Page 3 of Take 2
I snatch the card and pull at the stupid dress as I wiggle into a cross-legged position. The crinkled card reads:Wish you’d come out for drinks. You don’t even have to keep your hair down.
Something soft slaps me in the face.
“That was with it,” James says of the green scrunchie that’s landed in my lap. I squeeze it in my other hand as I finish reading.
But since you won’t … Enjoy. And don’t be so hard on yourself. -PG
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say as I tear up the card. “Of course. It’s not actually my fault. What could I ever do to be better than the greatPreston Greene?Oh, he has some nerve! He was so sure I was going to lose that he ordered my pity party beverages. That jackass.” Ice cubesclinkagainst a glass, and James opens the vodka. “I should go smash that over his head.”
“You’d probably want to be wearing shoes to create that kind of scene.” He pours a double, and I tie my hair up in a messy bun with the scrunchie.
“Revenge isn’t worth putting on those shoes again.” I take the offered drink. The first sip slithers through my chest with a heat I don’t mind at all.
“Exactly.”
“I hate him.” My words have no fire anymore. Which is weird since vodka is flammable. Preston had asked me to get drinks after the show yesterday, but I didn’t reply. Many texts were written and erased—anything that sounded like I knew he assumed he’d win seemed like I also assumed he’d win. I already tried the good sportthing last time he beat me for an Academy Award. It didn’t go well.
“Me too. The nerve of that man to not wear a tie to win Oscars.” James sits next to me. “For what it’s worth, I was only so grossed out by the idea of your boob because I know you’re sweaty.”
“I am sweaty.” My eyes prickle, and my voice goes squeaky. Yep, let’s act like I’m crying because I feel physically gross. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Are you taking vodka in with you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Wine in the bath is luxurious,” he says. “Vodka in the shower is sad.”
“Well, I am sad, so it works.”
“Enjoy telling imaginary Preston Greene what you really think of him.”
Chapter Two
Howcanmyphonesound so goddamn happy right now? I grope around for it without opening my eyes. The upbeat tone is punctuated by the sound of it vibrating against the nightstand. Nothing about this agrees with the pounding in my head.
My hand lands on the phone, and I answer it without looking. “I’ll be down in ten. Get coffee.” I rub the general vicinity of the end button and toss the thing. I may have just told the car warranty people to get me coffee. Honestly, I’ve earned that for all the times I’ve blocked those numbers.
My master’s program was not as difficult as sitting up is right now, but somehow, I drag myself up and wrap my arms around my knees. A groan scrapes out of my throat and threatens to bring with it—
Yep. My head screams at me as I run to the bathroom. Each step rattles my brain against my skull, and throwing up makes it worse. Why is there so much space for my brain to move? I guess my parents knew what they were talking about when they said alcohol kills braincells.
When I’ve emptied my stomach, I stand and rinse my mouth out, then splash water over my face. The hand towel is scratchy, but sinking my face into it is still better than being at the full mercy of the lights. Did I flick the switch on my way in, or was it left on overnight? One hand pulls a scrunchie out of my hair on autopilot, and I put the towel down to see that it’s the green one Preston sent me.
Green is officially the worst color. I’m throwing away every piece of green clothing I own when I get home, and I will lock myself in my apartment every Saint Patrick’s Day. Christmas decor will only be red and gold. James will enjoy shopping for new ornaments with me anyway.
I squish the little symbol of my loss, swing my hand toward the trash can, but decide to keep it. No, I will not be defeated by Preston Greene and this scrunchie. I will wear it as a reminder of why I will work my ass off to beat him. It will be my war paint. I’ll keep it with me until I fling it at him on my way up to acceptmyOscar.
Yes. That’s what’s happening.
I rake my hands through my hair and secure it with my new talisman.
The lobby is bustling, which is no surprise. It’s filled to the brim with Hollywood’s elite who couldn’t bear the thought of going farther than a few steps at the end of the night. And me. I never manage to think of myself as fitting the title ofHollywood’s elite, but I sure as hell look like them today. Sunglasses, baggy pink crop top, leggings that claim to be for exercise, and flip-flops complete my messy bun look so well a tourist might confuse me for someone worth taking a picture of.
But where is James?
I pull my carry-on toward Starbucks. A thin garment bag is crumpled up inside it, along with the dress it’s supposed to be covering. The excuse that the dress needs to go to the cleaner before its trip to the back corner of my closet, never to be seen again, is already prepared for James’ judgement. I round the corner to find a familiar figure leaning against the wall with two Starbucks cups in hand, but it is not my best-partner-in-crime friend.
Who did I kill in a past life?
