Page 62 of The Unfinished Line

“Am I?” Sam shoved herself off the stack of weights. “Then tell me where I’m wrong!”

“For one thing, I didn’trun off. I told her I’d call—and I will. I just needed time to think.”

“About what? It’s all very obvious, Sinc! You caught feelings for her. There’s no denying it. You flew all the way to the States—”

“I wouldn’t have, had I known—”

“Had you known what? You already knew she was an actress. What did you expect?”

“I don’t know! Notthat!”

“So it was all okay as long as she was some D-list nobody, right? Kind of like how it was fine when Kelsey was just a no-name second-half sub, yeah? Everything’s good as long as no one else finds success in their career.”

“You damn well know it isn’t that!”

“I don’t know, man,” Sam gave a cursory shrug, “seems like you don’t mind the limelight when it’s you standing on that podium. Maybe you just don’t want someone standing beside you?”

“I swear to God, Sam—because you’re my mate, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. But if you ever—”

“If I everwhat?” Sam swooped up her towel with the blade of her leg, snatching it into her hand. “Call you out again for being an apathetic fuck? I’m sick of watching you throw away your chances. You think your life’s so hard? You got the whole bloody world lying at your feet, and all you ever do is piss it away.” She tried to grab her water bottle, but in her fury, struggled with her balance, and tipped it over, where it rolled out of reach. Without thinking, Dillon bent to gather it, but before she could, Sam punted it away. “Go on, then, Sinc. Shove your head in the sand and keep on running. But when you’ve chased off everyone else, don’t come looking to me for sympathy.”

Dillon said nothing as the click of Sam’s uneven gait disappeared into the dressing room. For a horrible second, she felt like she might cry. But the sensation was fleeting. She hadn’t cried in nine long years. She certainly wasn’t going to start today. Instead, the only thing she really wanted to do was put her fist through the face staring back at her in the sweat-streaked mirror.

Scene 23

I thanked the Uber driver, took one last glance at my reflection in the untinted window of his Nissan Sentra, and hopped out of the car. The sidewalk was packed. A line of people wrapped around the building on the southeast corner of Sunset and Vine, but I’d been instructed to head straight to the front door.

“What do I say?” I’d asked Elliott.

“Nothing. They’ll know.”

Approaching the black and white awning, I expected to find myself sent to the back of the line, but instead, before I even said my name, the bouncer waved me through the door. A woman—wearing leopard-print pants so snug they looked as if they’d been painted on—was waiting for me.

“This way, Miss Kingsbury. Mr. Dunn has not arrived yet. Mr. Fleming is at his preferred table on the rooftop.” She ushered me into an elevator and swiped a keycard, beaming us to the top floor.

Elliott Fleming had called me a few hours earlier. When I’d realized who was on the other end of the line, a portion of my soul had departed my body.

Meet him and Grady Dunn atBartholomew’s, he’d said. Something about it being a rite of passage.

After hanging up, I panicked. I’d flown around my apartment tearing through my entire closet, changing at least a dozentimes. I stood glaring at my face in my dollhouse-size bathroom mirror, wondering what miracle concealer would cover the bags beneath my eyes.

I looked like hell. Dillon’s abrupt departure had left me in a slump. On the days I hadn’t had to meet L.R. for role discussions, or sit through hours of being taped and measured for costume fittings, I’d spent my time sitting on my couch eating peanut butter out of a jar, staring at the notes from my rehearsals.

To further celebrate my pity party, I’d canceled both the Brazilian blowout and manicure I was desperately in need of. A decision I regretted while spending an hour dragging a flat iron through my uncooperative wavy hair.

Bartholomew’swasn’t just an exclusive club. It wastheeexclusive club—the hottest joint in Hollywood.

As the elevator door slid open, Leopard-Print-Pants pointed me toward the furthest corner of the open-top terrace. The dim lighting revealed Elliott’s unmistakable profile, accentuated by the backdrop of the Hollywood hills. He was tipped back in his chair with his feet kicked up on the marbled ivory table, spitting pistachio shells onto the glass tile floor.

“Ah.” He shot me a mock salute as I approached, brushing aside an empty tumbler with the toe of his Balenciaga sneaker. “You made it.”

There was still a part of me expecting to blink and find out none of this was really happening. That I wasn’t standing under the stars on the string-lit patio of a members-only nightclub, meeting Hollywood’s golden boy to talk about our film. That at some point, I was going to wake up back in Hawaii on the morning of Dani’s wedding and find out this was all just a cruel, elaborate dream.

“Thank you for the invite.”

He flicked another shell to the ground. “With pleasure.”

Sitting up, he flung his feet off the table and gave me a none-too-subtle once-over. I could feel his eyes slide over the fitted cut of my dress—a favorite of mine, not too priggish, but one that required imagination all the same. It had seemed an appropriate choice for the company and locale.

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