Page 1 of Take 2

Chapter One

N o envelope in history has ever taken this long to open.

J.K. Simmons’ words hang in the air, echo through the theatre, and replay in my mind, driving me insane as I watch him open it. And the Oscar goes to…

My manicured fingernails dig into James’ knee. My cheeks ache with the smile plastered on my face. Mirabelle Sheridan. When Stars Fall. Say it. Say it. Say it.

The card comes out, and Simmons shows it to Elliot Page. Another second delay—I want to scream; they stand there aware of my fate while I sit here dying in anticipation. My heart is a time bomb, ticking in the final countdown.

The screens show the five nominees for best original screenplay.

And Elliot Page finally reads the winner. “Preston Greene for Enter the Night .”

My lungs, sounds, and the idiotically hopeful organ in my chest all grind to a full stop.

Not again. If I could rewind time a few minutes, I’d revise my plea to the universe. Not Preston. Anyone except him. Please and thank you. But it’s too late for that.

My arm shakes, and James lays his hand over mine in a surprisingly gentle way, considering his leg is being severed by my grip. I blink so fast my fake lashes might fall off. My smile is still in place, but when I turn my head to face James and his eyes bulge, I gather I look manic.

He mouths something. Or says something out loud. Sound has returned; however, I can’t hear him over the thunderous applause and the hurricane in my head.

I rub my lips together and take a deep breath in through my nose. Preston reaches the podium and hugs the trio from Juno whose writer won this award fourteen years ago. They step back as he approaches the podium, award in hand.

The way he looks at that godforsaken statue, I’d think he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Like he can’t gaze lovingly at two of them every day in his home.

He scrapes his hand through his dark waves and looks out over the audience.

“Thank you so much.” His ‘I’m surprised’ voice is spot on.

With those acting skills, it’s a wonder he’s on this side of the film industry.

“This is an incredible honor, especially among such amazing nominees.” His eyes land on me, and his smile boils my blood.

I wish he would make the switch to acting. He’s got the body for action movies. Watching him die in IMAX would be glorious.

The folded-up speech in my bra is going to be soaked.

Why did I let James talk me into this dress?

I’m melting. The sequins have mated and reproduced.

There have to be thousands more weighing me down now than when I put it on.

The cinched waist was comfortable enough before but grips me in a sparkly fist now.

The open slits on the long sleeves are less ventilation and more windows to the sweaty mess I am . This is disgusting, and I want to die.

James leans toward me and whispers, “But you look better.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Shut up. I know you think he’s hot.”

“Obviously, I would be slightly more likely to sleep with him than you—” My grip tightens. “Which is still no chance in hell!” He pries my fingers off him now. “Mirror ball, that’s just an anatomical truth.”

“Well, the only truth that matters is that he is the enemy, and I need you to see past the facade and recognize the bloodthirsty monster within.” My hair sticks to the sweat on the back of my neck.

There isn’t any reason for me not to twist it up and stab a pen through it anymore, but James patted me down for any object I might tie my hair up with.

“At the moment, the facade is dressed very well, so that’s a tall order. Kristen obviously had that suit custom-made for him, and”—he registers my expression and averts his eyes—“I’ll just shut up now.”

I direct my attention to a point on the stage’s backdrop.

I don’t need to look at the custom suit, the cocky smile magnified on the screens, or the green eyes.

Seriously, if a writer created a character with the last name Greene and gave him green eyes, they’d be raked over the coals.

Fiction has higher standards than real life.

Preston Greene is like a character from Clue.

The game version of Mr. Green was bald, though, with a mean scowl.

Preston could use some male-pattern baldness.

And a frown. Even when I’ve seen him less than completely content with his own magnificence, the closest he gets is a sardonic smile. It’s like his mouth can’t tip downward.

My limit for that smile and everything else about him was reached two years ago—when he beat me for my first nomination.

I clap along with everyone else, only because he’s getting off the stage. If I were lucky, this would be the last time I ever have to see him. Clearly, my luck is shit, though.

Only seven more awards to sit through before I can have my meltdown.

I twist my hair and hold it up off my neck as we make our way through— kill me —winners’ lane. This secure, camera-free passageway to the hotel is where they herd the happy people with their shiny new trophies and anyone of notoriety. Somehow, I count as the latter.

Cigarette smoke wafts through the air from where the losers hide on their way out. Those are my people. If the smell didn’t make me want to gag, I might join them. Fortunately, the Oscars had plenty of tea for James to distract me with.

‘Best documentary feature’ seemed like a good time to sneak away to the restroom, but apparently, I missed the thing this show will probably be most known for.

“It was staged, right?” I ask.

“No, it definitely wasn’t staged.” James is already on his phone in search of footage. My own phone will be staying in airplane mode until I crack and submit to the condolences of my friends and family … or the world ends. Whichever comes first.

“That’s why he said the stuff about protecting people in his best actor speech!

” James says. It’s already all over the internet, so I get to see the slap as we get to the elevator.

Our escort, Courtney, remains dutifully silent on the subject, probably disappointed she’s stuck walking me to my room rather than an actor.

“Oh, wow.” I glance up at her in her black dress and silver name tag. “You really don’t need to walk us all the way. No one knows who I am.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.” Her smile and voice have been honed for customer service. I doubt it’s her pleasure, but it is her job.

“All right.” The elevator arrives, and I’ve got one shoe off before the door closes. “You aren’t allowed to dress me ever again, by the way,” I say to James.

“First of all,” he says, “you will be my Barbie forever. Don’t tell lies. Secondly, if you were at a party right now, you wouldn’t have any problem with these.” He accepts the heels I shove at him and dangles one from his finger. “They are stunning.”

“Well, maybe the wardrobe choices should start assuming I’m going to be in a shitty mood after these things and hence not distracted enough to ignore suffering.”

Courtney appears to find the elevator buttons extremely interesting when I pull my bra out through the low neckline and let out a big sigh.

“Sure. I’ll just put you in Lululemon and Havaianas next time. You’ll love it when I tell you I assume you’re going to lose.”

I sweep my arms out with more drama than the freshest prima donnas in their first roles. “I am, in fact, a loser, so I wouldn’t really be able to blame you. Something breathable would be great. I was melting.”

“Nicole Kidman seemed to think it was chilly. She was in Keith’s jacket.”

“Well, they were in the VIP lounge section by the stage, all spread out. Writers who they know lost get packed in tight.”

When we get to our floor, James sashays into the hallway, dragging out the words, “Pity partay,” like a frat guy at a bachelor party. “You are so lucky BTS only virtually attended; otherwise, I would be looking for them.”

“So, a disappointing night overall.” Bouncing around Hollywood stalking a boyband could have been a fun distraction. Maybe we’d even land in jail, an indisputable excuse to not answer calls and texts.

“Indeed. Notes for next year’s Oscars: less everyone else, more BTS talking about crying during Pixar movies. In the meantime, we party.”

“Are there streamers?”

“And a dart board with Preston’s face on it.”

“Excellent.” I tap the keycard and open the door. “Thank you, Courtney. Have a good night.”

She hurries back down the hall. Two steps into my room, I see it: the silver ice bucket on the dresser with a bottle of Grey Goose next to it . The sad girl Oscars alternative to champagne.

I gasp and whirl on James. “You didn’t! I was kidding about the shoes and the dress!

We do not ever pre-plan for loser activities!

” Bringing James could be considered just that, at least according to my parents and friends.

Except they are wrong—it wasn’t the possibility of losing that kept me from bringing Mom again.

It was Preston’s nomination and presence.

James is the only person I trust to keep me from killing the man.

His jaw drops. “Of course I didn’t! I would never!

” He sweeps over to the offending beverage and grabs a card near the bucket.

His eyes widen and he folds it in half. “You know what? I forgot. I did order this ahead of time. I offer my resignation and hope you’ll give me a decent recommendation letter as I seek a new position as some other girl’s gay bestie. ”

There’s no cute joke that can distract me from this. “Who sent it?”

“Me.”

“Liar!” I reach out for the card, but he holds it behind his back. “Give me that card.”

“No.”

When I lunge for it, he spins, and I twist around him. My hand slips on his arm as he reaches up and holds it over his head.

“Show me!” I use his shoulder for leverage as I jump, but as I didn’t pack climbing equipment, this isn’t going to work.

“Bet you wish you kept the heels on now.” Using my height against me. Low blow.

“James!” I tackle him to the bed and crawl over him to get to the card still clenched in his fist. I pry at it with both hands like a squirrel trying to crack a nut. “I will bite you.”

“Better my hand than you biting my head off.” He’s on his back, flopping like a fish on a pier.

“I’ll put your hand on my boob.”

“Ew.” He flicks the card to the pillows and rubs his freed wrist as I go after my quarry.

I snatch the card and pull at the stupid dress as I wiggle into a cross-legged position. The crinkled card reads: Wish you’d come out for drinks. You don’t even have to keep your hair down.

Something soft slaps me in the face.

“That was with it,” James says of the green scrunchie that’s landed in my lap. I squeeze it in my other hand as I finish reading.

But since you won’t … Enjoy. And don’t be so hard on yourself. -PG

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say as I tear up the card.

“Of course. It’s not actually my fault. What could I ever do to be better than the great Preston Greene?

Oh, he has some nerve! He was so sure I was going to lose that he ordered my pity party beverages.

That jackass.” Ice cubes clink against a glass, and James opens the vodka. “I should go smash that over his head.”

“You’d probably want to be wearing shoes to create that kind of scene.” He pours a double, and I tie my hair up in a messy bun with the scrunchie.

“Revenge isn’t worth putting on those shoes again.” I take the offered drink. The first sip slithers through my chest with a heat I don’t mind at all.

“Exactly.”

“I hate him.” My words have no fire anymore.

Which is weird since vodka is flammable.

Preston had asked me to get drinks after the show yesterday, but I didn’t reply.

Many texts were written and erased—anything that sounded like I knew he assumed he’d win seemed like I also assumed he’d win.

I already tried the good sport thing last time he beat me for an Academy Award. It didn’t go well.

“Me too. The nerve of that man to not wear a tie to win Oscars.” James sits next to me. “For what it’s worth, I was only so grossed out by the idea of your boob because I know you’re sweaty.”

“I am sweaty.” My eyes prickle, and my voice goes squeaky. Yep, let’s act like I’m crying because I feel physically gross. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Are you taking vodka in with you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Wine in the bath is luxurious,” he says. “Vodka in the shower is sad.”

“Well, I am sad, so it works.”

“Enjoy telling imaginary Preston Greene what you really think of him.”