Page 40 of The Dirty Version

Two weeks later, as Tash and Rohan laced up their sneakers, he claimed to not have done any cardio since the last time they ran the oceanside pavement path from Santa Monica Pier to Venice Beach.

“Unless you count that vibrating-plate class Wesley drags me to on Sunday mornings.” Despite the coastal highway fumes and scent of dried kelp, Rohan had been managing a steady stream of chatter. “And the rowing fundraiser I did with the transplant team.”

Tash played at pushing her younger brother off the early-morning concrete lane. “What, and the marathon training you squeeze in before work?”

Rohan dodged her, running ahead, spinning to jog backward so he could jeer. “Trash—don’t insult me.” He winked beneath his Lakers cap, smug as ever. “I only train that hard if it’s an Ironman.”

Tash scoffed at him mid-stride, then darted around, trying to sprint past him—but Rohan’s legs had practically surpassed the length of her entire body by the time he was sixteen. He kept pace easily, barely out of breath. Tash would definitely not beat him.

Trying to trip him, however—or trying to peg him with the trail mix his boyfriend had thoughtfully packed alongside her water bottle—provided an excellent distraction from the day’s upcoming event: New light winked on the Pacific, and the wind tried to shake off its dawn cold, and the next Story Edit meeting would commence in six hours.

“How are you feeling?” Rohan could be silly, but he also was steadfast. He trotted beside her with an excellent antenna for her stress.

In fact, he’s assumed responsibility for her downtime since she’d arrived.

Yesterday, Rohan whisked her out of his perfectly restored West Hollywood bungalow to search an Indian grocery store for ingredients for their dadi’s famous curry.

Afterward, they swung by a new La Brea goat-yoga studio.

Then, in the tiny guesthouse that had once been the bungalow’s garage, they continued their process of combing through Tash’s box of letters from their mother.

Rohan’s delight in Mary Grover’s blue-ink fossils was instructive—he allowed their childhood details to amuse him instead of getting annoyed.

In the evening, Rohan and Wesley had read Tash’s final pages for Story Edit.

Both of them had cried.

“Trash! I asked you how you’re feeling!”

Tash startled from her split-second reverie. “Rohan! I’m trying to keep my shit together!”

“Yikes.” He slowed their tempo. “Toning down the yelling might be a place to start.”

In truth, Tash’s hopes for her Hollywood pilgrimage blanched at the prospect of going up against Reggie and Ram.

“I can’t tell if my grand plan is dumb or brilliant.

” She dreaded the idea of dealing with Brian Doolittle in person.

“I might not even make it past the parking lot. Braverman security might try to drag me out.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

“Thanks,” Tash deadpanned. She slackened their jog to a walk.

Rohan slung a sweaty limb around her neck, tucking Tash into his disgusting armpit as only a giant little brother could.

“We both know you’ve got this! You wrote everything they asked, and more.

You’re brave and creative. And like we said last night—existentially, the out come of this meeting doesn’t matter.

What’s important is that you state your case. ”

Such high-mindedness had felt genuine at a drink-in-hand cruising altitude of thirty thousand feet, and it had continued to feel genuine on Wesley and Rohan’s designer sofa.

But in the harsh light of the day-of, Tash knew the outcome of the Story Edit meeting absolutely mattered.

Risking her pride was one thing; it was another thing entirely to risk The Colony ’s legacy.

Tash yanked her sunglasses from where they’d been squished by Rohan’s embrace. “I think I’m scared this is my raw chicken.”

“What?” Rohan craned to see her face.

“From Mom’s letter—the raw chicken. The chicken-plucking.” Tash waited for him to catch on. “It’s a metaphor. For thankless female sacrifice.”

Rohan stopped short, still holding her in his loving headlock. “No. Raw chicken is a great way to get salmonella. That’s all.”

Tash huffed. “You think that because you’re a man.”

“I think that because I work with immunocompromised renal patients, and salmonella can be fatal.” Rohan released her momentarily, only to gather her cheeks in both his hands.

“But, hey. I’d pluck raw chickens for Wesley.

Maybe one day I’ll pluck raw chickens for our kids.

Mom and Dad’s chicken-plucking dynamic doesn’t have to be your model for relationships—that’s why you’re going through those letters, right?

To free yourself from the vestiges of being judged, and to rewrite your relationship with Mom?

To find peace with making vastly different decisions from her, while still appreciating her presence in your life? ”

Tash sputtered between his palms as Rohan congratulated himself on such profound insight.

“If you need chicken-plucking to be a metaphor, let it be a metaphor for love. Loving someone doesn’t have to make you weak, Trash. Just choose the right person.” Rohan gestured at blowing both their minds. “And the right chickens to pluck.”

Tash laughed then.

She wondered if it could be that simple.

Actually, she’d come to California in the hope it was that simple—she reminded herself of this all afternoon, right up to the moment Rohan wished her luck and shoved her out his front door, into the sleek temperature-control of Astrid Dalton’s SUV.

Tash hadn’t seen her since their disastrous parting from Vaudeville Striptease at Miami Arts. When Tash arrived in Los Angeles, she’d questioned whether Astrid would even take her call. But then they’d spoken on the phone, and the star of The Colony ’s adaptation had been thoroughly cordial.

“Caleb doesn’t know you’re here? Really?” Idling her car at Rohan’s curb, Astrid moved a huge purse from her passenger seat onto the floorboard.

“Not yet.” Tash sincerely wished this not to backfire; the drive to Culver City would take less than thirty minutes, and Caleb would find out then.

Astrid pulled her SUV into traffic. Tash adjusted her seat belt over a one-shoulder printed-silk top and across the waist of cigarette pants curated especially by Janelle.

Tash had woken to three missed calls from her best friend, but between the run with Rohan and trying not to vomit, she hadn’t had a chance to try her back.

Right now, Tash’s immediate Sisterhood consisted solely of Astrid. “Thanks again for doing this with me.” She’d be grateful for safe passage onto the Braverman Productions lot.

Astrid pushed white sunglasses up into her topknot.

“Don’t thank me yet. All I heard is that the meeting’s in an EP conference room.

I don’t know which one.” She stopped at a red light, glancing over to Tash wryly.

“But I do know I need to apologize. I embarrassed myself in Florida. It’s hard to have a crush on someone who used to change your diaper—they tend not to love you back.

At least, not the way you’re hoping. I don’t recommend it. ”

Tash found herself in the odd position of having to reassure another woman of Caleb’s affections. “Caleb cares about you a lot.”

“Like a baby sister. I know. I’ll get over it eventually.” Traffic began to move again. “I also need to say that Noab is the role of a lifetime. There aren’t a lot of parts like her, and I appreciate the opportunity.”

Tash returned the olive branch. “The series is lucky to have you.” She decided to take Astrid at face value, even if she was only flexing her acting skills.

“Let’s see if that’s true—first I have to get you into this meeting.” Astrid changed lanes, stepping on the gas.

Tash had only ever visited a film production office once.

The first showrunner to buy the screen rights to The Colony worked from an abandoned flagpole warehouse in Philadelphia’s colonial neighborhood—all red brick and soaring, single-pane windows, open to the scent of river sludge and expired kegs and generational revolt.

If that team’s headquarters signaled indie protest, then Braverman’s gave off aging action star—its labyrinthine workplace a jumble of worn artillery-vest pockets and gruff corporate lobby.

Astrid swept right through it, charming the standing-desked receptionist. She retrieved a visitor badge for Tash with minimal cajoling, rendering concerns about Tash’s admittance moot. Then Astrid marched them toward a creaky elevator, chose a button, and led Tash into an empty conference room.

“Shit.” Astrid began to fluster. “I knew this would happen.”

They tried a different, creakier elevator, and then a different flight of stairs.

Astrid cringed apologetically, speed-walking them through a ragtag cafeteria. “Maybe it’s in Ram’s suite.”

Tash gritted her teeth. The sky-high heels on her strappy sandals were not built for stairwell trekking.

Also, her aesthetic sensibilities had been shocked at what she’d discovered beyond the lobby—she’d imagined Braverman Productions as overtly gloss, all packaging, like Ram; not as a maze of water-stained drop ceilings and beige Formica and dusty cubicles and sagging ficus plants.

After a much-longer-than-intended tour of the office, Astrid finally led Tash to Reggie’s conference suite—twenty-seven minutes late for the meeting and definitely frazzled.

“Good luck.” Astrid thumbs-upped toward the doorway, retreating without a drawn-out farewell. There was no time to grapple with conciliatory send-offs, which maybe was for the best.