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The first time I met Dillon Sinclair, I almost killed her.

I was driving back to the hotel from Dani's picture-perfect, postcard wedding. It had been exquisite—exceeding even Dani's standards—but despite being the Maid of Honor, I hadn't been able to focus on my best friend's fairytale ceremony.

Not since I got the call.

The call , as I'd later come to think of it when joking around with my studio friends, lamenting our early days of audition-after-audition-after-fruitless-dead-end-humiliating-audition. The call that changed my life. The call everyone in the business was waiting for. Hoping for. The one that, somehow, by the grace of the Gods of Show Business, astonishingly came to me.

But it wasn't just the call that turned my universe on its axis. It was hours after that. Long after the lavish sunset ceremony on Honokalani Beach, and the romantic, poetic vows of I Do . After the toasting and roasting, and the barefoot dancing in the shimmering black sand.

I'd made it part way up the winding two-lane highway—the famous Road to Hana with its majestic, panoramic views. It was pitch black out, and though I'd driven the stretch of road from the resort to the small, private cove with Dani half a dozen times over the last three days, the turns were still unfamiliar to me. Especially now that I made the trip alone. I drove slowly and praised myself on having limited my wine consumption to the single glass I'd sipped throughout the reception—a feat not easily achieved as I sat in anxiety all evening waiting to make my Maid of Honor speech.

This must be a breeze for you, Kameryn , Dani's mother snipped the previous morning, while I anguished in silence over my handful of notes. It felt impossible to sum up the two-decade friendship I'd shared with her daughter—a bond established over wetting our pants in the sandbox on the first day of preschool.

Speeches must be second nature to you by now. Snide. Condescending, as ever.

How little she knew me, after all these years. And how much less she even cared. I would always just be Dani's ‘farmgirl friend.' Never mind that my mother's occupation as a professional horse trainer didn't exactly constitute a ‘farm.' To her, I was just the girl who'd lived outside the city limits of their upper-class suburban district, bussed-in to their fancy schools. It would never make any difference how successful—how accoladed—I ever was in my career. Even when news broke about my upcoming role. It wouldn't matter. I'd never be one of them. My friendship would never be worthy of Darlene Hallwell's perfect little girl.

But none of that was where my mind was as I plugged the little four-cylinder Wrangler along the coastal highway. I was still thinking about Aaron's call; the edge to his voice, usually so calm, so collected, but this time percolating with excitement. He'd been my agent for five years—representing me since the day after my eighteenth birthday—and never once, in all the phone calls we'd shared, had he ever called me Kam.

"Kam!" He'd spoken over the top of my hello. "I've just heard from Universal!"

There was something in the sentence, something in his atypical familiarity, that snatched any response I might have given from my lips.

He'd continued. "It's a go, Kam. It's a go!"

I was afraid I'd misunderstood. I couldn't even hear the inquiry of my clarification over the thundering of my heart.

But I heard his response, his laugh brimming with a buoyant giddiness that snuck through his baritone voice. "This is it, kid. This is it . Do you have any idea what this is going to do for you? Hell, for me ?! This isn't one of Netflix's Top Ten streamers. You hit this one out of the park, Kameryn Kingsbury. Buckle up, because we've got one hell of a ride ahead."

I knew what he meant. I just never imagined it could happen. Not once in the eight months I'd been auditioning for the role did I remotely think there'd be a chance in a million years they'd ever want me. Even when they said they wanted a newcomer, I still figured they'd ultimately settle on a big name. I had so few notable credits. Indie stuff and commercials, a couple appearances on daytime TV. My biggest claim to fame was my two Disney voiceovers. I wasn't the A-lister they'd be seeking.

Only, it turned out they weren't blowing smoke. They hadn't wanted a household headliner. They really did want to cast the lead as an unknown. A no one. A nothing.

And to the desks at Universal, I was exactly that. A clean slate. A blank page.

The project itself held all the weight they needed. Sand Seekers was projected to be the next Harry Potter. Star Wars. Twilight. The Hunger Games. It drew the same type of cult attraction, the same fanatic followers eagerly awaiting their obsession to be magnified on the silver screen.

I knew all this, because I'd daydreamed about the role. I fantasized about the call from Aaron, despite knowing in the back of my mind it was never going to happen. I imagined I'd say something clever, something casual. Pretend I knew I'd land the part all along.

Fake it 'til you make it .

In the end, I'd never managed to string together more than two coherent syllables at a time.

"Of course, you already know, but mum's the word, Kameryn. Not a breath of this until the green flag is waved." Aaron had at last returned to his succinct, all-business state.

I managed a yes. I might have thrown in a sir . And then the call was over, leaving me swaying beside a palm tree a hundred feet from the crystal blue cove where Dani's ceremony was about to start.

Replaying the phone call over and over, I wound around the dark highway, wondering how I would ever manage to keep it secret until everything was settled. It could be weeks. Months, even. Until at last someone from the studio would slip a name to TMZ, pretending the story'd been scooped, and then cash in off the free publicity. Only then could I call Dani—call Carter—maybe even call my mom—and tell them the news. Assure them the headlines were true.

But until then, that cat was locked securely in a bag.

I reached to turn off the radio. It wasn't even Halloween yet and the latest pop edition of Mele Kalikimaka was blaring on the local station, pounding its upbeat chords through my over-taxed brain. I just wanted quiet after hours of being surrounded by the Hallwells, and Dani's two hundred destination wedding guests.

I found the knob on the unfamiliar center console and stabbed it to off . Finally, silence.

As I looked up, there was a flash of metal in my headlights. A streamlined frame bent over handlebars. A brief blinking red.

I heard the brakes squeal as I nosed the rented Jeep Wrangler away from the shoulder, clipping the rear tire of the cyclist with the edge of my bumper. There was the dull, nauseating sound of a body hitting my hood. A scream from a second cyclist who narrowly avoided the collision.

And that was how I almost killed Dillon Sinclair.

I guess almost killed is a touch of exaggeration. But hey, I'm an actress, over-the-top is my life.

In reality, Dillon was up on her feet, cussing at me before I'd even managed to open my door. But I didn't know that yet. For the second time that evening, my soul levitated out of my body and left my heart a slamming, lurching mess. Only, unlike its earlier cardiovascular circus after hanging up with Aaron, this time, there was no jubilation to its acrobatics. I was frozen in terror. Frozen with my hand on the plastic door handle, shaking from head to toe.

I'd just hit someone on the Road to Hana. I'd just fucking run over someone on the best night of my life.

"Open your Goddamn door, ya wanker!"

This was not the cyclist I had hit. This was the second rider, a tall, wiry, furious man. In my state of shock, I could hardly comprehend his words through the rage of his English accent.

"I—I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" It was all I could think to say.

He yanked open the door and I automatically began to stagger out, before realizing I hadn't put the Jeep in park.

Idiot. I ground the shifter to P and slithered out of the driver's seat, my legs shaking so hard they nearly gave out beneath me. I glanced around, expecting to see a bloody hump in the street in the dark.

But no, the person I'd hit—it was a woman, I discovered—was standing beside the shadowed frame of her mangled bike, cursing a hailstorm of insults that stung with each staccato word. She, too, had an accent, though it was more subtle. I wasn't certain where to place it, and at the time, her origin of nationality was the least of my considerations.

The cyclist was silhouetted in the headlamp of the Jeep, the tight skins of her riding gear frayed from hip to elbow, covered in road rash glistening the same color as the flashing taillight from her damaged rear wheel. She cussed again before looking up at me, a trickle of blood dribbling down her lip to her chin.

But—holy hell—she was alive . Thank God for the smallest of favors.

"I'm so sorry." I didn't ask if she was okay. I'd just hit her and flung her over the hood of my SUV. The question seemed banal. "I didn't see you on the turn."

"Then your damned eyes weren't on the road." She spit a mouthful of blood and wiped at the gravel embedded in her forearm, the hard line of her jaw clenching with pain. "Fuck," she spit again, but this was directed at the ruin of her bike. "Just fuck!"

I stood transfixed with a thousand-yard stare, my brain abandoning me completely. I didn't know the protocol for this situation. I'd never had so much as a parking ticket. Did I call the cops? Did we exchange insurance information? Was I going to jail? There was no fake it 'til you make it on this one.

"I'll buy you a new bike."

Why did the stupidest things come out of my mouth at the worst times?

She looked up at me as if I'd spoken gibberish. Before she could say anything, her riding partner laughed—a bitter, angry bark of a sound that turned my legs from unsteady to positively unstable.

"You couldn't afford to replace her bar tape, ya bloody muppet! That bike costs more than your car. Do you know who the fuck she is?!"

Why my first response was to bristle at the question, to grow defensive, I have no clue. It wasn't like I was in any position to pull the good ol' but do you know who I am? I mean, come on, I wasn't exactly Margot Robbie. And somehow, do you know who I am going to be lost some of its weighted impact. Besides—I'd just run the woman over. It didn't matter who I was.

"No." I said instead. Was it pertinent? Was running over Lance Armstrong worse than running over the Weekend Warrior out for their Sunday spin?

"You just hit Dillon Fucking Sinclair, ya knob!"

If he expected the revelation to strike fear in my heart, I'm afraid he was bound to be woefully disappointed. The name meant nothing to me.

"Should I call an ambulance?" It finally dawned on me that was probably the first thing I should have offered.

The woman's head snapped up, her eyes silver in the headlights. "You think they're going to fix my bike?"

There was such a loathing level of sarcasm behind the question, such disgusted disdain, I felt my cheeks color. I felt like a child, standing there, uncertain what to say. To do. This wasn't something that could easily disappear. Not like the way Dani's dad's wallet had vanished those photos from her 21 st birthday.

At least I wasn't drunk. And she wasn't dead. But what did it matter? When the press got a hold of it, they'd have a field day. No one would care that it had just been an accident. Hollywood was always at fault in these situations.

I swallowed. I wanted to call Dani—she'd know what to do. But it was her wedding night. No way in hell was I calling her. Besides: Throw money at it . That's all she'd say. That's what she'd done her whole life. It was her solution to everything. Cash made anything bad go away. But you had to have enough cash to do that. And my last name wasn't Hallwell.

"Can I give you a ride?"

"Nah, I think I'll pass." The woman bent and lifted her bike, the flashing red of her taillight still blinking in time with the pounding of my heart. The front wheel was misshapen and the handlebars crooked, disallowing the bike to be rolled forward. Instead, she heaved it onto her back, unable to hide the grimace from the effort.

"Sinc—" the man tried to stop her, but she brushed him off.

"Leave it, Kyle."

He turned to me. "You should be charged with reckless driving, ya little—"

"She's just a daft tourist. Let her be." She shouldered the bike into a more comfortable position and started walking down the side of the road.

"At least let me give you a ride," I tried again.

She didn't turn back. "Thanks, but I've seen how you drive." There was no humor in her tone.