Page 38 of Take 2

Chapter Thirty-Five

Two Years Ago

T he green room where I wait for The Hollywood Reporter Writers Roundtable is actual hell—if hell had a coffee bar and pastries and couches.

I feel like the new kid in school. Except when I transferred, they accidentally put me in AP classes when I was nowhere near ready for them.

Or so I assume that’s what it would feel like.

I owned the AP classes. But the simile holds!

I stare at the undulating ellipses on my phone screen. Then they disappear. Nope. Morgan is taking too long.

Me: James, I’m going to die.

His response comes immediately.

James: I’ll bury you with your dick mug.

How does he always know the perfect thing to say?

Me: I want to be cremated.

James: Then I’ll keep you on my shelf … in the dick mug. It already has your name on it after all.

Me: Mir-ly Tired is not my name.

Collecting dust on James’ shelf in a dick mug doesn’t sound so bad right now.

These people are brilliant legends, and I am not worthy to be among them.

When I dreamed of being nominated for an Oscar, it never occurred to me that it would be so terrifying.

So, I smile and nod and exchange pleasantries, but if I could just disappear here in the corner, that would be ideal.

When the final member of our little panel deigns to grace us with his presence, I busy myself with my phone.

There haven’t been many reasons to see Preston Greene since I ‘met him’ at Lisa’s party three years ago.

I was with James at the wrap party for his movie last year, but we avoided each other.

Rather than having difficulty renaming him in my mind, it’s natural to think of him as Preston now. This man is not the one I fell in love with in college. We’re both different people. Ryan and Bella are ancient history.

He greets our fellow nominees with an ease that shouldn’t make me jealous but does. When he approaches me, I do my best to act like I hadn’t noticed him.

“Oh, hi.” I flash a smile. “How have you been?”

“It’s been a good year. And for you too.”

I nod, and my skin prickles under his scrutinizing gaze.

“Can I get you more coffee?”

“God, no.” I put the half-full cup on the coffee table in front of me.

“I don’t even need this one.” My purse mints are buried in a collection of nail files, hair ties, and pens, but I fish them out along with my lipstick.

I’d like to snag one of the hair ties, but a ponytail would be a real shame after all the effort to look my best.

Preston sits next to me. “Nervous?”

Two mints pop into my mouth. He is the last person here I’d like to befriend, but he’s probably the only one who would bother with me. My voice comes out hushed. “I feel like they all hate me.”

“Why would anyone hate you?”

Oh, come on. You have plenty of reasons. I don’t go there. “Because I’m too young. I got here too fast, and I didn’t pay my dues.” I smear my lipstick on and rub my lips together. When I pull my focus back from the nothing I was staring at, his eyes are on my lips, and he snaps them up quickly.

“Just because you haven’t been big in the movie scene for a long time doesn’t mean you didn’t work your ass off to get here.

The only dues you have to pay to get here is to write a great movie, and you did that.

” The thought of Preston Greene sitting in a theater watching my movie tightens my chest. “If they were going to hate anyone, it would be me.”

Because he got here even faster and already won it once. Well, hating him for that is something I might find common ground with the others on.

“Can’t imagine why,” I say. “It’s so typical for someone to break into the scene with an Oscar-winning debut.”

“Mirabelle …”

As much as I don’t want Preston Greene to have a nickname for me, no one calls me Mirabelle.

“You can call me Mira.” I swallow hard. This was my brilliant idea, but acting like we don’t know each other is not something I can stomach at the moment.

He repeats my name, and the newness of the sound catches me off guard.

We’re called into the studio and take our seats at the round, wooden table.

Two bodies separate me from Preston, and for that, I am grateful.

Our host, Scott, welcomes us, but he could be a basket of kittens and not calm me down.

Some of these writers are also actors; they’re used to being on this side of a camera.

So, there are about a million ways they are more prepared for this than I am.

The first question is a given, and he starts with Preston. Because ‘When did you realize you were a writer?’ is much more interesting question for the person who just woke up one day a few years ago like, ‘Feeling cute, might write a movie.’

“Writing started as a therapeutic activity for me.” His words make my chest knot up.

I should have watched the round table from his last nomination to prepare myself, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

“I didn’t think I’d ever show my first screenplay to anyone; I didn’t even know if I’d be able to write a whole script.

But the story wouldn’t get out of my head, so I actually finished it, and I sent it to my sister.

In hindsight, I don’t know why. I was obviously having a really hard time because under no normal circumstances would I have attached my heart to an email like that.

Anyway, she loved it and doesn’t know how to mind her own business, so she sent it to a screenwriting competition, which it won, and a couple of managers reached out to me.

I probably sounded like an idiot when I got that first call because I didn’t even know I had entered a competition, but fortunately, he thought that was a great story too, and it worked out. ”

“Just a bit,” Scott says. “Your rapid ascension caught all of Hollywood’s attention. And it looks like you left the door open for more fresh, new talent to come in. Mirabelle, you’re another overnight success story.”

A breathy laugh slips out of my smile. “Well, that’s only because no one saw the first ten years.

” Except for him. I force my eyes to stay on Scott because if I look at Preston I might tear up.

“This was all I wanted to do for as long as I can remember, and I took a different kind of path to get here, but it was always with this goal in mind.”

“Right, you have an English lit, creative writing background,” Scott says. “Most people write novels after that, don’t they?”

“They do.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “But hey, how many movies get adapted from novels, right? So, I wanted to take those skills and skip to the screen part.”

“The depth of your characters really shines,”—Preston’s green eyes pin me to my chair—“and I think it came from that.”

My knee-jerk reaction is to be annoyed that he’s trying to help me, but that’ll only make all of this harder, so I accept the gesture and let it boost me for the rest of the roundtable.

When it’s over, I truly don’t know if I’m relieved and feel good about it, or if I’m going to throw up.

I just fucking participated in a Hollywood Reporter Writers Roundtable! I’ve watched these forever. Except two years ago. I’m having an out-of-body experience.

“Great job,” Preston says.

My tummy is doing all kinds of stupid things. It’s the madness of getting through this incredible milestone. Adrenaline is screwing with my brain because I’m looking at him thinking we could get drinks or something. Like friendly, normal colleagues.

“I’ll see you at the awards.” His words deflate some part of me. “Good luck.” He walks away, and I know I should be grateful he didn’t ask. That is not a road I need to go down.

But disappointment washes over me as I watch him go.

It’s early in the schedule this year—the fourth award.

Which is great. Not a lot of time to wait, sitting in anticipation.

Rip it off like a Band-Aid. Good. Waiting is the worst. Listening to Diane Keaton and Keanu Reeves banter is so cute.

So cute, and it’s not like I’m dying waiting for them to announce it. No, keep chatting. This is fine.

“It goes to …” No, Diane. Don’t drop it. Jesus.

She hands it to Keanu. He manages to hold onto the thing. “Preston Greene. Choking in the Dark .”

I close my eyes. No crying, no betting. Mom rubs my knee through my red lace gown.

The theatre is so loud, but it’s quiet in my head. I truly don’t know what to think.

When I look up, Preston is speaking, but I don’t hear him. The screen shows the gorgeous brunette who sat by him for his last Academy Awards too, wiping tears from her eyes.

Mom leans in close to my ear. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I think I even smile. It’s outrageous to be upset. Who wins an Oscar this young? Who wins their first nomination? Well … Preston Greene won his first two , but who’s counting?

The show happens. I’m sure it’s great. Never have I paid less attention to an Academy Awards, though. Except when I got engaged during one. And when I was making love to my husband during one or two. Shit. When I was there, I’d have sold my fucking soul to be here. Maybe I have.

When it’s over, I loop my arm through Mom’s, and she leads me away. I float out of the Dolby Theatre without feeling it.

We’re supposed to go to a party or something, right? Why would I have ever agreed to that?

Unsure of what exactly it is we’re doing, I swing through the bathroom of the hotel lobby.

It’s attached to the theatre, and we’re staying here tonight.

Maybe we’ll just skip the parties. It’s obnoxious of me since other people on my movie did win, but no one is going to understand the sting of this.

The door opens while I’m washing my hands, and I look up to find a pair of emerald-green eyes on mine.

“Hi, Bella.”

My eyelids flutter to stop the tears from getting out. “Anna.” I turn and pull her into a tight hug. “It’s been too long, sweetie. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. How are you? This … I’m sorry. It’s so weird.” She took our breakup hard, and as much as I love her, I didn’t ever want it to look like she took my side, so I kept my distance.

“No. No, I’m fine.” We’ve only checked in a few times over the years, namely every time I’ve felt like her brother pulled a rug out from under my feet.

She seemed to think it was her job to explain how Ryan ended up a screenwriter after our disastrous reunion, but I cut that off.

It was not on her to tell me, and Ryan hasn’t tried again in these last three years.

When he was nominated the first time, she only asked me if I saw the movie. I never responded.

She scrunches her red lips to the side. “I’d love it if you’d come … hang out with us.” She doesn’t want to say celebrate. “I understand if you don’t want to. But I miss you.”

“I miss you too. But, um … could we maybe have a girls’ lunch tomorrow?”

“I’m flying out early,” she says. “I managed to come out for the day as per his demands, but I can’t stay long.”

“Oh. I mean, I’ll probably be in New York at some point, and …” Why am I being such a baby about it? We’re going to be around each other forever. “Maybe one drink?”

That beautiful face I knew as a girl is now that of a gorgeous woman, and it lights up. “That’s great!” Anna pulls me out of the bathroom with the same excitement she would have ten years ago.

“Wait, Anna, I’m not trying to pull you from the Governor’s Ball or something.”

“No, no, no.” The wave of her hand is more graceful than it has any right to be. “You’re fine. We already slipped in and out. This is better.” She finds my mom, and they greet each other with as much warmth and excitement as Anna and I did a few minutes ago.

Staff dressed in black fuss about us wandering around unsupervised, but we’re obscure enough to go to the lobby bar without people freaking out about spotting us. Anna mutters something to Mom and pushes me toward the bar. Then they disappear. Of course.

Preston’s back is toward me, but I know it’s him. I know his hair, his shoulders, the way he stands. Why do I still know all that? When he turns around, it’s like Lisa’s party all over again. The shock of his eyes on me, the way the rest of the world disappears.

Somehow, my feet carry me the rest of the way to him. “Congratulations.”

He glances down as if winning an Academy Award is an embarrassment. “Thanks.”

“Anna, um …” I glance away, not knowing where she went.

“She really doesn’t know how to mind her own business.” His gold award sits in front of him on the bar. What a strange sight.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. She claimed it was so she could spend some time with me. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll—”

He grabs my hand. “Don’t go.”

My heart does a full gymnastics routine, flipping before jumping into my throat.

“Champagne?”

All I can manage is to nod.

He orders a bottle and two glasses.

“Are you still refusing to learn how to tie a tie?” I click my tongue at his collar.

“I liked watching you do it.”

The pop of the cork feels like it signifies a shift bigger than I’m ready for. I take the glasses so he can carry the bottle and his trophy and lead me to a corner table with loveseats on either side. I could sit across from him but sit next to him instead.

I’m not sure if I breathe while he fills both glasses. When he hands me one, our fingers brush together. “Cheers,” he says as he taps his glass to mine.

“To your win.” I take far too big a sip.

He puts his glass down without drinking. “I’m not sure I’ve won anything.”

“Well, unless Keanu pulled a La La Land … ”

“No, I …” He drops his forehead onto his knuckles.

“You don’t need to apologize to me. It was a great story. And I love a great story.”

His eyes meet mine again, and it’s not good for my heart health. “It’s not just for a story, Mira.” He waves a hand at the Oscar. “This is for you.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s all for you.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. “I do not need you to win an Oscar for me. I will win my own.”

“I know you will, that’s not what I—”

“This was always my dream!” Tears form in my eyes. “I was going to do it before I met you, and I can do it now that you’re gone.”

“You don’t think I’m extremely fucking aware of that?”

“Does that bother you? That I’d do it without you?”

“Of course it does!”

“Well, fuck you!” I jump to my feet. “I never claimed to be some damsel in distress who needed your help to accomplish anything, so I don’t know when you got it into your head that that’s how it would be.”

Storming away in an evening gown is a special kind of dramatic that’s fitting for Hollywood’s biggest night.