Page 24 of Take 2

Chapter Twenty-One

Six Years Ago

A bobby pin hits the hotel bathroom floor when I try to open it one-handed. “Well, I’m not doing my hair as well as you would,” I say, “but an effort is being made. That ‘ really easy’ hairstyle you sent me on Pinterest is— shocker— not easy. I cannot make braids.”

“Weaver of words, not hair.” Cece’s voice echoes from my phone’s speaker.

“I’m putting that in your Tinder bio,” Morgan adds.

“I am not doing Tinder!”

“You seem like you’re doing so much better, though.” Furrowed eyebrows are audible in Morgan’s voice.

“I am.” I am better. Not just right now on this vacation my parents gifted me as an obvious distraction from today.

Living with James is awesome. It feels like I’m finally getting a proper college experience, even though I graduated in December.

The odd hours at crap jobs to make ends meet while we pursue our dreams feels very first time out of mom’s house.

It kind of makes me regret living at home through college.

Maybe if I had given myself this experience sooner, I’d have been ready to be married.

“Better as in actually drinking champagne this year?” Cece asks.

They were not fooled last year. “Um, not quite there yet.”

“Are you even allowed to drink French wine in Napa Valley?” Morgan asks.

“Nope,” I say. “It’s illegal.”

Cece groans. “You know what I mean! Any bubbly would suffice.”

“Not this year.”

“Well, at least your dress looks happy,” Morgan says. “Fake it till you make it.”

A laugh bubbles through my chest. “Yeah. So fucking happy. My mom is not subtle.” I wouldn’t have bought a new dress this year, so Mom did some online shopping and sent me a yellow, flirty, off-the-shoulder dress.

“Lesson learned,” Cece says. “Shop for yourself.”

As I wrap a tiny elastic around the end of the disastrous little braid, I think about the times I’ve shopped for Oscars dresses with these girls. It wasn’t every year … just for important ones. I clear my throat. “These braids look like shit.”

“They’re supposed to look a little messy,” Morgan says.

“Not this kind of messy.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong.” Cece’s optimism knows no bounds. “It should look like you just got laid and look hot but ruffled.”

“Cece!” Morgan scolds.

“It’s been over a year! I’m concerned for her well-being!”

Should I be really impressed with myself that I’m not rattled by discussing this? Probably not. But it feels like progress. “Isn’t that why you sent me my little gift?”

Cece groans. “I set it to self-destruct after a year if it continues to be your only source of orgasms. Hope you don’t like your nightstand too much.”

“You are such a dork.”

“I mean …” Morgan doesn’t want to push it, but she obviously agrees. “A vibrator is not a permanent replacement for a human body.”

“Yours is crying in the back of some drawer because it hasn’t had the opportunity to love you in so long.”

“Oh, that’s not true. Scott isn’t threatened by it. We’re all on the same team and work together really well.”

“Go team Morgan’s orgasms!”

“Can’t wait to see how you pack for the honeymoon.”

“Sex toys get their own suitcase,” Morgan deadpans.

“Are you going to bring a date?” Cece asks.

“Of course I am.”

“James doesn’t count,” Morgan says.

“He absolutely does. He will be the most fun person at that wedding. Present company excluded.”

“ Then I will happily give him his own invitation. If you meet someone, you’re more than welcome to bring a date.”

Fat chance. If I can bring myself to go on a date or sleep with someone by September, that will be a feat.

Actually dating someone? Probably not. Dating someone who I could bring to a wedding where I will be so happy for my best friend but also possibly teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown?

Absolutely not. James will be able to handle me.

I can’t be with some guy who would want me thinking about him and not my ex-husband when we get into bed after a wedding.

“Thank you for the offer, love. But I don’t think so.”

Cece chimes in. “A wedding date is a bit much. But when we come out there for the bachelorette party … Bella, I am going to wing woman so hard.”

Wing woman will be better than fairy godmother, at least. Despite her intentions, she did get me married last time, and I do not need that again. “Can’t wait,” I say in a voice that doesn’t even feign excitement. “Okay, show time.”

“Pictures before you get smashed,” Morgan reminds me.

“I’m going to be better behaved this year. We have a six-plus hour drive tomorrow.”

“All right,” Cece says, “have fun.”

“Love you both.”

Off the phone, my reflection smiles back at me, and it feels more legitimate than last year.

I ruffle the skirt in both hands, and it’s still weird to think no hands will be sliding up under it.

The last few times Ryan and I spoke, the conversations were sterile, a matter of settling logistics.

We had to get each other’s names off accounts and split the cellphone plan and stuff.

The easiest way to do that was just to shut off my phone number.

I wanted an LA area code anyway, so this felt like a real step into being an actual Los Angelino.

Ryan may have changed his phone number, too.

Or he ignored me when I felt the absurd urge to tell him I was agented.

Stop it, Bella. No crying this year. Not all the rules can be reinstated, but this one can. There is absolutely no reason for me to cry this year. There aren’t even any movies that would really upset me with a win. This year is all good things. Maybe Mom’s dress selection was right.

I come out to the bedroom, and James holds out a rocks glass for me. “You are the most gorgeous Wisconsin cheese I have ever seen.”

My jaw drops. “It is sunflower yellow. Not cheese yellow.”

“Tell yourself whatever you want.” He takes a sip of Grey Goose. “You do look great.”

“Thank you.”

Our pictures this year are set in front of vineyards, as so many great pictures have these past few days.

The off-season timing was nice, despite James’ constant complaints about it being freezing.

He doesn’t know what freezing is, though I’ve been out of Wisconsin long enough to have dressed pretty warm the whole time.

He settles onto the armchair within reach of the ice bucket and bottle on the desk. “So, how many can we bet on?”

“Hmm.” I tuck my skirt underneath myself as I sit on the edge of the bed closer to him. “Five?”

“Do I have to wager on the same five as you?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, wait.” I shake my head at my own stupidity. “We both have to bet on best picture, though.”

“The Martian.”

“The Revenant.”

He taps his drink to mine. “May the best movies win.”

I smile and take a cocktail shrimp from the plastic serving platter. New people, new traditions, but there will always be the Academy Awards. And I’m finally making moves to get there someday.

“Okay, why do I identify more with the Star Wars droids than any A-list celebrity?”

“BB-8, R2-D2, and C-3PO are definitely A-list, James.” And their presenting of the award for best original score is a highlight of the night.

We’re both still shit at predicting winners, but for the eighty-eighth Academy Awards, I consume just enough alcohol to numb the disappointment of not celebrating my sixth anniversary with Ryan.

Not enough to make me miserable for the long drive home tomorrow so that Tuesday morning I can enjoy brunch with one of my new favorite people.

My Agent Lisa: I’ll be there in 5. Assume you already have a table even though I’m early?

I sip my mimosa and smile at the message. We share our anxious perfectionism, and promptness is a big part of that. Every time we schedule anything, it turns into a contest to see who can be earlier. Today I won.

Me: On the patio. Xo.

The Pacific Ocean as a backdrop is not something I can get used to.

This place looks like somewhere I should be going to celebrate winning an Oscar, not just for a brunch meeting.

I still feel like a freaking Wisconsin bratwurst, oddly out of place in this glowing vegan wonderland.

When the server goes by, I wave him down to order two mimosas and send back my empty glass.

Lisa wafts in like cottonwood fluff on the breeze.

Her ethereal, flowery wrap dress is so perfectly her.

“This is getting out of hand.” She hangs her purse, with a sparkly dolphin key chain swinging from a metal buckle, on the corner of her chair and sits. “Eventually, we’re going to have to be hours early to everything we do. It’s got to stop.”

“You first.” I fill her glass from the carafe of ice water.

“Glad to see you’re staying hydrated.”

The mimosas arrive. “Glad to see these, too.” She clinks her glass to mine and takes a sip.

The urge to ask if she has any news is painful. I know I don’t have to pretend not to be anxious about it with Lisa, but I prefer to act like I’m a professional. No, I’m not traumatized by being dropped by my first agent. Not at all.

“So, what have you been working on?”

Oh fuck. If she’s asking me about what else I have in the pipeline, the screenplay she already has isn’t going to sell. “I have a few things in various states of incompleteness. Kind of scared to really dive into anything because then if I have to start working on Stolen Moments again…”

“Oh, but you’re so good at juggling.”

For the love of God, tell me something about that screenplay!

“And thank goodness, because I have some nibbles on Stolen Moments.”

My eyes bulge. “Oh my god! You do?”

“Yes, they’re—”

“Can you open with that next time? Shit. You’ve got me sweating here!”

She gives me her best Pilates instructor, calm smile. “The interest isn’t where we were hoping to place it, but definitely some potential to get your baby into good hands.”

My hands meet flat against each other to cover my nose and mouth like I’m praying. I might be, actually. I will worship Goddess Lisa if she sells my screenplay. “Lisa, are my words going to become a movie?”

“I think so, but—”

My squeal cuts her off.

“Let’s not count our flowers before they’ve bloomed.”

“No, of course. I’m fine.” I lean back against my chair again and take a sip of my mimosa. At least the top half of me can look calm even if my legs are bouncing.

“Which of these brain babies of yours shall we work on next?”

We discuss my ideas, eat a kale-laden meal, and later, I resist the urge to tell anyone about the potential deal. Because that would jinx it. I cannot tell anyone. No one.

Plus, I don’t think I have the right number anymore in the contact I relabeled ‘Fuck I Lost Ryan’ on a particularly bad night.