Chapter Two

Trish and I slowly ease back into normal conversation as we get closer to my home in Hollywood Hills. Yes, I'm that asshole who lives in Hollywood Hills. I've wanted the BoJack Horseman view ever since I binged the show and like fifty pounds of Wendy's in the months post-failed PhD and failed engagement with Emily. At least I think that's where I got the idea to move here from. Truthfully, all I remember about that time period was sobbing into my older sister Gwyn's shirt and asking if I was Mr. Peanutbutter or Diane. Gwyn told me I was the worst parts of both.

"You have anyone waiting for you at home? Anyone who could keep you company tonight?" Trish asks.

The farther I get from DTLA, the stronger the humiliation becomes. I know industry people deal with Actresses Gone Too Far all the time, but it feels like I've failed. I've been doing interviews for years. If I'd just stayed for another thirty seconds, there wouldn't be headlines circulating. In an industry where being dramatic and unprofessional is nothing to write home about, I fucked up so badly that I'll be a talking point. And I'm supposed to teach next week. There won't be publicists and fixers in academia; my head's already spinning thinking of it. If I can't even do what I've been doing successfully for years, I cringe to consider how disastrous returning to teaching is going to be.

"I guess there's Gwyn," I say.

It's so late that it's more than a safe bet to say that my older sister by five years has commuted back from Beverly Hills, where she works as a GI doctor for old celebrities/old rich Jewish people. You know, the type who like asking her if she has enough time to mother her kids while she's got a finger up their asses.

"You wanna call her?"

It's almost midnight, so I opt for a you up text that I regret the wording of immediately.

But, within seconds, Gwyn's name lights up on my phone.

"Are you having a flare-up?" she asks right outta the gate. Even though Trish is focused on her throwback disco music, I cross my arms self-consciously.

"Why would I call you at midnight over a flare-up?"

Short and skinny: if you were born ten weeks early in the nineties, you were at high risk of exposure to necrotizing enterocolitis. Some premature babies took antibiotics and had no damage. Some, like me, required major surgery to remove entire sections of viscera. It was a harrowing experience for my parents, and they never got therapy for it, but I've managed to survive with minimal but constant bodily inadequacies. A near constant stream of probiotics and IBS that supposedly only flares up when I'm stressed. Which would be cool if I wasn't stressed 24-7.

"Because that's all you ever text me about. Why? Is there something else up?"

My phone chimes, a text from Charlie. Charlie has been a weird, fluctuating presence in my life since we were in high school, including him being my Hollywood beard up until a year ago. Everyone loved the fact that we were "high school sweethearts," still together after we'd both made it in acting. We were nearly inseparable when he starred in Oakley in Flames, but I haven't heard much from him since we wrapped. I think he's having a life crisis over the fact that, at twenty-nine, he's too old to be a twink. I hate to admit it, but he's been one of the last friends to be fully reintegrated into my daily life after I hid away post coming-out.

On the phone to Gwyn, I sigh. "The interview I just did went shitty, and I was hoping for some company."

There's a pause that's a lot longer than I need it to be. "Have you eaten today?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes; she's such a fucking mom. "No. I had a photo shoot earlier."

Another text from Charlie. I swipe it away and highly consider hanging up this call as my stomach tightens from post-interview stress. I'm not sure I could articulate the black hole of emotion I'm feeling right now if Gwyn asked me about it.

I needed to come out last year. At first, I thought it was even going well, that I could hire Trish and be my authentic self and reinvent myself properly with Oakley in Flames. But once postproduction ended, I realized that that media quiet I thought I was experiencing was just reality in waiting. Every interview I attended, whether it was trade cover stories, podcasts, or the silly Instagram AMAs I'd do when bored, the same questions would pour in. How long have you been gay? What made you come out now? Are you wearing that because you're out? What lucky woman are you dating? I tried to swallow it and answer the questions quickly and blandly.

But after my answers were out in the world, I'd get another round of interviews and they'd keep asking them. Even while promoting acting roles that weren't even gay, I'd get the questions. I'd get them at charity events, at Hollywood parties, while stopped on the street. I started only receiving scripts for roles featuring Character Name (late twenties, lesbian). Not complex lesbian roles either; raunchy sidekicks, tragic historical love interests who end up dead, action heroes where the character description in the script is the only place you'd even know they were queer. Decidedly less complex, emotional roles than my work before, all I'm sure because some executive said this movie needed authenticity. It was as if nothing I could ever say, no matter how insightful or impassioned I was, could compare to my sexuality or what I hoped to explore creatively. By the time I saw an SNL sketch teasing the photo I took to come out, I…well, I had no choice but to disappear.

Tonight has only solidified it.

I have to face the writing on the wall: even if the TV directing gig has aligned more with my passions in years, it's misery to keep going like this. Even if we fix the PR fallout of the interview. That uncertainty wraps itself into my aching guts. I know I haven't had a bad flare-up in years, but the possibility of one does enough damage.

I take a deep breath. Will the pain away.

"Val?" Gwyn's voice sounds far away. It's the tone she uses when she's scared I'm going to react a certain way. "Why don't you order a pizza and I'll drive over, okay? Get Domino's like you like." She audibly exhales. "We can give the twins the leftovers tomorrow."

It gets me to smile for what feels like the first time in hours. "Half cheese, half pepperoni and jalape?o?"

"Yeah, perfect."

"I'll get those lava cakes too, for good measure. The twins love them."

"God, no! You don't have to deal with them."

"Eh, just give them heroin after. They'll be fine."

"Don't have kids."

No amount of joking quite softens the sting of Gwyn's joke. My parents have been fine with my being gay since I came out ten years ago, but they're still, like, boomers. Their pity looks might as well weigh fifty pounds per eye per parent. Oh, our poor homosexual daughter! Nearly thirty and the last person she dated was a twenty-four-year-old camera PA. How's she ever going to find a wife and give Lily and Oscar cousins?

The worst part is I'm starting to buy it. I haven't slept with anyone since Luna in July of last year because of some delusional idea that I want sex to mean something. It's only a matter of time before I go all U-Haul, yet LA has been a desolate landscape of club bathroom hookups and straight girls having short dyed hair and septum piercings like that isn't supposed to mean something for me. I can't even find a girlfriend, let alone someone to enter into heteronormative familial bliss with.

"Fuck you," I say, not quite a joke enough.

Another text from Charlie.

"I'll text you when I leave." She hangs up first, just in time for Trish to pull off the freeway and cruise into the obnoxiously narrow streets of my neighborhood. It's moments like this, when I'm woozy and mildly exhausted by my lifestyle, that I tell myself I'm going to move to Palos Verdes and live in an isolated cliffside manor until the ocean swallows it because of climate change. That BoJack view isn't worth it. Paparazzi slink around the streets as often as raccoons do. And even though the paparazzi aren't going to steal my twelve-pound dog, it's not ideal. In fact, I'd take an invasion of Los Angeles coyotes if it'd mean knowing I could walk Eustace around my neighborhood in pajamas without being photographed.

Trish parks outside my house, killing her headlights. For a moment, she just stares at me in silence. Mulling over her words.

"Does acting still bring you the joy it did when you first started?" she asks. "Creative work in general?"

The answer threatens to take my breath away. "I hope."

She nods slowly. "Let's follow through on the projects we already booked and keep the meetings we set, okay? We tried to rebrand you, and it didn't stick. So catch your breath, and we can try again."

"Okay."

"And don't assume Oakley is dead just because it's a long shot on the festival circuit." She smiles. "You're talented, Val. That's worth fighting for. I wish you'd see that."

We exchange hugs, I thank her for the ride, and I step off into the rapidly cooling night. Eustace comes bounding up to me as soon as I open my front door, jumping on my legs and licking my formerly sweaty shins. He's a Chihuahua mix, so he doesn't get much higher than that. I call Gwyn back, figuring it'll be faster than texting.

"I'm in," I say.

"Okay, I'm headed to my car."

I scoop up Eustace and walk to the living room/kitchen, knocking lights on as I go.

"Perfect."

And then, in the millisecond after I flip the light switch, I see the figure sitting on my couch. I scream and fall into straight-up deer-in-headlights mode.

"Val?" Gwyn still says over the phone. "Is everything okay? Jesus, do I—?"

"It's Charlie," I say, my tone flat.

Yeah, there's fucking Charlie Durst, just sitting on my couch in a Star Trek T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. His phone is in his hand, and he has a giant grin on his face like it's normal to break into someone's house. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a garage door opener.

"I forgot to give this back to you, so perfect timing!" he says, smile still on his face, like he's genuinely thrilled to see me.

Eustace wrestles out of my arms and goes to lick Charlie.

"Oh," Gwyn says on the phone. "Is he staying over?"

I look at Charlie, narrowing my eyes. "Are you staying here tonight?"

Charlie's grin slides into a soft frown. "I was hoping…?"

"Yeah," I say into the phone.

"Forget the pizza," Gwyn says. "I'll call you tomorrow."

And then she hangs up on me. The twisting pain of anxiety is stabbing into my insides relentlessly. I shove the phone into my back pocket to avoid throwing it against a wall. My gaze falls to Charlie.

"So you were going to get pizza?" he asks. "I can order if you want…"

Gwyn's never been Charlie's biggest fan. The dude is kind of a dumbass, but I'm a dumbass too. I've never gotten Gwyn to admit it, but I think she's still angry about Charlie enabling my beard thing. That, or she's mad about a very specific incident involving Charlie at a holiday party in the last five years. Regardless, it's not a good reason.

I want to call my sister back and demand she explain why she abandoned me. I want alcohol, for the second time today. But instead I walk over to the couch, drop onto it, and say, "I'm going through a crisis too."

He moves to right above my head. Lets Eustace go and starts stroking my hair. "We can talk about it tonight."

Just like that, that boob has weaseled his way into staying the night. One way to fulfill Trish's ask that I not be alone.

A year and a half ago, a woman would've been occupying the space Charlie is in now. And now I can't even masturbate.

I'm pretty sure Charlie has about 7 percent body fat, so I'm actually quite surprised by what he ends up ordering from Domino's when I tell him the toppings I like and then leave him to his own devices. But there his beautiful self is, carefully selecting a chicken wing from the tin foil container like he's trying to find the one with the highest protein value.

"I don't get why that interview ended you, though," Charlie says once he finally chooses a wing.

I dip a slice of pizza into ranch. "All people care about is that I'm pretty and gay. Even during an interview that was exclusively about my directing. Hollywood's never going to see anything else about me."

"I don't think that's necessarily true. Most people can't even remember an actor's worst interview. You can always change the way you're perceived by the public with a great enough future performance."

I sigh, dread creeping back in. "Maybe I'm just tired, then. I don't think I can wait to see if the universe changes its mind."

"Well…that sucks." He pauses. "Is there anything you're looking forward to?"

I search my brain as I chew. Even back to the seconds before the interview went sour. "I mean, there's the guest-teaching gig."

Something possibly even more intellectual and not about my sexuality than directing. It's the perfect way to catch my breath, as Trish said.

"There ya go! That'll at least be a different pace. Flex a different muscle."

Even though Charlie regularly calls me while reading his weekly scripts for the Star Trek reboot he's on to ask questions like "Do humans breathe nitrogen?," he's picked up on my academic spouting a decent amount, down to the minuscule details of my failed dissertation that I explained to him when we lived in a shitty apartment together four years ago. The warmth prickling at my chest is an old but familiar sensation.

"Yeah, it will be." A sprinkle of lightness hits me as I let the thought wander. "They're letting me teach a real course. The kind of class I would've led given my specialization in pop music history. The co-professor they assigned me has been hands off and let me design the course. Maybe it will be good for me."

Charlie smiles, waving his pizza around. "Yeah, fuck Winston Gray. That sounds so fun."

I sigh, a twist of guilt running through me as I consider the crust of the slice of pizza I just finished. "If I'm even still good."

He looks up at me and shakes his head. "Hey, look, I'm not saying switch careers, but don't lie to yourself. You're great."

"Even though I haven't taught since I was a TA in postgrad?"

"Well, sure, but they're not measuring you up to a regular adjunct. Do you think any of the celebrities who taught at USC could actually teach?"

"No comment," I say.

I need to focus. Charlie asked if I think the institution thinks I can teach.

I hadn't considered it. Does USC think I'm not going to be taking this position seriously? The Dr. Valeria B. Sullivan on all my bills is fucking real. I legitimately am qualified for this job, barring some years of teaching experience other candidates would have. I know they assigned me a more seasoned faculty member and a TA to assist with running class and grading papers, but the other professor is just there as a formality. They let me make the syllabus and everything.

That couldn't have just been celebrity placating, could it? I don't need a whole new set of people thinking I'm a joke.

"Charlie, do you think they think I'm not qualified for this?" I ask. The salt from the wings is starting to coat my mouth rather than actually taste good.

He studies me. I set down another slice.

"No offense, but if I wasn't your best friend—"

"You're my best friend?"

"Best friend, I'd assume you were dumb." He pauses, as if waiting for me to throw the still-full-and-pointy lava cake box at him. "It's just the curse of being blond and beautiful. Not to mention there's video footage of you dropping yogurt on Oscar's head and then licking it off him."

"Dude, there's no blond-and-beautiful oppression. You're the first canonically gay Captain Kirk because of that."

Something soft passes through Charlie's expression, but it's gone so fast I can almost convince myself I'm just falling into a salt, fat, and sugar coma. "It's more about the documented dumbassery part," he says.

A mental note: next time Trish wants me on a late-night show that does serve you wine beforehand, stop offering up terrible home videos Gwyn has taken of me and her children and start offering to teach Baudrillard. "Is that seriously my brand other than gay?"

"Yeah, but don't change it. It makes you seem approachable."

I throw my hands up. "This co-professor must think I'm an idiot!"

Charlie picks up his phone. "Wouldn't he have to read your dissertation to work with you? I mean, if anyone thinks you're at least a smart idiot, it's him."

"Her."

I don't know why I bother correcting him. I flip open the lava cake box.

"Her." Charlie pauses again. "What's her name?"

"Maeve Arko."

I only remember that because my mom asked the other day and then made a point to tell me the last name is Jewish. As if that's going to affect how well we work together.

Charlie looks to his phone, his eyes lighting up a moment before he looks back at me. "Also, not to be that guy, since I am second-billed in your movie, but have there been any updates on Sundance?"

All it takes is the mention of Sundance to tighten my stomach. The first of many festivals that Oakley won't get into. Not to mention it's one of my least favorite festivals because of the altitude, which makes my usual press anxiety even worse than usual—

I rub my arms. "We find out in November."

He quirks an eyebrow. "You don't seem excited."

I stab at the lava cake. Use the extra few seconds chewing and swallowing to think of the right words. The cake tastes vaguely like Oreos, and suddenly I understand why my niblings love this thing so much.

"There's no reason to get our hopes up."

Charlie gives me a weak smile. "I may be biased, but I hope Oakley in Flames gets in. We need a win."

I'm moments from asking about Maeve Arko again. But then I see it: Charlie's lips have been turned down over neutral the whole night. "What did you lose?"

I have a feeling before he says it, my stomach twisting as the seconds wash by.

"Star Trek got canceled, even with the great ratings and reception."

The lump clinging to my throat is a familiar pain. This business is all about rejection and having your dreams cut off. Even in our positions, with fairly consistent jobs and teams that find us genuinely great projects, there's so little guarantee. And I loved Charlie in that Star Trek role. It was one of those roles he slipped into like a glove. Even his press interviews about the show were some of his best work.

But he keeps going.

"And I…" He squeezes his eyes shut. "I—I've been an idiot. I didn't invest well. I have back payments on my house that I was gonna pay off with the check from Star Trek's new season. I've already sold all my assets to get the Feds off my back, but I can hardly afford to live in a shithole motel for a week—"

My first instinct is to slide the other lava cake over to Charlie. The second is to pull him into a hug. He shudders a little in my arms, but no tears.

"Hey, hey, you can stay here for a couple of weeks until your manager gets you a new gig. It's okay."

He mutters "Thank you" into my skin as I eye the Domino's on the table.

Another reminder of how fleeting our careers are. As much as I don't have a good feeling about Hollywood, the scarier thing remains that I don't know what's going to happen after it. Twenty-four hours ago, I was a respected actress and up-and-coming director with a teaching side gig. Now I'm a PR disaster with a brief stint as a professor.

Hopefully it'll go better than the interview.