Chapter Eleven

There's no one in this world who I'm more willing to get showered and dressed up for than Rosalie. It started off as a coping mechanism after I returned from London to face the depression void of losing my PhD and Emily. I'd guilt myself into getting out of bed to go to weekly sessions, nudged to appease basic hygiene standards because she works in this cute office in Pasadena and you don't show up to cute Pasadena offices smelling like death and covered in ketchup stains.

After the Sundance news, I fall back on that compulsive need to look presentable for therapy. I'm still not entirely sure why I broke down with Charlie on Saturday, but Rosalie's office is as good a place as any to figure that out.

I look at my phone again. My heart leaps when I see I have one unread text.

Maeve and I haven't spoken since she left with her wallet. And maybe part of that is because I told her I'd talk to her on Tuesday, when we have class. But I spent part of Saturday giving Eustace a bath to wash the stain off him and I sent Maeve a picture of his clean self along with the caption ONLY TOOK THREE HOURS when we finished. There's no reason for her not to answer that text.

But the unopened text is from Charlie. He asks if we can go to Erewhon later today so he can cook a nice dinner for us. A very sweet offer, something to look forward to, but it doesn't put me at ease the way it should. I look back to my phone, to the picture of Eustace that is still the last thing in the chat between Maeve and me.

"Valeria?"

I look up at Rosalie standing in the doorway. She's always in jeans and a sweater, and today that sweater is a blue that contrasts perfectly with her pale skin. I slip past her, a couple of feet between us, an easy distance that speaks to our intimacy. I suppose it comes with growing up together, starting from when I was an eyeliner-smeared teen and she was in her first junior position in a private practice. Over the course of ten years, three babies, one Oscar, and one complete sexual journey, we're still doing our dance. She's one of the few people left from my pre-fame life, and she's also one of the few people who uses my full name interchangeably with my nickname.

I take a seat on her red couch and slip off my sneakers so I can tuck my legs up under me. She sits across from me. A hilariously cliché painting of Pasadena's annual Rose Parade hangs on the wall adjacent to us.

"How're you doing?" she asks. She leans forward, though, which tells me she knows my answer before the words form on my lips.

"Oakley in Flames didn't get into Sundance," I say. I'm technically supposed to start with an emotion, but after this long we've developed a bit of shorthand.

"Oh, Val, I'm so sorry," she says, bridging the gap between us to set her hand on mine.

We pull away at the same time, and she straightens out while I hunch closer into myself. I wish I could lie down, but that's a depressed Valeria move. "What's coming up for you?" she asks.

I sigh. "Guilt."

"For what?"

"When Trish first said we'd be submitting to Sundance, I bitched about it to everyone who'd listen. I said that I hated Sundance, hated film festivals, hated talking to people, hated the way altitude exacerbates what my body already does when I'm stressed. I genuinely didn't want it to happen."

"Why didn't you want a film you worked on to get into a festival?"

"I—I mean, it didn't feel worth it. As soon as I started directing, it was clear that the important people in my career didn't want to support that aspect of my work. Why would I invest emotionally in something that'll ultimately disappoint me?" I motion to the air. "Case in point with Sundance. Oakley is good enough for it, but it was never gonna get in."

"You said you thought the film was good enough. So, okay, you saw this coming, but maybe there's some disappointment in there?"

My throat tightens. "Of course there's disappointment, but again, it doesn't matter. I'm switching my life trajectory. I don't regret—" Not emotionally investing in directing. The words catch in my throat. I can't force them out. Because I don't regret anything. I grasp for something else to say. "It's— I didn't expect to feel this heavy about letting down an entire team. I feel like I need to be comforting people who aren't me. And those same people keep saying, ‘Oh, I'm so sorry, Val,' as if they didn't work on the film too and—" I sigh. "I just can't take on that energy right now. Oakley is in the past, and I'm trying to move on."

"Is there any way to tell the people bringing up Oakley this?"

I snort. "Without looking like a dick?"

Rosalie shrugs. "You're being honest. It's not like you saying ‘I'm doing okay' is going to change the trajectory for the other festivals, right? It's okay to feel okay about something that would've upset you months ago."

Except it did upset me.I can't form the words, even in an open environment like therapy. It's not like I think Rosalie will judge me for my reaction. But saying that out loud, admitting that a piece of me is still emotionally invested in Oakley, feels like it could undermine everything I've put into Maeve and academia. Because if I admit directing is still whimpering along, or dare to admit that Maeve's insane schedule is terrifying and that I don't know if I can do it, I'm right back to that crisis in Trish's car in August. No, this is stupid. I'm sure of where I'm going, which means being sure of what's in the rearview mirror.

"Thanks." I pause. "Anyway, it's a sign. The day this happened, my coworker Maeve said she'd look out for open teaching positions for me. I have to finish up some projects next year, and then I'm done."

Rosalie's face lights up. "Congratulations, Valeria, that's wonderful. So everything turned out fine with Maeve?"

"Yeah." Except for the teeny, tiny crush, which I'm ignoring. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before. "We seem to be meshing well. I really like her and her whole world."

Getting so upset over Sundance was a fluke, which is proven by the weightlessness coming over me as I think about the weekend I spent with Maeve.

A text tone goes off. I check, muttering, "Sorry."

It's not Maeve.

"Luna's asking if I want to get dinner later this week," I say.

"How's Luna doing?"

"Good, I think. I mean, she has Romy and a camera job and told her parents that she's bi maybe six months ago. But she's an anxious baby, so…" She had also mentioned that her parents refuse to call her bisexual and that they tell their friends Luna is a lesbian, but overall, I suppose, things are good.

Rosalie laughs. "Two peas in a pod."

I hold up a finger. "Except I'm going to be honest about how I feel about Hollywood with her." I'll try, anyway. If it doesn't happen at a one-on-one dinner, maybe I'll have the courage to tell her a few drinks in at the monthly group hang with Mason and Charlie that I invited her to at Nobu.

Rosalie smiles. "Good. I'm proud of you for realizing what makes you happy and going for it. I know it's not easy to leave something that's been such a big part of your life for so long."

I smile back. "Thank you."

I sneak one more look at my phone when our session ends.

Maeve liked "ONLY TOOK THREE HOURS">

No actual words from her, though. The unease returns. She liked it, the way I like texts from people I feel bad ignoring but don't want to engage with.

Somehow, that's fucking worse than if she'd done nothing.