Page 3 of Marisol Acts the Part
I’d like to think I’m not a needy girlfriend. Yes, we used to spend almost every day together on set, so distance would be something new for us, but I know how important this new show is to him. I know I can’t pop up in New York whenever I want—and, quite frankly, I don’t want to. Planes are terrifying—humans should not be allowed to go thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube—so I was planning to save my sanity and wait for him to come home for breaks, with one or two visits to the city in between. I know he’s going to throw himself fully into this role, but is it too much to ask that he save a sliver of himself for me?
“It’s…you’re…” Once again, Miles trails off, and in the silence, I hear a piece of me break.
“I’m what?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. How I immediately start combing through years’ worth ofmemories to understand what could’ve led to this. A time when I let him down, or said something wrong, but all I can see are the good moments. The nights talking on the phone until we both fell asleep. The trips to the beach in oversized hoodies and ball caps so we could avoid being noticed. The stolen kisses between interviews and subtle brush of our hands beneath tables.
Miles groans, as if my feelings are a chore. “C’mon, you know what I mean.”
“No, Miles, I don’t,” I snap.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. For once I don’t marvel at the ways he’s changed—from his fashion to his hair to his now flawless, acne-free skin. Instead, I hope his thick, dark hair gets tangled in one of the dozens of silver rings he only started wearing because his publicist told him it was “edgy.”
“We did the whole teen-drama thing together, and that was fun, but I’m ready to start taking myself more seriously. My agent thinksThe Limitcould get me some major award nominations.”
Okay? Last time I checked I’m as serious as anyone else in this room.
“And I’m not serious enough for you…” I say.
His silence speaks volumes.
“You’re…y’know. You love those Lifetime movies and stuff,” he says finally. “Those type of roles.”
Wow. Okay. My lips part but no sound comes out, and all I can do is stare out the window because I might lose my cool if I have to look at Miles. Just because I’ve done one guest role in a Christmas movie and gravitate toward romance scriptsdoesn’t mean I’m not “serious” about my literal job. Does that mean all he can do is Marvel movies because he’s obsessed with comic books? And since when does that dictate who is and isn’t “serious”? What does it matter if I wind up making my living playing roles that I like—roles that are fun and flirty and swoony? It’smycareer. Not his.
“Why don’t you pivot and try reality TV instead?” he suggests, as if that absolves him of basically trashing my career. “You loved that dancing competition you did.”
“Because I’m an actress,” I reply through gritted teeth.Dancing Divaswas fun, sure, but I obviously can’t make a living on celebrity competition shows. And I don’twantto. Contrary to what Miles might think, I’m good at my job. My Teen Choice Award confirms that. My millions of followers too.Avalon Groveisn’t the type of show that wins awards likeThe Limitdoes, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t crush my performances season after season.
My hot pink nails dig hard enough into my bare arms that pain shoots through me, but all I can do is glare at the boy in front of me, and hope my stare is hot enough to burn.
A server in a crisp white button-down and red silk vest approaches us, speaking in the same heavy Italian accent as the rest of the staff, which we know is for show. Most of the staff here are aspiring actors who wanted a day job that lets them practice their accent work.
“Are you ready to—”
“Not yet,” I interject before the server can finish, the man doing a complete one-eighty the second I interrupt him and walking away before I can finish.
My stomach clenches at the thought of how many otherepic celebrity breakups may have gone down right where we’re sitting. What better place to end things than at a restaurant with an ironclad NDA?
“You’re an amazing person, Mari. For real,” Miles continues, finally meeting my eyes, once the server is out of earshot. I don’t fall for the allure of his gaze this time—if anything, being forced to stare at his full lashes makes me that much angrier. I hope he goes bald in his thirties.
“And I’m grateful we got to spend our teenage years together. But we’re adults now. We need to evolve. Things are going to change for the both of us.”
“Nothing’s changed for me,” I reply, voice wavering but steadier than before. Other than now having the most free time I’ve had since I was in middle school, everything has stayed the same for me. Brand deals, self-tapes, my team pushing me to bite the bullet and finally go blond. My feelings forhim.
And maybe my feelings for him will never change.
Miles winces, and I kind of relish watching him squirm. But the vindictive thrill is short-lived, quickly replaced by an overwhelming need to sob. I press my balled fist against my mouth, focusing on the pain of my nails digging into my palm instead of the urge to cry. Thank God I wore ultra-strength lashes tonight. The last thing I need is an eyelash strip dangling like a rogue caterpillar. Even a category five hurricane couldn’t knock these bad boys off.
What hurts the most is how formal this all feels. Like we’re severing a business contract instead of a multiyear relationship. I spent most of my teenagerhood falling for him. There are entire blogs dedicated to us—to our relationship outside of the show—posting photos of us walking red carpets andsharing knowing glances from across rooms. We were more than our characters. We werereal.
“Mari…” Miles begins, reaching for me again.
“I want to go home.”
I want to go back in time, to the stupid, beautiful moment when I fell in love with this stupid, beautiful boy and warn my younger self that it’ll all go up in flames. I want to crawl into bed. I want to scream. I want to eat my weight in peanut butter.
He stops, his hand lingering in midair above my shoulder. It falls limply back down onto the table, his fingers a few inches from mine. He’s close enough that I feel heat radiating off him.
“C’mon, Mari,” Miles tries again, but keeps his distance this time. “We can go after dessert.”
