Scene 25

I'd always spent New Year's Eve with Dani. Either in Los Angeles or Palo Alto, or her family's summer retreat in Tahoe.

If we were at the lake, we'd talk our way onto a cute guy's boat, ringing in the New Year watching fireworks from the water. Up north, we'd take a midnight swim in her parent's infinity pool while Marcus and his friends passed a joint around the hot tub. In LA, it was always the club scene in Beverly Hills with knee-high boots and miniskirts, the only recollection of the night restored by half a dozen wristbands.

Whatever we did, we were guaranteed to be drunk, Dani would be high, and the next morning I'd regrettably be nursing a hangover. Since we'd been old enough to drive, the tradition had continued like clockwork.

This year, however, Dani didn't ask me to come, and I didn't offer. We hadn't spoken since Christmas. I'm sure she thought she was punishing me, but honestly, the silence had been a respite. I just didn't have the energy to coddle her bruised ego.

I'd been invited to a party at the studio but opted not to go. After the night out with Elliott and Grady, I'd woken feeling like I'd been trampled by a herd of rhinos. No matter how many Advil I chased with Gatorade, or how long I stood in the trickle of water from my 1920s showerhead, there was nothing that was going to revive me enough to drag myself into Universal City to face a second consecutive night with Elliott Fleming.

"You have to go!" Sophie had pitched a fit when I called her and told her about the night at Bartholomew's . "You can't let him get away with this! You have to show him you're not afraid of him!"

I'd held the phone away from my ear and shielded my eyes from the cheerful sunlight audaciously filtering through my kitchen window. There was no way in hell I was leaving the creature comforts of my apartment, let alone pulling on a bra or heels any time over the next ninety-six hours. Not until midweek, when I was due back in the studio.

After a futile list of reasons why I shouldn't turn down an invitation to one of the most exclusive New Year's Eve parties in the industry, she launched into her next bullet point: I needed to file a sexual harassment complaint against Elliott.

"Report him for what?" I asked, chugging another Gatorade, revolted by my own cottonmouth. "Snubbing my wardrobe? Making lewd comments while egging me on to knock back 92% whisky? Reminding me I'm no one in this industry?"

"Yes!"

" Sophe ." I chucked the empty bottle toward my trash can, where it banked off the wall and skidded into my living room with just enough force to knock over my guitar. My head still hammering, I dragged myself across the checkered tile of my kitchen to right the old Fender, my oversensitive ears reviling against my foiled attempt to shoot for three. "You know we're talking about Elliott Fleming, right? The guy's listed as an executive producer on the film, for God's sake. Which one of us do you think will be sent packing if I show up crying that he didn't like my outfit?"

"He suggested you sleep with him!"

"Not in so many words."

"I can't believe you're defending him!"

"I'm not!" I wholly regretted relaying to her the details of the evening. I didn't know how to explain that despite him being a pig, I didn't feel threatened by him. It wasn't like he'd gone full Harvey Weinstein on me and requested a blowjob in his trailer. He didn't strike me as that type. But I should have known that Sophie—who had more guts in her little fingernail than I had in my entire abdominal cavity—would want his head on a spike.

"Then don't just let him get away with being an asshole!"

I wanted to ask her what industry she'd been working in these last five years? Eighty percent of these people were assholes. The other twenty just did a better job of putting on a cover. And yes, the Gloria Steinem devotee in me knew she was right, and I shouldn't let him get away with it.

But I was going to.

I wanted this job, and I knew exactly what a complaint about the insinuation of a shared ride home was going to get me—a trivia note on IMDb: Kameryn Kingsbury was the original actress cast as Addison Riley before a scheduling conflict with the studio didn't allow her to proceed. She is now known mostly for her bit part in Mean Girls III .

"I'll think about it," I assured her before we hung up. And I did think about it—the full seven steps from my dining room table to my living room couch, where I promptly filed it away in the category of things just not going to happen . In less than two weeks I was scheduled to be on a flight to the southwestern coast of Greenland, where we would begin principal photography.

I wanted to be on that plane.

I spent the remainder of the day poring over the script for the two-hundredth time in between googling the conversion of -15°C into Fahrenheit. I could appreciate L.R.'s dedication to utilizing as little chroma keying as possible—I'd never met a single actor who enjoyed working on green screen—but I was also a little nervous about frostbite. Weeks on end in sub- freezing temperatures definitely had me browsing Amazon for the highest-rated thermal underwear.

By the time evening rolled around, the city sounded like a warzone outside my apartment. I'd drawn my curtains and flipped on the radio, trying to drown out the gunshots and fireworks blasting in tandem with the wail of sirens, but there was no escaping the chaos reverberating through the usually quiet streets of my neighborhood. I gave up on my backstory analysis and opened a new browser on my Macbook. I was halfway through a twelve-step article on How to Get Someone Off Your Mind when my phone rang.

It was a private number.

"Hello?"

"Duuude!" There was a hushed whisper followed by a peal of laughter from a handful of high-pitched male voices. "She picked up! What do I say?"

I hung up. My number was unpublished, but over the last few days, I'd received at least a dozen of these phone calls. Mostly teenagers, I imagined, based on the imbecility of their stuttered dialogue every time I answered. I needed to change my number—it had been leaked somewhere—but I couldn't bring myself to do it yet.

Tomorrow, Monday—New Year's Day—it would be a week. If she hadn't called by Tuesday, I'd give in and change it.

The blast of an air horn on the sidewalk outside my window made me jump, sending my iPhone clattering to the hardwood floor.

Son of a bitch .

I snatched it up, examining it for damage.

On second thought, maybe I'd just go ahead and change it. First, maybe I'd shoot her a text message of my own, telling her what I really thought—and then cut off the line before she could respond.

Because, well—fuck her. Fuck her for all her charm and her windswept hair and her bullshit about not turning lies into truths. Fuck her for making me think she wanted something more than just a casual screw. She could have been upfront. I wouldn't have turned her down. But at least then I wouldn't be sitting here googling how to forget someone I barely knew.

Yeah, forget Tuesday. First thing in the morning I was calling Verizon and requesting a new unlisted number. A fresh start to the New Year. A cleansing of the old me.

As was fitting of the drama of my Hollywood lifestyle, my phone rang in my lap before I could return my attention to my computer screen. There was no doubt Momus—the god of Satire and Mockery—had been peering down through the LA haze, biding his time to make a fool out of me.

Rolling. Speed. Action .

It was Dillon's face lighting up my caller ID. Oh, the pathetic, well-timed irony.

Chill pill, Kam .

I counted five beats, certain not to answer on the first ring. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I'd been sitting around waiting for her call all week.

I didn't, however, go with my initial plan to pretend I didn't know who she was. I'm sorry, who? Oh—yeah, sorry, it's been quite a week. Yeah, yeah—Dillon—of course. How are you?

Instead, I promptly blurted out, "Wow! Just over three hours to spare. Nice."

Perfect . So much for playing it cool.

"I'm sorry, Kam."

I at least had the benefit of knowing I had stung her. Her voice was quiet and sounded like she was stuck in an echo chamber. The Tube, I realized. It was four in the morning in London. She'd be on her way to Kensington Gardens for an early run.

On our drive up north, we'd chatted about our holiday rituals. She told me she loved to ring in the New Year with a 10k through her favorite park. I doubted she remembered what I'd told her. I liked to sleep in before starting my day with two cups of coffee—not mentioning a third was usually needed to combat my hangover—and then sit in bed and read a book cover-to-cover before making a trip to the local AMC to watch my first film of the year.

This year, I'd planned to spend it a little differently—swapping out reading for other extracurricular activities—but obviously that had been before Dillon disappeared to the UK.

"Okay." I returned my attention to the phone call. So what was what I wanted to say. Instead, I went with a surefire classic. The polite rebuff. "What can I do for you?"

She cleared her throat. It was the first time I'd heard her nervous. It gave me back a shred of dignity, boosting my resolve.

"I was hoping we could talk."

I worked at a splinter on the edge of my table, tearing bits of wood off shard by shard. "So, talk."

Again, the conversation was stilted by her unfamiliar hesitation. "I—would rather—well, not like this. I thought maybe we could speak in person, if—"

I wasn't going to let the fact that I loved the lilt of her accent, the low, full tone of her voice, trick me into letting her lead me on. What was her plan? Hop on another twelve-hour flight back to California? Show up on my doorstep to wish me goodnight? Make out with me beneath the Santa Monica Pier? Maybe we could drive up PCH for another one-night stand in the heart of Fog City?

Nah, that was so last week.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm leaving for Greenland to shoot a film. I don't know if you heard, but I'm in this new movie. It's got my schedule pretty tight for the next few months." I hated the bitterness in my voice. But she deserved it. I wasn't the one who'd cut and run. Still, I couldn't help adding, "I'll be in Scotland after that. I know London's not exactly around the corner, but, if you happen to be on the same land mass at the same time, and want to meet for a cup of coffee, you know how to reach me."

I didn't want to shut her out completely. Honestly, I didn't want to shut her out at all. But my feelings were hurt and I didn't want her to think I'd let her off scot-free. I was tired of being walked over.

New Year, New Me . My new mantra.

As if any of that motivational shit worked anyhow.

"What part of Scotland?" she asked.

"Aberdeen."

"Ah. It's beautiful up there. You should drive to Stonehaven if you get the chance. See the ruins of Dunnottar." In other words, she wasn't coming. "When do you leave for Greenland?"

"In two weeks. Why, is there a particular glacier you think I should see? Any other tourist tips?"

Shit. Shit . I'd taken it a step too far. This was a girl I actually did want to see again, regardless my injured ego. But my mouth was on a one-track effort to sabotage the likeliness of that ever happening.

"No," she sighed. "I haven't been there." In the background there was an announcement from the conductor. I needed to say something before she got off at her stop.

"Look, Dillon," my voice had lost its edge, the wind quickly spilling from my sails. "Last week—I—I just—I don't know. It wasn't what I expected. I really like you, to be honest. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping our paths will cross again."

"I'd like that, too." She sounded sincere. But then again, she'd sounded sincere all along. I waited.

Please, please, please say something else .

She didn't. There was just a long pause of silence.

"Well," I finally said, "Happy New Year, then."

"Happy New Year, Kam." And that was it. She hung up.

I returned to my script as another gunshot went off.

An hour passed before I realized I'd reread the same page at least two dozen times.

I flipped the script onto my coffee table and shoved myself to my feet. It wasn't even nine yet. The ball hadn't even dropped in Times Square, but all I wanted to do was go to bed and wake up next year. Or maybe the following century. One where I hadn't screwed up everything.

Discovering my bathroom drain was clogged, I was brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink when I was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Sophie'd talked about stopping by after leaving the Night Market in Silver Lake, but I can't lie—an unwarranted flicker of hope begged for it to be Dillon, teleported five thousand miles across the sea, showing up on my porch to make things right.

Of course, that wasn't the case.

I cracked the door to find two men, dressed in disheveled three-piece suits, standing on my stoop.

"Can I help you?"

The taller of the two tilted his head to look through the crack. "Kameryn Kingsbury?"

I should have said no, but I wasn't thinking fast enough. "Yes?"

"Right on!" He slapped the other man on his back and pulled a branch out of his pocket. Mistletoe, it finally registered to me as he held it above his head. "How about a kiss for the New Year?" He stuffed his dress shoe through the gap, forcing the door open another foot, reeking of alcohol.

"What?" I braced my shoulder against the door, beginning to panic.

The second man had pulled out his phone, recording a video. "Smile for the camera, baby," he laughed as his buddy tried to lean in to kiss me.

"Get the fuck out of here!" It took two slams of the door—the first on his foot, and the second against his fingers in the doorjamb—before I could successfully close it. I wasn't certain what was loudest: his shout of agony, his friend's laughter, or the trapeze work of my heart. My hands were shaking too badly to fit the security chain in the tarnished slot, so I settled for the top bolt, and then leaned back against the peeling paint to try and catch my breath.

I needed to call my agent, Aaron. Or the cops. Someone.

But then what? Those guys were long gone. It wasn't like there were any charges I could press.

I stood frozen for I wasn't sure how long. Long enough for my heartbeat to slow down, but not so long that my fingers quit shaking. I thought about what Grady said the night before—about waking on another planet and finding it hard to breathe. And I knew this was just a teaser trailer. I hadn't even caught a glimpse of the feature presentation.

Across the room the clock on my mantel chimed once, informing me it was nine-thirty. I'd been there for more than half an hour. Wiggling my toes, I tried to return some feeling to my bare feet. I realized I was going to be featured in some jackass's TikTok wearing my high school gym shorts and a white tank top without a bra. Running my thumb across my lips, I confirmed my fear that I still had dried toothpaste at the corners of my mouth.

I would have been better off making headlines by puking in the Uber.

Outside, steps sounded on my walkway again. Outrage tore through me at the invasion of privacy. Abandoning all sensibility, I spun to unbolt the lock and hurled open the door, losing my grip on the handle and smashing it into the wall. I didn't care. My landlord could send me the bill for damage in prison. I was going to murder these bastards.

"I swear to God, if you take one more step, I'm going to—!"

I stopped dead, my hands planted firmly on the doorjamb, and stared into Dillon's stunned face.

"I—oh my God, I'm sorry," I stammered. I couldn't think straight. "There were some boys—I thought…" I looked down, spotting the dropped mistletoe, and gave a see gesture, trying to prove I wasn't crazy.

"Boys, huh?" She bent and picked up the sprig.

My mouth slowly rediscovered English was my first—and only—language.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, it appears I'm a little too late on the idea of stopping by with mistletoe." She smiled, but I could tell she was nervous. "I am still holding out hope, however, that you might be up for a chat in person?"