Page 43 of Marisol Acts the Part

I’ve never been hungover before, but I imagine it must feel like this. Mouth dry as if I swallowed a handful of cotton. Bones sore and aching. Neck twisted at an awkward angle. Dried drool streaked down my chin.

“Cut it out, Bruiser,” I grumble when I feel her paw insistent against my back, probably asking for breakfast.

“I’m offended that you can’t tell your own mother from your dog.”

I sit up faster than I should. The world spins so fast I have to brace myself against the wall until my vision clears. I’m convinced I’m still dreaming as the world slowly comes into view, but she really is here, even when the fog finally lifts.

Mom.

“I missed you too,” Mom says with a chuckle when I launch myself into her arms so hard she lets out a quiet “oof.” She cups the back of my head, tangling her fingers in my hair and scratching gently at my scalp the way she always used to when I came crawling into her bed after nightmares or thunderstorms. Calm washes over me, my body relaxing in a way it hasn’t since I left California.

Finally, I’m somewhere safe.

“Your dad told me everything,” she whispers against my head, pressing a soft kiss to the top of it. “I flew out last night.”

Apologies sit on the tip of my tongue, for making her drop everything to fly out here, but I can’t bring myself to say them.

Not when the feeling of her arms wrapped around me brings on the sense of comfort I’ve been yearning for since I got here.

I’ve missed her so much. More than I’ll ever be able to put into words—so I hold her tighter instead.

We lie like that, hugging on my bed with Bruiser squished between us, for what feels like hours. Until the rumble of my stomach breaks the silence. We let out quiet laughs as we pull apart, my stomach betraying me again with an even louderroar.

There’s a knock at the open door and Dad’s head appears cautiously in the doorway. My stomach sinks at the sight of him, not out of anger but embarrassment. Guilt over how I went off on him last night.

“You ladies doing okay?” he asks as he takes a tentative step forward.

We both nod, my cheeks growing hot as he finally enters the room, a plate of waffles in hand.

“Jerome figured you might be hungry since you missed dinner last night,” he explains as he sets the plate down on the nightstand jammed between my air mattress and the wall. Bruiser leaps to attention, but Mom swiftly catches her before she can eat our breakfast.

“Your abuela dropped off some food for you last night too, if you want that.”

My stomach does the talking for me, letting out its loudest roar yet. This time, we all laugh together at my insatiable hunger. But when the laughter dies down, my eyes drift toward the floor.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say, unable to get my voice above a whisper. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you yesterday.”

“It’s all right, munch,” he replies, squeezing onto the opposite side of the bed, my mattress groaning from the unexpected weight of three humans and a dog.

“We both said some things we regret. You were right, I never should’ve spoken about your mom the way I did.

” He looks past me over at Mom, reaching out to take her hand in his.

“She’s one of the strongest women I know. ”

Mom wipes at the corner of her eye, sniffling as she squeezes his hand and wraps an arm around me. “And we’re both so proud of you and the woman you’re becoming.”

Dad’s arms wrap around me too and they both envelop me in their combined warmth. Mom’s perfume, Dad’s cologne. The smell of Abuela’s sofrito wafting in the air. The ever-present smell of sunscreen I associate with California. For the first time I can remember, we hug as a family.

“Things are going to change from here on,” Mom promises as we pull apart.

“You can come visit us whenever you want,” Dad continues, gesturing toward my cramped room. “Consider this your room permanently now.”

Before I can let that news sink in—the thought of coming back here, of creating a real, concrete life here—Mom clasps my hands and frowns.

“I’m sorry we let you think your dad wasn’t interested in being involved in your life growing up, because he wanted to be. He wanted to be there for you so, so badly. But we both knew we didn’t want the same thing. I had dreams of moving out to LA. His dream was to stay here, with his family.”

Dad nods in agreement, resting an encouraging hand on Mom’s shoulder as she continues.

“We thought it’d be easier if you stayed with me full-time.

Shuttling back and forth across the country every couple of months would be disorienting and confusing, and we thought that was best for you.

” Mom exhales sharply, and I finally see the exhaustion written all over her.

Swollen purple bruises beneath her eyes, gray hairs streaked between her pristine blond strands.

“When things got difficult for us, I…I never told your dad. Not because I didn’t want his help, but because I felt…

ashamed. I’d spent so long talking about this dream, of becoming an actress, and none of it was panning out the way I’d hoped. ”

My grip tightens on her hand as her voice trembles.

The thought of Mom in my position, alone and terrified of failure, doesn’t seem possible.

Like Dad said, she’s the strongest woman I know.

We both knew things were hard, but she never let it show.

How she juggled all of it—multiple jobs, a crumbling dream, and me—by herself is something I’ll never understand, but will always be grateful for. Especially now.

“But I should’ve told him,” Mom continues, steadier as she smiles at Dad. “Because your dad is my best friend. And he has always been there for me.”

Again, we hold each other close. Stay quiet as Mom struggles to catch her breath and hold back her tears.

We don’t need words—we say it the way we grip each other like we’ll float away if we don’t hold tight enough.

I’m not sure how long we spend sitting there, curled into one another, but I don’t care.

This is all I’ve ever wanted, really. A family united.

When we finally pull apart, Mom does her best to wipe the smudged mascara beneath her eyes and morph into business Momager.

“C’mon,” she instructs as she stands up. “We have work to do.”

“We do?” I ask, blinking around in confusion. I’d sorta been hoping we could do brunch or something. Maybe go for a walk in Central Park with Bruiser.

She turns to me with a beaming smile, Dad joining her at her side with a grin of his own. “We’ve got a director to dealwith.”

True to her word, Mom gets straight to business.

Once it’s a more acceptable hour on the West Coast, she hops on the phone with Delia to explain the situation while Dad and Jerome comb through the various contracts I signed for the show.

I realize with a sinking feeling in my gut that Joanna did warn me about the exact clause that let Rune fire me.

She flagged it as a concern, but we agreed to wave it off due to the super-tight shooting schedule.

If we hadn’t come to an agreement within a week, I wouldn’t have been allowed on set.

At the time, we couldn’t have imagined that the “we can fire you for whatever we want whenever we want” clause would actually be used. Yet, lo and behold.

We take the video-call debrief with my entire team from the kitchen/dining/living room, the only space that can accommodate the four of us comfortably.

Joanna, as expected, reminds us that she did, in fact, tell us this could happen.

Slightly off-screen, I hang my head in shame.

That’s the last time I ignore a red flag from my lawyer.

Once I’ve swallowed my guilt, I shift back into frame.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Delia assures me she’ll do the best she can but can’t make any promises.

“You’re not the first person to have issues with him,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

That I’m well aware of. I messaged Eli this morning to tell them what happened but haven’t heard back yet.

I’m not sure what they would be able to do to help with this situation, but it’s at least comforting to know I’m not the only person who’s clashed with Rune.

Maybe that means there’ll be more we can do, somehow.

Or they’ll have their own ideas. Delia ends the call with a promise to keep us updated.

Mom, Dad, and Jerome move on to more pressing tasks—combing the internet for any proof of others who have worked with Rune, then bashed him or talked about their negative experiences on set.

There’s a lot they’re able to find on production message boards and Reddit threads about life on Hollywood sets.

We’re not sure what exactly we can do with this information, but it’s helpful for building my case, so we save everything.

Abuela shows up midway through us combing the internet for dirt with what she deems a very necessary delivery of food.

“You need food to focus!” she explains as she ladles each of us a bowl of rice.

Who am I to argue with free lunch? While Dad and Abuela bicker in the kitchen about her letting him wash the dishes, I reach for my phone, holding my breath for a text from Jamila, but the screen is as blank as it was when I woke up this morning.

It doesn’t hurt that she hasn’t texted me since yesterday—or at least, that’s what I tell myself. Maybe she was exhausted by the time she got home or forgot to charge her phone.

Or maybe she doesn’t want to talk to me.

The last thing I remember before leaving was the hurt in her eyes, how crushed she’d seemed when I walked away.

What if leaving her behind to deal with the aftermath of Rune’s blowup felt like a betrayal?

She promised me that we could do something about this together, but I was the one who walked away and gave up before we could even try fighting.

I open up our text chain, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, searching for the right thing to say.

What’s up feels too blasé and hey so are we okay?

feels too loaded. I linger on the last text she sent me—a behind-the-scenes video Fatima shot of the interview she set up for her at Hollywood Today —which Jamila, of course, absolutely crushed.

In small part thanks to my coaching her, but mostly because she relaxed enough to let her personality shine through.

Suddenly, an idea comes to me.

As if on cue, my phone lights up with an incoming call from Jamila—exactly the person I needed to hear from. I answer immediately, and Jamila launches into what must be a prepared speech as soon as I pick up.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call or text,” she says breathlessly, as if she just ran up a flight of stairs.

“Rune kept everyone on set way late because he wants to reshoot everything now that you’re gone.

And he said if any of us tries to leave or argue with him, we’re out of the show too.

By the time we got our phones back after we wrapped, it was almost four. ”

I pull back enough to glance at the time. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” It’s not super early in the morning, but if I had to stay on set until four in the morning, I’d be sleeping in until well past noon.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” she replies quietly, sounding more exhausted than out of breath now.

“I’m fine,” I assure her, heart swelling from the confirmation that we’re okay—that she’s okay. Tired, but okay. As much as I’d like to relax on the couch and let the sound of her voice soothe all the worries weighing on my shoulders, I have an asshole to take down. “And I have an idea.”