot attack by lifting Bruiser into her arms, and they settle down beside me. The girls watch me pop the lids off both pints and help myself to a spoonful of each. My stomach will hate me for this tomorrow, but I can’t find it in me to care today.

The combination of the chunks of chocolate-covered waffle cone and caramel from Americone Dream and the brownie and cookie dough from Half Baked creates a euphoric taste explosion in my mouth, making my entire body shiver.

All I’ve been able to have for dessert publicly for the past three months is the sugar-free-dairy-free-low-calorie-no-fun sorbet I did a brand deal with.

Thankfully, I’m not bound to Berry Delicious Sorbet now that they’ve declared bankruptcy.

Heartbreak calls for full-calorie goodness.

“How’re you feeling?” Posie asks after I’ve handed her the Half Baked to focus my attention on Americone Dream.

“Like garbage.” I gesture down to my stained pajama pants. “And I look like it too.”

“Well, I thi—”

“Please don’t tell me I look beautiful.”

Both Lily and Posie pout. It’d be impossible to tell them apart if it wasn’t for the diamond initial necklaces they always wear.

They don’t make it any easier with their wardrobes, either.

Today they’re decked out in matching baby-blue tracksuits with their blond hair pulled into sleek high ponies, their usually pale skin glowing with the subtle radiance of a fresh spray tan. “But you do!” Posie protests.

I glare, and she immediately backs off. Posie has enough energy and enthusiasm to power a ten-story building, but I’m not ready to be recharged.

“Sorry,” I apologize quickly, not meaning to take my anger out on the people who drove all the way from Santa Monica to be with me. I punctuate the statement by offering both of them spoons and holding the pint of Americone Dream toward them. “Thank you for being here.”

“Of course,” Posie says, my earlier snap rolling right off her back as she helps herself to a bite of Americone Dream first, then Half Baked. “Miles is such a dick.”

“Seriously,” Lily agrees, leaning her head against my shoulder. “Anyone who dumps someone as amazing as you needs to seriously rethink their life choices.”

I snort around my ice cream, and as unattractive as the sound is, it feels good to laugh. My lips and throat still ache—as if I haven’t used the muscles to laugh in years instead of a few hours—but I’ll take the pain to feel something other than self-pity.

Happily digging into our ice cream, we all turn our attention to the final moments of the latest Hallmark Original I’d been watching before they got here. I wrinkle my nose as the heroine seals her happily-ever-after with a kiss, her handsome leading man promising to love her forevermore.

“Liar,” I mumble under my breath.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours, it’s that happily-ever-afters are 100percent bullshit.

Lily and Posie each give me worried glances.

I can’t blame them for looking at me like some kind of subterranean monster has taken over their best friend’s body—because that’s exactly what I am.

An unholy creature. Leaving my hair in a bun overnight has left it so tangled I couldn’t pull out the pen that accidentally got trapped in the mess, so I’ve decided to just leave it in and deal with the consequences later.

I popped off all my acrylics in a fit of rage last night, leaving my chewed-to-nubs nails on full display.

I skipped seven of the ten steps in my usual nightly cleansing routine, which means I woke up with a zit the size of Texas on my chin and enough whiteheads on my forehead to grate cheese.

And I’m pretty sure there’s still mascara smudged into the creases of my eye bags.

Needless to say, I’m a hot mess. And not even the fun kind.

Something beneath my cocoon of blankets and takeout containers begins to buzz, along with a notification on my Apple Watch informing me that my agent, Delia, is calling.

Suddenly, Mom appears in the doorway of her office, holding up her own phone.

“Are you going to answer?”

I sigh and sink into the comfort of my hoodie like an ostrich shoving their head in the sand. “Do I have to?” I reply, my voice muffled by the fabric.

Lily and Posie exchange frowns while Mom gives me a glare that makes it clear I don’t really have a choice in the matter.

“Fine,” I mumble, digging for my phone in the crumb-littered couch cushions while Mom switches into Manager Mode as she slides in her AirPods, accepts the call, and heads back to her office.

Most days, I’m grateful to have my mom as my manager.

If it weren’t for Mom knowing how terrible I look in cool tones, I might have let Delia hound me into going platinum blond by now.

Nobody stands up for you like the person who spent seventeen hours in labor birthing you.

But today, I wish she would just be my mom and let business calls wait until I don’t feel like I’ve been run over by a semitruck.

“Hey, sorry,” I mutter when I answer my phone, brushing chip crumbs off the screen and throwing it on speaker so Lily and Posie can hear too. “Couldn’t find my phone.”

“No problem,” Delia’s assistant chirps. “Grabbing Delia, Joanna, and Blake now.”

“O-oh,” I stammer, leaving us to listen to the agency’s signature funky hold music. Immediately, I regret putting the call on speaker.

The full Marisol Polly-Rodriguez team is almost never on the same call together.

It would take a year and a day to coordinate my lawyer, Joanna’s, and publicist, Blake’s, schedules with Delia’s and my own, and probably another hour to wrangle us all onto one conference line.

The last time the three of them called me at the same time was to tell me Avalon Grove was nominated for a Teen Choice Award and the MTV Movie& TV Award for Best Kiss—the highest honors a show like ours could be bestowed.

This is either really, really great or, more likely, really, really, really bad.

Isn’t it bad enough that I had to get unexpectedly dumped? Why is the universe trying to torture me?

The music comes to an abrupt stop as a bloop announces Delia’s assistant’s return. “Everyone is on,” she says before the members of my team start talking at once.

Delia takes charge, shushing the others with an intensity that I can feel even through the phone. She holds a beat, waiting until the line is fully quiet, before speaking. “How are you, Marisol?”

Oh God, something is definitely wrong.

Delia Lane is one of the best agents in the business for a reason.

She has an encyclopedic knowledge of every single actor, representative, and who’s who in the entertainment industry, and has a client list that I’m still amazed I’m on.

Which means she’s always running a mile a minute from meetings to sets to premieres in Europe or some exotic island.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Delia’s assistant has to schedule time in her calendar for her to sleep.

Delia’s time is precious. And across our three years together, she’s never once greeted me during a call.

As soon as she’s on the line, we get right down to business.

Someone like her doesn’t have time to waste on pleasantries when she’s calling to tell you she booked you an audition for the next major fantasy franchise.

Unless she needs to soften some kind of blow…

“Fine,” I answer reluctantly.

I’m sure the paparazzi photos of my less-than-graceful exit from Capri are splashed across the internet by now, but they barely paint the full picture.

For all the public knows I just got a migraine and took my frustration out on the unsuspecting public in a moment of weakness.

We should have a couple weeks to figure out how to navigate my new Miles-less life—assuming they’re not firing me right now.

The thought of it—both me being fired and having to treat my breakup as a business move—makes my head throb as I hold back yet another wave of oncoming tears. And here I thought last night’s ugly cry had wiped me out.

“Some photos of you went up on Stars Weekly last night—”

“Miles broke up with me,” I explain before Delia can even finish. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid now and work out our damage control plan later. Again, assuming they’re not kicking me to the curb.