Page 88 of Take 2
Cece gapes. “This is almost as bad.”
“Unless it’s not?” Morgan asks. “I mean, the sex itself wouldn’t be. Is Ryan still …”
I take a big gulp of booze-infused coffee. “Even better now.” Which should be a good thing, but it turns out that’s only a good thing while it’s happening.
“Wow,” Cece says.
Ryan—or Preston as it were—gave me thoseWTFeyes just for telling James we would probably have sex. If he had any idea of how much these friends always knew about our sex life, would he still be able to face them?
“Obviously, sex was never the problem.” I trace the rim of the coffee mug with my fingertip. “Was I an idiot for divorcing him? I really don’t remember why we broke up anymore.” All I’ve remembered for a long time was the good. Except all things Preston, of course.
“No, sweetie.” Cece wraps an arm around me. “He wasn’t supporting you the way you needed him to. You weren’t happy.”
“Not being happy seems like a dumb reason.”
“Not dumb,”Morgan says.
“I guess.”
The iPad rings with James trying to rejoin our chat. “You meant 2 p.m. central time,” he says. “That makes sense.”
“Hi.”
His eyes widen. “What happened to you? You were supposed to leave Monaco all sexed out and chill.”
“See, the problem is … I was there getting sexed out … with my ex-husband.”
James’ chin juts out as he presses his lips together. “Come again?”
Cece becomes the point person on catching James up on the backstory. Thanks to his appreciation for drama, he’s not angry at me for keeping the Ryan/Preston secret.
Then, I launch into the story of our trip. It’s practically one of our Oscars parties as snacks and more drinks come out. Talking it out tangles up my feelings rather than helping me sort through them. But my friends understand as well as anyone can, so that’s nice.
Finally, I can give James the whole story about Lisa’s party when I met ‘Preston,’and the rollercoaster of the first time I was nominated for an Academy Award.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Two Years Ago
ThegreenroomwhereI wait forThe Hollywood ReporterWriters Roundtable is actual hell—if hell had a coffee bar and pastries and couches. I feel like the new kid in school. Except when I transferred, they accidentally put me in AP classes when I was nowhere near ready for them. Or so I assume that’s what it would feel like. I owned the AP classes. But the simile holds!
Me: Oh, you know. Just sitting here waiting, drinking coffee I totally don’t need because I’m already buzzed enough to light every neon sign on Route 66, and frantically texting. You?
I stare at the undulating ellipses on my phone screen. Then they disappear. Nope. Morgan is taking too long.
Me: James, I’m going to die.
His response comes immediately.
James: I’ll bury you with your dick mug.
How does he always know the perfect thing to say?
Me: I want to be cremated.
James: Then I’ll keep you on my shelf … in the dick mug. It already has your name on it after all.
Me: Mir-ly Tired is not my name.
