Page 5 of Marisol Acts the Part

“We know,” Blake replies in his usual flat monotone.

“W-what?”

“We drafted up a response to the piece,” he continues as if he hadn’t heard me. I can hear the muffled sound of typing, followed by a ping as an email titled STARS WEEKLY brEAK UP RESPONSE (Draft1) comes through on my phone. “If we get your sign-off now, we could have this up within the hour.”

My head spins as I struggle to put together what they’ve thrown at me. “Response to what?” I ask, opening up the email Blake sent me.

“To Miles’s statement about the breakup.”

Miles’s what ?

I’m frozen by the shock of what Blake said, as casually as if he’d been going over the details for an interview.

It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet, and Miles has already talked to the press?

Sure, my dramatic exit didn’t leave us with any time to sort out the logistical details of our breakup, but I didn’t think he’d go spilling to the media immediately.

To think I’d spent most of last night checking my phone, hoping with what little optimism I had left that he would text, or call, or show up on my doorstep with a dozen roses and an I screwed up balloon.

Honestly, I would’ve let him back in. I would’ve given him hell first—unless he brought chocolate, because chocolate heals all wounds—but at the end of the day, I would’ve forgotten the way I felt at Capri and kissed him because it wasn’t the last time anymore.

But he didn’t even have the decency to warn me before he told the entire world that he’d broken my heart.

“Miles told them?” I ask, my voice cracking as I struggle to choke back a sob.

On either side of me, Lily and Posie tap away at their phones—probably searching for the article. Before I can ask my team to send it to me, Lily does the honors herself, handing me her phone.

At the top of the page is a high-definition photo of me in all of my tearstained, smudged-mascara, nose-running glory at Capri.

With the exception of Mom’s lock screen photo of me eating dirt when I was two years old, it’s the most unflattering photo of me that’s ever existed.

And that’s saying a lot—there are many pictures of me eating pizza on the internet.

No one looks dignified while trying to manage a cheese pull.

And there’s more than one photo. The reporter was sure to include as many shots of my now-infamous exit as they could cram into one article.

You can watch in real time as I reach my breaking point, starting from my shock as I realize the paparazzi didn’t conveniently leave the second I wanted them gone, leading up to an image of me mid-shout as I yell at them to leave me alone.

“We think it’s important to position you as hopeful about the future,” Blake says, but the words go right over my head as I scan the article as quickly as I can, scanning for Miles’s official statement.

I scoff at the claim halfway through the article that Miles and I have been on the rocks “for months.” I’m sure their “insider source” is someone who worked on the show for a day and wanted a quick fifty bucks.

It wouldn’t be the first time someone I barely know has tried to use talking to me for less than a minute as a one-way ticket to quick profit or fifteen minutes of fame.

After scanning past the unfounded source, an eerie sense of déjà vu washes over me as I read Miles’s statement.

The exact same things Miles said to me last night. Almost word for word. I’m an “amazing person.” Evolving “personally and professionally.” Yadda yadda. So spot-on I can hear his voice reading each word, breaking my heart all over again.

Was he reading off a script last night? Did he send his speech to his reps beforehand? Did they rehearse like breaking my heart was another scene he had to memorize?

Before I can stop myself, I scroll down to the bottom of the article.

Straight to the comment section. In a moment of weakness, I seek validation.

Something you should never look for from outside sources.

I look for someone who can see the truth, that Miles is a dirtbag who let me think I was his endgame when I was actually a subplot in the story of his career.

Most of the responses are run-of-the-mill. “Who are these people” and “Why is this considered news?” types. After wading through the top comments, I stop.

Accounts with photos of me, or Miles, or both of us as their icons flood the comments with heartbreak, devastation, and support.

For a few seconds, I let myself revel in it.

Taking comfort in the fact that the world was as shocked by my dumping as I was.

But, as always, I let myself linger too long.

Long enough to see the comments people like me are meant to avoid.

Dozens of them. More than I expected. The replies are a warzone. M&Ms—the die-hard Milesol shippers—come to my defense while even more faceless accounts come out of the woodwork to tear me and my relationship apart.

It’s not the first time I’ve been exposed to hate.

Anyone in our industry has, even if you try your best to avoid it.

No matter what I post, there’ll be people spamming the replies with the worst kind of hatred.

Some are easier to ignore—the ones accusing me of getting lip filler or photoshopping my acne away.

Others hit harder. Especially the ones who insult my intelligence, as if they can make that kind of judgment about me from a selfie I took on the beach with a coconut emoji caption.

Those have always been the ones that feel the loudest—the comments calling me dumb, or an airhead, or worse.

Either because they need to make themselves feel better or because I’m an attractive woman on the internet, and that means people think they’re entitled to tear me down.

It hurts even more now, though. Seeing people praise Miles, speculating about his new lead role and his sudden need to dump me, like that makes it okay.

Like I’m not a person with feelings too.

That’s not surprising, though. Miles has never had to deal with the level of hate I get for something as innocent as a photo of my morning iced coffee. None of the boys in the cast has.

The supportive comments brush right past me because my cruel brain’s only able to focus on the negativity.

All the horrible things anonymous strangers have to say about me, my relationship, and my career.

Echoing what Miles implied last night—that I’m not serious enough for him.

That he’s destined to be a star, and I’m not.

Dread bubbles in my stomach and crawls up my throat.

The pounds of sugar I’ve consumed since last night betray me in the form of heartburn and the urge to throw up on my laptop.

Et tu, Ben and Jerry?

“Marisol?” Blake asks, snapping me out of my self-deprecating spiral.

“Y-yeah, sounds good,” I mumble as I shake myself off, assuming he was talking about the statement he drafted. Lily takes back her phone and runs a soothing hand down my arm. “Approved.”

Probably not the best move to approve a public statement without reading it first, but I don’t think my uneasy stomach could handle having to read through a clinical summary of my relationship. That can be filed away into the “things to regret tomorrow” folder, which is getting concerningly full.

“This could be a great opportunity to get you into more rooms!” Delia says brightly, shifting the conversation into a more positive light.

“I know the last few auditions haven’t worked out, but your name’s back in the media circuit again, and that never hurts.

” I wouldn’t think the details of my breakup being splashed across the internet would be a good thing, but I guess it’s true that all publicity is good publicity.

“There’s a new teen drama in development at the CW.

Casting hasn’t started yet, but I can set up something for you and the showrunner? ”

Last week, maybe even yesterday, I would’ve jumped at the chance.

Another shot at a role in something I’m used to.

Avalon Grove was rare in its decision to cast actual teenagers, but I can still bank on my baby face for another five years at least. Still, even though I’m trying to ignore it, Miles’s voice haunts me.

Like the world’s most annoyingly handsome poltergeist.

“What about something different?” I suggest delicately.

“Like daytime?” Delia asks in pure terror. “Please don’t tell me you want to do daytime.”

Absolutely not. No one looks good in daytime lighting. “I was thinking something with more…prestige.”

Delia hums in thought. “Did you have something in mind?”

I bite my lip, pushing away my doubts and hesitations before I can let them stop me. “What about The Limit ?”

“Yes!” Blake exclaims at the same time that Delia lets out a tentative “Well…” Lily and Posie each let out a quiet gasp, immediately covering their mouths.

The room goes totally silent.

Delia then picks up the torch.

“They are looking to fill a few more roles that you might be good for. No promises, but I can try to get you a self-tape at least. Or maybe even in the room if I can pull the right strings.”

“Absolutely not!” Mom interjects, suddenly appearing in the doorway to her office again, staring directly at me as she speaks. “You can’t go out for the same show that Miles will beon.”

“Why not?” I reply indignantly, ignoring the echo of her words through the phone a few seconds after I watch her say them. Why should the guy who dumped me get to dictate what I can and can’t audition for?

“Because…” Mom trails off, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose. The line stays quiet except for a muffled cough from Blake. Lily’s and Posie’s heads go back and forth between me and Mom like they’re watching an intense tennis match as she walks toward us.

Mom mutes her phone before setting it aside on the coffee table, then leaning down to kneel next to us on the couch. “Don’t put yourself through this, Mari,” she whispers, resting her hand on my knee.

The softness of her touch threatens to break me. I could end the call now. Tell Delia I’ll call her back and cuddle up with my mom and best friends and cry like I want to. But for a flash of a second, I felt something close to hope, to excitement. And I don’t want to let that go. Not yet.

“Legally, it’s not a problem,” Joanna interrupts, startling both Mom and me out of our staring contest. “Unless you think he has any reason to file a restraining order against you.”

I tear my gaze away from Mom’s, shifting my attention back to my phone. “I think I’ll be fine.” Miles may be an ass, but he doesn’t run Hollywood. I’m just as entitled to a part on The Limit as he is.

“Are you sure this is something you want to do?” Delia asks warily. “There’s this great Netflix rom-com that you’d be perfect for. Or a comedy about—”

“I’m sure,” I say before she can finish. “Time for something different, right?”

“Right…” Delia’s tone remains hesitant, and the silence that follows her reply isn’t promising, but she at least feigns enthusiasm when she promises to send me updates and details once she has them.

When the call ends with the promise of more to come soon, Mom gives me a disapproving eye.

Even Bruiser seems intrigued when I sit up straighter than I have in the last twenty-four hours and pull my hair out of its wreck of a bun for a more presentable, slicked-back ponytail instead.

I smile as I turn off the TV, dust the crumbs off my hoodie, and gesture for Lily and Posie to follow me up to my room.

“Let’s start laying out some potential audition outfits.”

They exchange a confused look, their frowns loosening and turning into smiles as they lunge off the couch. As we head upstairs, we’re already brainstorming what top would look best with my hot pink pleated skirt, Bruiser in tow. Mom sighs and goes to clean up our abandoned ice cream.

Who says I can’t take myself more seriously too?