Page 3 of Play the Part (Marsford Bay #2)

CONNIE

Fourteen Months Later

I can feel my blood pressure rising the longer I stare at it. My hands clench harder around the few items of groceries I have propped against my chest as I wait in line at the checkout.

I stare at it some more.

Burn a hole right through it.

I’m going to scream. I swear I will.

It’s finally my turn in line. I unceremoniously chuck everything on the conveyor belt and grab the tabloid magazine with as much ire as possible, slamming it beside the organic bananas.

I add a pack of orange Tic Tacs to my purchases as an afterthought.

The cashier rings up my items, her eyes dipping to the tabloid magazine before setting it to the other side.

“Oliver Campisi,” she chirps in her best Venice Beach vocal fry. “I’ve loved him since I was sixteen and saw him in Eternal Hearts .” She smiles. “That’ll be $35.60.”

My blood boils, as I forcefully shove everything into my tote bag, including fucking Oliver Campisi from Eternal Hearts . I tap my card with venomous haste and finally make eye contact with the cashier. My smile is lethally saccharine.

“Just so you know — Oliver Campisi is a piece of shit nepo baby who can’t act to save his life.”—I shove my tote bag on my shoulder—“Oh!” I say a bit brighter. “Not to mention his raging mommy issues.”

My little mic drop moment barely gets a reaction. The cashier stares at me blankly. I want to screech like a banshee but instead snatch the receipt out of her hand and storm out.

I can’t even wait till I get home, the magazine burning a hole in my tote bag. I find a bench facing the ocean and pull the damn thing out. I reread the headline as if it’s not permanently seared into my psyche.

Trouble in paradise? Hollywood heartthrob Oliver Campisi caught sharing stolen kisses with The Enigma co-star Harriett Lemmy.

“Fucking egotistical loser,” I grumble under my breath as I flip the pages to find the article. “Two-timing narcissistic cokehead.”

Nothing about this is news to me. I discovered Oliver was cheating on me two days ago from a concerned friend who I think took more pleasure in telling me the juicy piece of gossip than actually coming from a place of genuine friendship.

Oliver and I had been dating for almost a year. And I can’t deny that being Campisi’s girlfriend did help put me on the map as an actress. Nothing major, a few guest spots here and there, but it was far more than what I had been able to land on my own in the six years of living in LA.

I’m not naive. I know everything in Hollywood is transactional, but a hopeful part of me still believed that maybe Oliver and I had a genuine connection.

I was sorely and categorically wrong .

I skim the article, the glossy pages crinkling under the force of my hard grip.

Seen cozying up at Joie … Giggling like teenagers … Left arm in arm after midnight.

The tabloid fails to mention that it wasn’t just Harriett Lemmy.

There were others … many others.

I’m mortified. I look around me, suddenly paranoid that someone will recognize who I am. I don’t know what’s more embarrassing: Being cheated on by Oliver Campisi or caught reading a tabloid magazine about it in broad daylight.

Still, it doesn’t prevent me from letting the surge of rage overtake me. I spring up from the bench as I rip up the pages of the magazine like a scorned lover—because I am—before balling it up and dunking it into the nearby trash can.

My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jean shorts, and I fish it out. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach.

It’s Oliver.

I’ve been ignoring his texts and calls ever since the news broke. I nearly hurl my phone into the ocean to get away from him. I give my phone the middle finger and let out a small screech between clenched teeth before blocking his number.

I’m rotting in bed when Jamie, my best friend, calls. She lives back east in our hometown, Marsford Bay. It’s a video call, and I deliberate not answering considering my current state, but do so anyway.

“Hi, babe.” My voice cracks, and I want to disappear into my silk pillows.

Jamie takes a second to answer. “Have you been crying?” Her tone is soft and gentle, and … that’s it, I’m withering away from embarrassment.

“No.” I look away from the screen. “Maybe.”

I look back just in time to see her cant her head in concern. Genuine concern. Because it’s Jamie. My favorite person in the entire world. She already knows about Oliver. Anyone with a beating heart and access to the internet must know by now.

“I miss you.” My bottom lip starts to tremble. Tears blur my vision, and I wipe them away with a groan.

“Oh, Connie …” she says tenderly, “I miss you too. So much. Ugh, I wish I could hug you right now.”

I shrug. “Whatever. It’s fine. I’m fine.” I wipe away another wayward tear, vexed that my tear ducts are betraying me like this.

“Why don’t you come down and visit?” Jamie offers, “You could come for Thanksgiving? We’re hosting this year, and Ozzy already has a whole menu planned.” She laughs warmly, and my already bruised heart pinches with envy at the love she shares with her fiancé.

Pure. Unconditional. Everlasting.

But the feeling is quickly swept under the rug when she mentions a family gathering. Especially knowing that Ozzy’s younger brother will most likely be there.

I cringe and push the foggy memory away. It’s a quick reflex, a well-honed muscle because I’ve been suppressing that specific memory for over a year now.

“I don’t know … maybe.” My response is half-hearted at best. “I might be busy.”

“Please! You haven’t visited since the engagement party, while I’ve been to LA twice since.” Her blue eyes sparkle through the screen, full of love and hope. Then, almost like an afterthought, she adds, “It’s like you’re avoiding Marsford Bay or something.”

Her comment is light-hearted and not meant to mean as much as it does.

Marsford Bay isn’t what I’ve been avoiding …

“I’ll think about it.”

Jamie celebrates my noncommittal response as if my bags are already packed, and we hang up the call not long after.

I flop onto my back, my phone resting on my chest, and stare at the ceiling.

My thoughts are muddled, clambering on top of one another, and I watch them flash behind my mind’s eye like a strobe of neon lights.

I hate to admit how much this breakup hurts.

I feel like someone hollowed me out with a rusty spoon.

Nothing in my life is working out like I had hoped, and it’s getting harder and harder not to feel sorry for myself.

The familiar itch to escape all my problems and pretend nothing is wrong rears its weary head.

Maybe a visit back home is exactly what I need.