Page 56 of Marisol Acts the Part
“If you can find space.” I scoop Bruiser up, clearing enough room for Miles to cram himself onto the edge of the bed. He looks like he’s been shoved into a clown car, his shoulders up to his ears and all six feet of his legs pressed up to his chest like he’s trying to curl into a fetal position.
“You never texted, so I brought you these…in case your day got worse,” he says before I can ask him why he’s here. He sets the box down between us.
Bruiser leaps into action, eagerly sniffing the box with intrigue as I examine the logo printed along the lid.
“You went to Doughnut Plant?”
I don’t bother waiting for an explanation before throwing the box open, unveiling six of the most beautiful doughnuts I’ve ever seen. Ages ago, I spent my (unemployed) nights researching places Miles and I would go to when I came to visit him in the city. Museums and coffee shops and jazz clubs and a dozen different restaurants and bakeries. Doughnut Plant was at the top of the list.
“You mentioned you hadn’t tried them yet,” he says with a shy smile, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Warmth rushes through me. I’m touched that he remembers something I said in passing to Esther during lunch lastweek. In the dim light of the sunset, I see the boy I fell in love with. The one who drove through peak LA traffic to bring me to the beach. Who learned the lyrics to every single Olivia Rodrigo song so we could belt them together on the drive home. Who grew up with me, who taught me what it means to love and be loved.
Hard as I might try to deny it, that boy hasn’t gone anywhere. Changed—matured in ways that floor me—but the same, deep down.
“Thank you,” I whisper, not trusting my voice not to crack before helping myself to a black-and-white doughnut, moaning around my first bite.
“As good as you thought?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Better.” Instead of wolfing down the rest in two more bites, I split the doughnut in half, handing the unbitten side to him.
While Bruiser attempts to nab a piece from me, silence settles between the two of us. The question of why he’s here—and with doughnuts, no less—hanging in the air.
“I’m sorry about today,” he says finally, after I’ve finished my first doughnut and started on a second.
My hand stalls, a PB&J doughnut midway to my lips. “For what?”
“For not standing up for you.”
“But you did?”
“I could’ve fought harder, though,” he insists, frowning. “We filled out that form ages ago, and we didn’t know what it was for. He can’t hold you to that.”
Slowly, I lower my doughnut, but make sure to keep it out of Bruiser’s greedy, wet reach. “It could’ve been worse.”
It’s a half-hearted lie and we both know it. My time onThe Limithasn’t been easy, but today was by far the worst. I’ll gladly never wear pink for the rest of my life if it means I don’t have to be locked in that box again.
Well…maybe give up pink for a year.
Miles shifts closer to me, the mattress groaning and sagging beneath his weight. Bruiser quickly abandons her doughnut endeavors to crawl into his lap, pawing at his hoodie until he cradles her like a newborn baby, the way he always did whenever he came to visit. She closes her eyes, nuzzling happily into his hand when he scratches beneath her chin. Seeing her so happy and comfortable shouldn’t make tears prickle the corners of my eyes, but it does. Realizing that I’m not the only one who has missed having Miles in my life.
“You can leave the show, you know,” Miles says after Bruiser has had her fill of pets and has fallen back asleep in his arms. “Rune has been a dick to you, and you don’t deserve to be treated like that.”
“I can’t leave,” I protest, pulling my knees up to my chest and hugging my arms around them. “He’ll blacklist me. I’ll never get another role like this again.”
“He can’t do that. Sure, he has clout, but he doesn’t own Hollywood,” he says with a roll of his eyes, though I highly doubt that’s true. We both know from experience that everyone knows everyone. For an industry that claims to always be welcoming in new talent, it’s small as hell. And in a world this small, Rune has plenty of power behind him. “And I thought you weren’t interested in these types of shows anyway?”
“Well, I wasn’t,” I mutter bitterly, considering biting my tongue before I say anything I’ll regret. “Untilsomeonecalled me unserious toStars Weekly.”
Whoops.
Actually, no. It feels good to finally call Miles out. Air it out in private instead of over text or in hushed whispers on set. Months have gone by, and I can’t shake off the hurt of him going behind my back and telling the media about our breakup before I even had time to process it. Like he was orchestrating one of the lowest moments of my life behind the scenes for weeks.
“Shit…” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Mari. I didn’t mean it like that, I swear.”
I don’t say anything because I’m not sure if I believe him. As I replay that night in my mind yet again, it’s impossible to figure out how hedidn’tmean it that way.
“My reps wrote up that statement for me, and I didn’t know how else to say that we broke up, so I went with what they suggested,” he says, and the softness of his voice convinces me that he probably is telling the truth. It’s impossible to reconcile the boy who was my first love with the boy who crushed me in a matter of minutes, but I’m starting to understand now. Maybe the boy I loved was buried under that awful breakup speech after all, following orders instead of speaking from his heart.
