Page 43 of Marisol Acts the Part
I breathe an internal sigh of relief when Jamila nods, only for the panic to return as I swipe the color along her lower lip, my fingers gently cradling her jaw. It’s more intimate than applying her eyeliner had been, our faces inches apart as I trace the natural curve of her mouth. I can feel her heartbeat beneath my fingertips, see the goose bumps blossoming on her skin when I adjust my grip to lightly cup her cheek. It’d be easier if I didn’t have to hold her steady, if she wasn’t trembling so lightly it risks me smearing lipstick down her chin. But asking her to stay still means acknowledging the thing we’re both dodging. The rapid thrum of our hearts, our held breath. The way I haven’t moved in seconds and neither of us has noticed. The way we’re moving closer and closer toward one another, pulled together by gravity.
Until the door slams back open.
“Did you use my moisturizer again?!” Fatima shouts as she storms into the room, stalling when Jamila and I suddenly jump apart, Jamila almost tumbling out of her chair.
“N-no,” Jamila stammers, struggling to regain her balance by gripping tightly onto the edge of the vanity. “I think Momdid.”
Fatima crosses her arms, scrutinizing the two of us before ultimately backing out of the room slowly. “If I find out you used it, you’redead,” she hisses. “That cost fifty dollars.”
I know exactly which moisturizer she’s holding, and I’ll buy her a whole truckload if it means she’ll leave before shecan see that I’m flushed down to my toes and struggling to catch my breath.
Mercifully, she does. I’ll have to put in a bulk order tonight.
I clear my throat in an attempt to regain my composure. At some point in the heat of the moment I must’ve finished applying Jamila’s lipstick. Not surprising, it’s absolutely stunning on her. The bold pop of color feels fresh—a switch-up from her usual more muted wardrobe—and makes a total difference. Her eyes sparkle like gemstones, the highlighter along her cheekbones making her brown skin as radiant as the sun.
“Ready to go?” I choke out, my voice hoarse from the sight of her.
“Ready,” she says after a short exhale, and takes my hand in hers.
Chapter 14
The premiere is in full swing by the time we step out of our car. A production assistant instantly appears at our side, walking beside us without taking his eyes off his clipboard, handing us a set of wristbands as soon as he’s confirmed our names on the guest list, and pointing us in the direction we should go next.
“Ready for your first red carpet?” I ask Jamila, shimmying my shoulders as I head toward the tented carpet, the buzz of photographers calling out names rumbling in the distance.
I turn around, expecting Jamila to follow, but she’s stuck in place, blinking at the tent like it’s a hundred-foot-tall monster.
“I—I don’t think I can,” she stammers out, backing away slowly even though there’s nowhere else for her to go.
Seeing her without her usual easy confidence is unsettling—like she’s too exposed and I should shield my eyes to give herprivacy. Instead, I take a careful step toward her, waiting until I’m sure she’s not going to bolt to rest my hand on her arm.
“I know it seems like a lot, but you can do this,” I assure her, taking in a deep breath and gesturing for her to match my pace.
We take in several deep breaths together, inhaling and exhaling in sync until she doesn’t need my hand on her arm to ground her. Once she’s calm and her eyes aren’t the size of saucers, I straighten my back and get into my usual red carpet pose.
“Walk out there and keep your chin up.” I pause, gesturing for her to mimic my movement. “Hand on your hip. Cross the legs. Dip your head down if you need to reposition or need a break. It’ll keep them from getting any wonky photos of you when you’re not ready. Andalwayssmile.”
Jamila wobbles as she tries to cross her legs like mine, but I loop my arm through hers before she can stumble. “Maybe not the leg cross. That might be too advanced.”
I let go of her so she can practice the pose one more time, readjusting her slightly so her shoulders are back and making sure her emerald necklace is sitting perfectly right at the hollow of her collarbone.
“Perfect.” I give her pose a thumbs-up in approval before snapping a photo with my phone. “For your mom,” I explain, quickly texting the picture to her before she can snatch the phone out of my hand and delete it.
Any hesitation Jamila had about the photo—about this whole situation—softens as she glances down at my phone. Even in terrible dim lighting, with camera flashes in the distance, she shines.
“I can go first,” I offer once I’ve tucked my phone into my purse, then hold up my pinkie. “Ifyou promise you’ll follow right behind me?”
Jamila grins as she loops her pinkie through mine. “Promise.”
We walk together to the entrance of the tent, me double-checking that Jamila isn’t about to pass out before I take a deep breath of my own and step out onto the carpet.
For the first time since that night at Capri, I’m met with a flurry of flashing lights and voices yelling my name. I’ve turned down a dozen different premiere invites since the breakup out of fear of this moment—that it would take me right back to one of the most humiliating moments of my life. This was something I used to love—smiling for the cameras, answering questions, signing photos for fans. An exception to my claustrophobia, because who wouldn’t mind being the center of attention? One of the most thrilling parts of this overwhelming career. And as scary as facing the cameras again might’ve felt a few weeks ago, I can’t let Miles take this away from me too.
“Marisol, over here!”
“Looking beautiful!”
“How hasThe Limitbeen going?”
