Page 63 of Sizzle Reel

Romy glances at her phone, then leans back and groans. “Jesus Christ, do y’all ever get those random fucking DMs from your comphet boys in high school?”

My throat tightens, but Valeria’s lips curl into a smile. “I didn’t date in high school, so can’t say.”

Romy clicks her tongue. “You were spared. I wasted at least ten continuous minutes of my life on five-pump chumps.”

Valeria full on laughs. The sound is like music, but my ears have started to ring. Another text from Romy: Lead in with college guys not being better. Trust me.

I look to Valeria and Romy, wishing for nothing more than to disappear into this chair and see what chaos Romy can unleash on her own. But here we go. I guess. Matías.

“You say that like college is any better,” I say.

Romy gives me the tiniest nod as Valeria’s eyes fall on me. “Oh god, wait—tell her about Matías.” Said in her perfect accent.

I run a hand through my hair. This better be worth it, whatever it is. “It was junior year I think? We met in some film studies class. Turned out we all lived in the same apartment complex, so he literally asked me to get coffee in the shop below our apartment when there are a billion other places around U.S.C. But things go well enough, and we…” I glance at Romy, who nods, urging me forward. Please don’t be actively blushing. “We go to my apartment. He gets dramatic, starts saying that he’ll make me his girlfriend when he’s back. He’s going home to Spain that summer.”

“Noo, he’s European?” Valeria interjects, her body shaking as she seemingly holds back a laugh.

Romy leans toward Valeria. “He was fucking Spanish, Val. I feel like you get what I mean.”

But I sure as hell don’t. But they nod. I keep going, wringing my wrists. Eyes on my wrists, in fact. “So, uh, we start making out, and that’s going well and all”—I raise my brows—“and then he kind of just transfers into dry humping, only our shirts are off.”

The next words, the really dirty words, catch in my throat. Is Romy really having me tell Oscar-winning actress Valeria Sullivan about this? In a barbershop in WeHo past eight p.m.?

“And of course,” Romy says.

“And of course he stops before I can come.” Come comes out like a dry cough. Valeria still has her gaze on me. Even Sid is paying attention. “And so he kinda tries to reach his hand down my pants but gives up after, like, two minutes. Asks”—God, the humiliation of this night is starting to slide back in—“no, insists, really, that he wants to see how I do it. I think he just wants, like, a demonstration. But he literally just watches me as I, uh, touch myself. Finish, whatever, and I ask him if he wants a hand job or something because I’m a huge pushover.” Romy nods emphatically to Valeria; I rub my nose with my middle finger. “And he just looks me in the eye, lids half-closed, smiling, and says, ‘Don’t worry, bella, I came already.’ He creamed himself when we were dry humping and that’s why he stopped.”

And for a moment, Valeria and Sid just stare at me, wide-eyed.

Then they burst out laughing.

Sid shakes their head and goes, “Girl, please tell me your sex is better now.”

The words catch at my throat. That wasn’t sex—

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Valeria says with a laugh. “That’s—mmm, look, that happens with sex sometimes. But with sapphics, someone’s on an S.S.R.I. because we live in America.” She makes eye contact with me, smiling before swiping her tongue across her lips. “And then your partner brings out a vibrator. Resourcefulness over raw talent.”

Ho-ly shit.

I look to Romy. Okay, I get why she did that. Did Valeria just—? Romy, cheeky bastard, shrugs with a flash of a smirk on her face.

Okay. Valeria likes girls.

I sit through the rest of Valeria’s haircut in silence. With Valeria, a sapphic.

Before I know it, Sid’s done. They do the full rip-the-cloak-off reveal. Technically I’m here, watching the cloak come off and Valeria hold the mirror to inspect the back of her head and Sid explain how to best maintain the style, but god, I can’t stay focused.

Valeria just said she’s gay.

But Valeria’s also busy until next year. I’m in Brendan’s hands, and while I killed it today, I don’t know what pull he has or even if he really likes me. Valeria’s not happy with Steven, so I can’t use Wyatt. She lives in L.A. and I have her number, but it still feels like seconds with Valeria are like seeds on a dandelion—they disappear faster than I can comprehend.

But she is gay. I just don’t know the most important part.

If she likes me.

All I know is that she’s beaming at the sight of her new hair. It’s exactly what Sid described, complete with wisps that fall into her eyes. She looks like an edgier Jack from Titanic. It looks perfect on her; an entire short erotic video could be made just from her running a hand through the volume up top, but I can’t focus.

“Jesus, I should’ve done this years ago, you have no idea,” Valeria says. “Steven thought short hair would kill my leading lady appeal.”

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