Chapter Nine

Maeve and I settle on a Friday evening two weeks after the Little Shop class for our dinner. In the meantime, our Beauty and the Beast and Chicago lectures go well. Maeve still gives me pointed looks and takes the reins when she deems I've gone off track, but I also go off track way less. During the Chicago lecture, we get through the entirety of our talking points for the first time since the class started. Not to mention Maeve smiles at me every time I look at her. It's incredible how much faster the new energy makes time pass too. It's already October, and our class will consist of a truncated lecture and handing out the midterm I thought was so impossibly far away. We're nearly halfway done with the course, and I feel both like I've fully kicked myself out of my rut and like I've dug myself into a new hole of uncertainty. Yes, I do love teaching and want to do just that, but I'm guaranteed only nine more weeks. Then it's back to the pile of unread scripts and trying to salvage some joy out of the mess my career's become.

But my existential dread gets a break in favor of Maeve dread come Friday night. I'm quaking in my skin as Maeve and I enter what looks like a hundred-year-old wooden house with a red door and a blue sign that reads Study Hall. It's all disgustingly cute.

"So don't expect anything too fancy," Maeve says.

"You really don't need to impress me," I reply. Even though the honest response is Fancy things don't impress me after half a decade immersed in celebrity opulence, so this is an ideal choice. Hell, I just spent my thirtieth fucking birthday with five of my closest friends watching action movies in my living room and loved every second of it.

Maeve's in one of her floral blouse and pencil skirt outfits, leaving me feeling underdressed in shorts and a flowing top. I mean, I'm glad Charlie talked me out of wearing a crop top, but the vibe is still not relaxed. Or, okay, I'm not relaxed.

Inside, the restaurant is small, done in medium-colored wood. There's a handwritten menu, one of those white tablet card readers between Maeve and me, and a fresh-faced cashier with purple hair. The only things they serve here are bar-type appetizers, flatbreads, and burgers. Very classic comfort college food, and now my brain's ping-ponging between wanting to follow Maeve's lead and eat, like, normal food, and the Hollywood devil on my shoulder telling me to not even think about risking my body for a girl.

Maeve looks at the menu like she doesn't have a care in the world (maybe she's just saner than I am) and orders something called an Aloha burger, medium. She turns back to me, and I notice that her cut jawline is perfectly visible from this angle. "Do you wanna get a beer?"

Charlie and I drink exclusively white wine and Skinny Bitch (or whatever that brand is called) vodka, but alcohol is not a bad idea. Right now, in this moment, anyway. "Sure."

She gets a Lagunitas IPA, and I select the most alcoholic cider and pork belly sliders. I'm not supposed to have a single ingredient on them according to Charlie and my "lifestyle guidelines." But there isn't much time to focus on that. When I try to slap my credit card down to pay at least for my meal, Maeve stops me.

"Don't," she says. "I'm paying for my apology dinner."

She takes a single number for both our orders and leads me out to the outdoor patio. The sun's dropping below the horizon, bathing the patio in a pleasant almost fall-like crispness. It's also mercifully empty out here.

"Surprised there aren't more students here," I say as I run my fingertip along the condensation on my cider glass.

"It's early," Maeve says, picking up her drink. "They'll be piling in within a couple of hours." She leans her glass toward me. "To another successful class?"

It gets a smile back on my face. "Santé, mon invité."

My French is rusty, but Maeve smiles as we clink glasses. The cider I picked out tastes fine. Good enough that I don't wince drinking it. I know the alcohol isn't entering my system that quickly, but I pretend that it is, just to help shake off the nerves from being out in public with someone I don't know very well.

"So before you have the chance to interrogate me about being from LA, what's Ohio like?" I say, smiling sneakily.

Maeve smiles, just barely. "Ty told you about that? Well, I'm from this village in central Ohio called Gambier. The only worthwhile thing about it is that it's home to Kenyon College. Otherwise, it is completely surrounded by fields, and that's all you ever need to know about it."

I chuckle. "Now, see, as an avid Stardew Valley player, I'm very invested in village life."

Her eyes don't light up in recognition, but I can weather that blow. With another sip of alcohol, anyway.

"Seriously, what did you do growing up? What pushed you out?"

She shrugs. "There's really no secret to it. You drive around a lot, see movies, hang out in parking lots, get drunk in fields, trek out to Walmart to loiter. And the sad part about my journey is that I actually stayed there for much longer than I thought I would. I went to Kenyon. My parents are physics and philosophy professors at the college, so tuition was free." She takes a long sip of beer. "Now, please. I know it's become a cliché about me, but tell me about growing up here."

I draw circles on the table. "It's really not any more interesting than what you did. I lived in a suburb and had no friends. I went to the mall and was an indentured worker at the Huntington because my parents thought I was going to become an emo cam girl…despite the fact that I was the biggest virgin on the planet."

Wasn't anticipating saying the last part, but Maeve chuckles. Egging me on.

Just then, a waitress sets down our food. The smell emanating off the meat and fries makes my mouth water so fast it hurts, but I can't get my hands to move as fast or as naturally as Maeve's as she grabs the knife and the plate and cuts her burger in half. She shoots me a glance as I reach for a slider.

"You okay?" she asks. "I won't push if you don't want to talk about it, but if the food isn't right or anything…"

"No, no." I consider taking a bite to buy time, but I let the sauce slide onto my fingers instead. "I just don't go out much. I've had social anxiety for a long time, before the fame…"

Maeve frowns. "Val, I'm so sorry! If you need to leave, we can go somewhere else."

A single laugh escapes my lips. "I didn't tell you; you'd have no way of knowing. And it's really not a big deal. I just don't do crowded restaurants. This"—I motion to the empty patio—"is really fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, absolutely." It helps that I love the way she says my name. Not Valeria anymore. Val. Like she finally considers me familiar. This do-over is really happening.

I take a bite of the slider. Maybe I'm biased from going so long without, but everything about this thing is amazing—the meat is juicy, the pulled pork is the perfect balance of sweet and tangy, the coleslaw's crunch gives the necessary added texture. It takes all my willpower to not say Fuck, oh my god to Maeve, the acquaintance who I thought hated me two weeks ago.

"Okay, now I'm genuinely not sure if you're okay," Maeve says. "Blink twice if Hollywood hasn't been letting you eat."

I snort. "I refuse to disclose how correct that stereotype is." Another swig of cider. Both of our drinks are draining dangerously quickly. "But don't worry, I'd stab someone for my Urth order just like every other basic bitch in LA."

Maeve chuckles. "I feel like that'd be funnier if I knew what Urth was."

It's the alcohol, but I do gasp out loud. "Okay, so you want your cultural tour of LA by a native? Urth Caffe is a ridiculous organic, fits-LA-dietary-restrictions chain. There are like twenty locations around Los Angeles, so there's definitely one in your neighborhood. They're crowded as shit, but their coffee products are truly top-notch. My favorite brunch in town."

Maeve nods. "Well, I'd love to go sometime." She looks at me, really settles her gaze on me, and, god, I can't tell what part of my face she's looking at. Maybe the cider has already softened me up, but I swear the floating feeling I have right now is because she's looking at me like that. "What's your ideal way to have Urth, then? Do you sit there?" she asks.

I snort. "God, no. Take out. I spent way too much money on a house with a panoramic view in Hollywood Hills, so on even a semi-nice day, I take the meal poolside." You're welcome to come over sometime. Just ask.

Maeve takes a swig of beer, grinning beneath the rim of her glass. "I can't believe how close you are to my shitty place in Mid-Wilshire."

I eye the last bit of gold still in my glass. Maeve's pretty much done. There's a tug in me, a little devil crooning that if I could just finish that drink, maybe I'd be loopy enough to invite her over. This friendship is so new, but there's something about her. It can't just be the alcohol. I didn't even tell Luna about my own struggles with anxiety until well after we stopped dating. And Maeve has asked me how I am multiple times. Maybe it's that she just feels so different from the type of person I've been associating with since moving back to LA from London. I feel like I don't know how Maeve is going to respond to my questions. She doesn't get my references, doesn't speak Los Angeleno, doesn't care to know Hollywood. It's thrilling.

Our food is almost gone. Tiny clumps of students start filling the tables, and their conversations carry through the air. Our night is fading away.

I want out, but I don't want to leave alone. I'm willing to accept whatever danger comes with that.

I chug the remainder of my cider and slam the glass on the sticky wood table. "Another round?" I give her my best crooked smile.

She bites her lip before saying, "Let's do it."

I know I'm not drunk. We literally had two and a half alcoholic beverages over the course of an hour's worth of conversations about roller coasters, our theories about who killed JonBenét Ramsey, and waxing poetic about nineties queer cinema before packing up as soon as every table around us started to fill up. But I still managed to convince Maeve we should walk tipsily through Exposition Park until we were both sober enough to drive responsibly. I'm relieved that bonding with Maeve is going so well. I'm starting to feel like I could ask her for a job recommendation and she'd say yes.

The second we walk into the park and are surrounded by the rose garden and the fountains and the Natural History Museum (or is it the Science Center; they're next to each other) on our left, everything smells nicer. I could just lie down and if Maeve wanted to lie down next to me that would be cool. Ideal, really.

So when Maeve stops to sit on one of the stone benches that flank the fountain plaza, specifically facing a nice bunch of flowers, I happily follow suit.

"I think it's finally happened—I've become so pathetic that I'm feeling it after two drinks."

Maeve snorts. "Well, if it helps, we're in the same boat." Given she's swaying a little, I believe it. She raises an eyebrow. A rare, coveted skill I had to learn. "So does that mean you're not a coke celebrity?"

"Ooh, no, I've only really done blow once."

She leans in a little, and that one curl she's always pulling behind her ear falls into her face.

"So it was a little while after winning the Oscar," I say. "Some wannabe actor I was hanging with gave me some, and I ended up buying a night with a stripper at some club, but through circumstances I've blocked from memory, I ended up at my sister's house—without said stripper or my pants—holding like five of those walking nylon animal balloons you buy at malls. There's a fifty-fifty chance I got bath salts instead of cocaine. So…" I break out a smile as Maeve doubles over laughing. "No, not my current pastime. And I'm not a big drinker, as you can tell."

She nods, that hair still in her face. "Right, I imagine you wouldn't go to bars or clubs."

"I need you to know that for every tale of debauchery, there are about five billion nights where I am at home doing photo shoots with my dog. I don't even have a good story about my broken engagement."

I lean over and push the hair out of her eyes. God, her skin is warm under my touch, and I can see the rose rising in her cheeks. Her hair fits perfectly behind the shell of her ear.

"Thanks."

I yank myself away, back to regular-people distance apart. But she's looking at me now, just barely biting her cheek. I can't tell if she knows I can see it. That small movement emphasizes her cheekbones. Movie star cheekbones. I don't know how else to put it. My fingers gravitate to my own cheeks. I guess I've always figured they were nice. Hollywood looks. That's what my team says. And then there was some guy on YouTube who once commented that my looks were wasted on a lesbian. Okay, dude.

"You were engaged?" she asks.

I drop my hand from my face. "Yeah. We were together for the last few years of undergrad and all of postgrad. She was an English academic thoroughbred who happened to be superhot, and we were both studying the Beatles. Dated four and a half years, engaged for a little under six months."

"I'm sorry that—"

I put my hand on her arm. "Please, don't be. She was a controlling asshole. Like, the kind of person who always had to be smarter than me, doing better work than me, but she also couldn't date someone dumb, so I was still expected to be, like, publishing papers and applying to conferences and whatever. I came home sobbing after my dissertation got rejected, and she told me a walk might be a good idea, but when I came home she'd packed up all my stuff and moved back in with her parents. She left the engagement ring I got her with a note saying, ‘I think you're better off in America.'?"

Maeve's hand slams down, clutching mine. I think the force launches my stomach into my throat. "Holy shit, Val."

"It's…" A lump is forming in my throat. No. What the fuck, I haven't cried over Emily in years. A year? I guess I cried about Emily with Luna after she ended up crying naked in my living room. "I always tell people I had my Stroke audition before Emily and I broke off the engagement and that that's why she left. The audition came soon after, thank god, because I needed something good, but she literally left our five-year relationship because my dissertation was denied."

"That's awful." Maeve holds on to me, running her thumb over my knuckles. "If it helps, I had a shitty relationship in college too."

"Man or woman?" Or nonbinary person. Why didn't I say that?

She sighs heavily. "Woman." She shrugs. "You clearly know how it is. I mostly dated girls in high school anyway. The first time I had sex was with a cis guy senior year, but then she came along in college, and it was like a whole new world had opened up to me." She licks her lips. "But she was so…particular. Constantly criticizing what I did, what I wore, how I acted around people. She was genuinely upset to hear I'd had sex with someone with a penis before her. Around graduation I just woke up and got out."

"Holy fuck, dude…"

I've had a ton of queer friends over the years, so I always knew abuse happened in the queer community, but seeing someone who experienced it. This woman. This soft, wonderful, wickedly smart woman.

She's still touching my hand.

"But the thing is"—she squeezes her eyes shut—"and I'm not proud of this, you know? But once I got into Berkeley for grad school, I just stopped being with women. I figured I wasn't queer enough for them. All through my PhD it was just nice man after nice man, and the relationships never got serious enough for me to say I was bi, and all my real focus went into my career."

Her hand slides off mine, and our bodies retreat back to neutral positions. My skin feels cold without her.

"God, Val, I'm"—she laughs—"I don't know why I'm telling you this. I still think about the good parts of my relationship with Fiona all the time. How we understood each other without having to say a word, how unabashedly queer we were together, how we'd giggle over celebrity crushes."

She glances at me, and I swear, she looks at my chest. Or my eyes? Fuck, those are in very different places.

"We—there's just an understanding. A shared experience. And being with her"—the softest moan escapes her lips, sending a shiver down to my bones—"the sex, Val. I dream about sleeping with a woman again. I— Fuck."

Hearing her swear, god, I never thought that would be my kryptonite.

She turns to me, full body facing mine. Looks me in the eyes. "I had this date like a month ago. With the job, I have time to go on a date maybe once a year. But you know how sometimes you wake up and you're inexplicably horny?"

What are we doing? My legs twitch with the urge to open them ever so slightly.

"So I figure this date I'll let him get lucky. If it's my rare outing, I'm gonna make it worth it. We go to a bar, down a few, start kissing at the bar, then continue in the Uber on the way back to my place, and I'm just thinking, Yes, this is what I needed. I cannot wait for this. We get in the door, and kissing turns into taking off our clothes, and I stick his hand down my panties."

She leans in as she speaks. Fuck. This. I am starting to sweat and I really hope she can't tell.

And she pulls back. Pulls back like a perfect tease, a crooked grin on her face.

"And he has no idea where the clit is. Grown man, doctor, doesn't know where the clit is. I show him at least three times, and he just gives up in a little huffy fit and reaches for his cock. I made him leave." She leans in again, not quite as close as before. "But god damn it, Val, I'm still horny, right? Angry and horny." That crooked smile shifts to just a regular amused grin. She makes eye contact. "So I just…" She pauses, lip back in between her teeth, slowly released. "Think about being with a woman and finish it myself."

Fuck. We are on Day One of Friendship and Maeve just told me how she masturbates. Which, fine, most people masturbate, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with this information? I mean, I masturbated to her. Did she even mean to tell me all this? What if I admit to what I did?

Still, I'm an actress, right? I smirk. "Sounds very unfortunate. Like you need a much better partner."

She sighs. "It's pervasive. I think about it all the time. Being back in a woman's arms."

She doesn't mean to be telling me all this. I can't keep playing along. This is like she just told me about her abusive relationship, I can't turn this into flirting. She's saying serious stuff; the least I can do is respond seriously.

"I mean, bisexual means you shouldn't be ashamed of being with a girl again. There are people who aren't like your ex."

She pushes her hair back behind her ear again. "Are you?"

I tell myself it could be a general question, but my heart's hammering like it's not. "Nope. Honestly, if someone likes me as much as I like them, my partners can be whatever."

Maeve's smiling again. "Thank you. I seriously need queer friends out here."

I smile back. "You have one."

Then my phone alarm goes off, startling both of us.

The alarm is entitled "CALL TRISH" and there's no context, nothing. It's 8:47 p.m. on a Friday.

But it's enough to knock me out of this spell and analyze what's been happening a little more rationally.

Maeve has just spent two hours breaking down her barriers. I get a pang in my chest, thinking—knowing—I'll likely get a text tomorrow morning apologizing for being crass and oversharing.

"Take it from someone who's had her heart ripped out, chewed up, and spat back into my body by a woman and still dates them: next year, when you're on your annual date, go for someone you really want to be with," I say.

"And you have my number if you're ever dying for a woman's touch," I add with a wink.