Page 6 of Marisol Acts the Part
“Liar,” I mumble under my breath.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past twenty-four hours, it’s that happily-ever-afters are 100percent bullshit.
Lily and Posie each give me worried glances. I can’t blame them for looking at me like some kind of subterranean monster has taken over their best friend’s body—because that’s exactly what I am. An unholy creature. Leaving my hair in a bun overnight has left it so tangled I couldn’t pull out the pen that accidentally got trapped in the mess, so I’ve decided to just leave it in and deal with the consequences later. I popped off all my acrylics in a fit of rage last night, leaving my chewed-to-nubs nails on full display. I skipped seven of the ten steps in my usual nightly cleansing routine, which means I woke up with a zit the size of Texas on my chin and enough whiteheads on my forehead to grate cheese. And I’m pretty sure there’s still mascara smudged into the creases of my eye bags.
Needless to say, I’m a hot mess. And not even the fun kind.
Something beneath my cocoon of blankets and takeout containers begins to buzz, along with a notification on my Apple Watch informing me that my agent, Delia, is calling.
Suddenly, Mom appears in the doorway of her office, holding up her own phone.
“Are you going to answer?”
I sigh and sink into the comfort of my hoodie like an ostrich shoving their head in the sand. “Do I have to?” I reply, my voice muffled by the fabric.
Lily and Posie exchange frowns while Mom gives me aglare that makes it clear I don’t really have a choice in the matter.
“Fine,” I mumble, digging for my phone in the crumb-littered couch cushions while Mom switches into Manager Mode as she slides in her AirPods, accepts the call, and heads back to her office.
Most days, I’m grateful to have my mom as my manager. If it weren’t for Mom knowing how terrible I look in cool tones, I might have let Delia hound me into going platinum blond by now. Nobody stands up for you like the person who spent seventeen hours in labor birthing you. But today, I wish she would just be my mom and let business calls wait until I don’t feel like I’ve been run over by a semitruck.
“Hey, sorry,” I mutter when I answer my phone, brushing chip crumbs off the screen and throwing it on speaker so Lily and Posie can hear too. “Couldn’t find my phone.”
“No problem,” Delia’s assistant chirps. “Grabbing Delia, Joanna, and Blake now.”
“O-oh,” I stammer, leaving us to listen to the agency’s signature funky hold music. Immediately, I regret putting the call on speaker.
The full Marisol Polly-Rodriguez team is almost never on the same call together. It would take a year and a day to coordinate my lawyer, Joanna’s, and publicist, Blake’s, schedules with Delia’s and my own, and probably another hour to wrangle us all onto one conference line. The last time the three of them called me at the same time was to tell meAvalon Grovewas nominated for a Teen Choice Awardandthe MTV Movie& TV Award for Best Kiss—the highest honors a show like ours could be bestowed.
This is either really, really great or, more likely, really, really,reallybad.
Isn’t it bad enough that I had to get unexpectedly dumped? Why is the universe trying to torture me?
The music comes to an abrupt stop as abloopannounces Delia’s assistant’s return. “Everyone is on,” she says before the members of my team start talking at once.
Delia takes charge, shushing the others with an intensity that I can feel even through the phone. She holds a beat, waiting until the line is fully quiet, before speaking. “How are you, Marisol?”
Oh God, something is definitely wrong.
Delia Lane is one of the best agents in the business for a reason. She has an encyclopedic knowledge of every single actor, representative, and who’s who in the entertainment industry, and has a client list that I’mstillamazed I’m on. Which means she’s always running a mile a minute from meetings to sets to premieres in Europe or some exotic island. I wouldn’t be surprised if Delia’s assistant has to schedule time in her calendar for her to sleep.
Delia’s time is precious. And across our three years together, she’s never once greeted me during a call. As soon as she’s on the line, we get right down to business. Someone like her doesn’t have time to waste on pleasantries when she’s calling to tell you she booked you an audition for the next major fantasy franchise.
Unless she needs to soften some kind of blow…
“Fine,” I answer reluctantly.
I’m sure the paparazzi photos of my less-than-graceful exit from Capri are splashed across the internet by now, but theybarely paint the full picture. For all the public knows I just got a migraine and took my frustration out on the unsuspecting public in a moment of weakness. We should have a couple weeks to figure out how to navigate my new Miles-less life—assuming they’re not firing me right now.
The thought of it—both me being fired and having to treat my breakup as a business move—makes my head throb as I hold back yet another wave of oncoming tears. And here I thought last night’s ugly cry had wiped me out.
“Some photos of you went up onStars Weeklylast night—”
“Miles broke up with me,” I explain before Delia can even finish. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid now and work out our damage control plan later. Again, assuming they’re not kicking me to the curb.
“We know,” Blake replies in his usual flat monotone.
“W-what?”
