Page 48 of Sizzle Reel

Valeria puts her hands behind her head, leaning back to look just past me. “I was, I think. They asked me questions throughout the process and would switch lines if something seemed off or if I mentioned it. But”—she smiles—“not to call anyone out, but Dustin said he’d change this one thing: my character mentions this one well-known Beatles myth, and I told him to change it to the true story, and he never did it.” She looks right into the camera. I adjust the position. “So I apologize on behalf of academics everywhere for that mistake.”

“Would you say that on the show?” I ask.

She raises her eyebrows. “No way. That’s just for me, you, and this camera.”

Warmth rolls over me. Yes, of course there’s intimacy in the fact that we’re out here in public together, but I never would’ve thought she’d really trust me with something.

We each go for the medium-plus wing.

“So what’s in this one?” Valeria asks after she’s already taken a bite.

“Cayenne, but this one also has a solid mix of ghost pepper and habanero.”

Tears are welling in her eyes now. She fishes for the water, shaking her head. “Jesus Christ.”

Yeah, these are definitely a lot hotter. I can’t even imagine what the last two wings will be like. I finally take a sip of water.

“How did you like Pasadena growing up?”

She stops gulping water and starts fanning herself. She’s still crying. “Oh god, when did this become some twisted therapy session?” She wipes away more tears with a napkin. “It was boring and everyone there was content with a midline plateau sort of life and they gentrified everything. It was physically safe, which I appreciate, but very stifling. Fair Oaks Soda Fountain in South Pasadena is worth a visit, though, if you’re forced into the area.” She pauses. “You?”

I slide the paper aside. “Hermosa Beach.”

“Wanna switch? Why aren’t you reacting to this?”

I shrug. “It’s no Trinidad scorpion. Like, it’s hot, don’t get me wrong, but—”

She picks up a hot sauce bottle I brought. “What’s this?”

I smirk. “It’s for the end.”

She takes more water. She’s already eyeing the ice-cream cart. “Can you ask the question really slowly? This goes away, right?”

I look back to my questions. “So what prompted you to pay P.A.s living wages?”

She coughs a little, wipes her eyes again, and answers. The people around us must think we’re filming some tragic documentary. “Bringing actual diverse talent into the business involves more groundwork than these diversity programs do. At least—” She’s back to blinking furiously. “Most people can’t afford to take these minimum-wage jobs if they come from historically marginalized communities, so I was like, ‘Why don’t I just pay them the right amount of money?’ Sure, it’s, like, denying benefits to straight white men, but who cares about them anyway? Do you have any more napkins not covered in death?”

I hand her a wad of napkins and she blows her nose. I’m into this anti–straight white men thing.

“And take someone like you. I see you, and you’re an underrepresented voice, and just by existing, you’re changing things. But then you have talent, and it’s like I can’t let that go? I want you to, like”—she’s crying again, and I genuinely don’t know how much of this is emotion—“make movies and shorts and music videos or whatever.”

I have to ask her today. Just maybe when she’s less freaked out about the spice.

“Next wing?” I ask. I pour half of my water into hers. “You’re doing great, by the way. These are really hot.”

“Again, you are not having the same reaction.”

I shrug. “If you really want me to taste the extra sauce, I’ll doit.”

I reach for the bottle, but Valeria grabs it first. “You keep your hands clean for the camera.”

I watch her dab hot sauce onto her fingertip with a growing tightness in my gut.

Then suddenly Valeria’s fingertip brushes against my lip. Nerves light up in sensitive parts of my skin I didn’t even know existed. I feel every swirl and loop of her finger as it runs against the microridges of my mouth. It’s as if there’s an invisible string that attaches her to my every organ, yanking them all sideways as she swoops her wrist. And when our skin is no longer touching, my lips are tingling. I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, tasting her touch, wondering what it would’ve been like if she’d left her finger there and I did the same thing.

In fact, there’s a solid second when I’m completely unaware that Valeria just swiped the equivalent of Satan’s jizz across my lips.

Then the burning hits.

---