Scene 5

I should have been anxious to fly home. In the section of my brain labeled sensible , I knew my focus should have been on nothing more than the bright lights of Tinseltown. I mean, four days earlier I'd landed the most coveted role in the film industry. I'd beat out thousands— tens of thousands—of twenty-something hopefuls. I'd spent more than half a year jumping through hoops for the studio, knowing it was likely all for nothing. Only, it hadn't been for nothing. My career was about to sky rocket into a dimension I found incomprehensible.

I shouldn't have had to keep reminding myself.

I should have been refreshing my emails every three minutes to see if Aaron sent anything new, or scrolling obsessively through the best scoop-worthy sites, searching for casting rumors. In sticking with time-honored tradition, I should have been riding a rollercoaster of erratic emotions—levitating through an endless cycle of boosting myself up, certain I would rise to the challenge, and then drowning in a wave of panic: What if I wasn't up to the task? What if I wasn't talented enough? Charismatic enough? What if my chemistry was off with my co-stars? Who were my co-stars? What if the production was a flop? And then resurfacing to remind myself I'd won the job off talent and merit alone. They wanted me . Because I was perfect for the role. I was going to ace it. But what if…?

And so on and so forth, until I drove myself insane.

To be fair, each time it did cross my mind, my stomach made a queasy somersault with the realization it was not a dream. This was actually happening.

But honestly, those moments were fleeting.

The truth was, the only thing really on my mind, was Dillon. This girl I hardly knew. Who I would probably never see again.

Trekking back from Ka'uiki Head, all I could think about was how many times our hands brushed as we descended the slippery terrain. I found myself caught up in trying to decide the color of her hair—was it flaxen or ash—did she highlight it, or had the platinum streaks come natural by way of the sun? I wondered if it bugged her the way the rain had caused her bangs to hang in her eyes. I searched for ways to make her laugh, feeling as if I'd won the lottery with every success. And too many times—as I struggled to keep up with her energetic stride—I caught myself wondering what exactly the tattoo was on her shoulder, teasing a preview beneath the material of her tank top.

But more than anything, I wondered what the hell it was I thought I was doing?

I wasn't a lesbian. I mean, at twenty-three years old, wouldn't I have known that by now? Or at least had a sneaking suspicion? Half a dozen boyfriends later, my obsession with Harry Styles, and, of course, there was always Carter—On-Again-Off-Again-Carter, as Dani had coined him.

I would have known.

Right?

Yet here I was, punch drunk, schoolgirl stupid, worrying she might be able to feel the pounding pulse in my wrist each time she offered me her hand to step over a cluster of roots or down a slick boulder.

And I didn't know what to do about it.

I didn't even know if she was into me. I felt like one of those plastic idiots from the Valley who assumed every gay girl within their proximity had a crush on them. It was possible Dillon was just flirtatious by nature.

But even keeping that knowledge close at hand, it certainly didn't cease my own captivation. More than once, I knew she'd caught my sidelong glances, and each time she did, I could feel the color rise to my cheeks—thank you, overactive autonomic nervous system—but it didn't stop me from stealing another look. Her chapped lips, the wryness of her smile, the unusual color behind her intelligent green eyes—viridian in the sunlight, the irises tinged with blue, but jade in shadow, completely evergreen. I was taken by the ambiguity of her beauty—her high cheekbones and strong jaw, made only more attractive by the fluidity of her movement, the athletic command she held over her body.

But there was more to it than me simply finding her physically appealing. It was the way she made me feel, the way her unpretentious disposition put me at ease. She pulled me out of the Hollywood edginess which had grown over me like a defensive, rampant weed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, when her eyes caught mine, I felt like she was really seeing me . Not whoever La La Land was designing me to be. Not even whoever I wanted me to be. Just me.

It was revitalizing.

Whatever game we were playing at, I liked it. Even if it was nothing. Even if, in little more than a day, I'd be home in Los Angeles and the name Dillon Sinclair would become a distant memory. For now, she was all that was on my mind.

The nightlife in Hana on a Monday evening was about what you'd expect of a sleepy island town. By the time we'd slipped and laughed and stumbled our way back to the main road, it had grown dark and the few local restaurants had closed.

I considered suggesting the resort steakhouse. The food was decent and the bartender made a mean mai tai—according to Dani—but we were drenched, covered head-to-toe in red mud, and I didn't want to risk going to shower and having Dillon decide to call it a night.

Instead, walking along the beachfront, we found a food truck that still had a light shining behind the pull-down door.

Dillon tapped on the shuttered back window while I waited on the curb. I listened to the rolling inflections of her charming accent, followed by a man's laughter. Ten minutes later, we were sitting cross-legged on top of a picnic table in Hana Bay Beach Park, eating Pineapple Kalua pork out of a takeout container.

"I googled you last night," I said out of the blue, and immediately wanted to stick my wooden chopstick through my eye. What the hell possessed me to admit that? "I mean, not like—I'm not a weirdo, I promise. I just—" Jesus, Kam . Get a grip. "I just didn't know much about triathlons, so..."

"Still double checking I don't make enough money to call a solicitor, huh?" The full Hunter's moon revealed her smile—which meant it also betrayed how embarrassed I'd become. Even though I knew she was teasing, I didn't want her to think I'd been snooping. Which, obviously, I had.

"I hardly needed Wikipedia to tell me you could afford that," I scoffed, trying to save myself, "the way you splurged on dinner tonight told me everything I needed to know." I stabbed a pineapple from the shared plastic container, attempting to play it cool. "What I didn't know, however, was that I was dining with sports royalty."

"Ha," the single syllable was self-deprecating, the wave of her hand brushing me off. "Triathletes are the black sheep of the sports world. Jacks of all trades, masters of none. Swimmers hate us, cyclists laugh at us, and runners just ignore us. Ask a dozen random people what a triathlon is and only one is bound to properly guess the answer. And even then, they've only heard about Ironman ."

She was selling herself short. A quick Google search brought up a wealth of information on Dillon Sinclair.

Twenty-eight years old—a short-course competitor—which meant she swam 1.5k, biked 40k, and ran 10k.

It exhausted me just thinking about it.

She turned pro at seventeen, competed in her first Olympics in London at nineteen—setting a record as the youngest triathlete to represent Great Britain—and placed just off the podium. Four years later, she won bronze in Rio, and last year, brought home a silver from the Melbourne Olympic Games. Every article I'd scanned hailed her as one of the most decorated athletes in the history of the sport. It was clear she was an icon in her industry.

Do you know who the fuck she is made a little more sense now.

"You know," I shrugged, hoping for casual, "modesty doesn't really suit you."

I didn't even bother lying to myself that it was her career I'd been interested in. My intrigue had been focused on the "personal" tab of Wikipedia. Or more precisely, one specific topic.

She'd been linked to dating an English soccer player—Kelsey Evans.

Soccer was a sport with which I was well-versed. Having played through high school, I was an avid fan and loved to follow the success of our Women's National Team. I wasn't familiar with many of the players in Europe, but remembered Evans as a starter for England. A tall, blonde, gorgeous midfielder who'd been a key player for the Lionesses' silver medal finish in Melbourne, it was putting it mildly to say she was something of a big name.

According to Wikipedia, along with a cursory search of fan mentions, Dillon and Kelsey had called it quits two years ago in the middle of the last World Cup. The timing of the breakup had been heavily criticized by the English football fans, who'd been stunned by the couple's unexpected split after three years together—but I hadn't allowed myself to sneak down that rabbit hole. It felt too invasive. Instead, I'd browsed through Kelsey Evans' Instagram, where she'd amassed a few million followers, and taken note via her TikTok cult that she was now dating a USWNT legend, Abby Sawyer.

But on Dillon, there was nothing. Since her breakup with Evans, her online presence had entirely disappeared. There were no dish-all podcasts. No social media accounts. No juicy mentions of her personal life or who she was now seeing. The only thing a search generated outside her relationship with Kelsey was related to triathlon.

"Alright, enough about me. What about you, Kam-Kameryn? Are you going to tell me about your life in Hollywood?"

We'd finished eating, and without a mundane task to keep me busy, I'd found myself growing restless. Unaware I'd even done it, I looked down to see I'd folded the paper takeout bag into a tiny crooked triangle.

The night before, I'd spent the whole evening hoping she'd ask me about my work—but now that she had, I was right back to square one—having no clue what to actually say.

"It's, um—I don't know, not as glamorous as one might expect." I considered what lay ahead: The long hours on set. The sleepless nights. The stress. The hurry up and wait. The public scrutiny. The extreme highs. The inevitable lows. And those were just the things I knew to worry about. I wasn't so naive to be unaware I hadn't even scratched the surface of the Pandora's box I was about to open.

My last film had been shot in the sweltering basement of a rundown apartment building in the middle of summer. I'd spent three weeks on the project and earned just enough to cover two months rent. The producer had been a nightmare. The director high on oxy. I'd walked in to find my other three cast members having a threesome on the mildewed couch featured in the majority of our scenes.

Yeah, glamorous wasn't the word for it.

If she asked me the same question this time next year, I might have a different opinion.

However, if I wanted to look on the bright side, there was at least one thing of which I was certain: Dillon hadn't seen any of my crappy movies. And I felt pretty confident, unlike me, she was no internet stalker. I doubted my name would pop up in her search history. She knew nothing about me, and the anonymity was refreshing.

"Half the time I think I should have stuck with my original plan and majored in Marine Biology." I didn't volunteer the petty reason I'd stubbornly slogged through five lackluster years in Hollywood was primarily due to being unwilling to concede to my parents'—my mom's , more specifically—belief that my life would have been more fulfilling outside of the entertainment industry. Code for: you should have gotten a degree .

"Even though studying the mating rituals of killer whales sounds interesting, I have to say, I can't see it having panned out in your favor."

I feigned offense. "Why? I may have made an excellent cetacean sex expert!"

She laughed. "Perhaps. But it would never have worked out for you."

"How so?"

She lifted one dark blonde eyebrow, as if it should have been obvious. "You're made for movies."

"You haven't even seen my work." It came out defensive and I regretted it. She'd been trying to compliment me. But I had grown jaded to the subject. I was so tired of being told by men three times my age "you're perfect for the screen." And then being forced to smile and nod as they discussed my ‘look,' my body, the symmetry of my face, the unfortunate unchangeable reality that my eyes were brown, and then the inevitable circle back to the most important aspect: I was pretty enough, hot enough—God, how I hated that word—to overlook the minor things. Heels could make me taller. Makeup sexier. Scriptwriting funnier. Don't worry, they would handle the rest.

If Dillon was thrown by my affront, she gave no sign. "I don't need to. Anyone could see why you'd succeed." She drew her legs up, sitting crosslegged, and propped her elbows on her knees. "I have no doubt you captivate an audience."

And here it was.

"And why's that?" I waited for the disappointing cliché. Instead, she surprised me.

"Because you're unique. Because there's so much more to you than meets the eye. You're magnetic. Smart. Funny. Clever. Shall I go on?"

The answer was so genuine, I didn't know what to say. I wanted to find a glib response to offset how touched I was by the compliment, but I came up with nothing.

And then panic struck. She hadn't mentioned I was pretty. Did that mean she didn't find me attractive?

Once again, as if reading my mind, she cut me off from my ridiculous carousel of conflicting emotions.

"You're the complete package, Kam-Kameryn. Far more than just a pretty face. And while I realize I'm no expert in filmmaking, I imagine all that counts for something."

Oh .

I found I had to swallow, and became suddenly fascinated with my fingers that had turned from folding to shredding.

"Is that what you tell all the girls you invite to dinner?"

"Only the ones so desperate to get my attention they hit me with their car."

I couldn't help but laugh, and when I looked up she reached to set her hand on mine, stilling the nervous busy work of my fingers. It was impossible for her to have not felt the aerobics of my cardiac endeavors. My pulse felt like it was going to jump out of my skin—go on a walk of its own.

"Relax, Kam."

I closed my eyes. I loved the way my name sounded in the lilt of her voice. I tried to exhale.

Relax .

I hardly knew the meaning of the word.

When I opened my eyes, she was looking at me again in that way she had of making me feel like she was really seeing me .

I would have glanced away, jumped up, suggested a walk to stretch our legs, but she didn't give me the opportunity. She, too, could see, perhaps, that my nerves were about to get the better of me.

"May I kiss you?"

For the second time in a matter of minutes, I was speechless. I'd never been asked for a kiss before.

I'd kissed plenty of guys. I'd kissed Dani, even, in a drunken game of truth or dare. That had been unexciting, except, maybe, for our high school boyfriends.

I'd been instructed on how to kiss: from directors, screen partners, scriptwriters who'd written detailed notes on how they wanted the scene played.

But I'd never been asked before.

I must have managed a nod. I know I never found my voice. But I knew I wanted her to kiss me—I'd been thinking about it all evening. Thinking about it, but never expecting it to happen. I thought the chances of that were about as slim as getting the call from Aaron. But somehow, over the last ninety-six hours, I was batting two for two. Unusual for my odds.

Her lips were softer than I imagined they'd be, the smell of her skin intoxicating.

I remembered to close my eyes—thank God for small favors. I didn't need to be that freak sitting there with my eyes wide open, unblinking like a fish out of water.

Though in the end, I doubted I was much different than kissing a fish, really. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I just sat there, frozen, a myriad of broken thoughts swirling through my head:

I was kissing a stranger.

Her mouth tasted like pineapple.

A girl.

Aaron wouldn't like this.

Fuck Aaron.

Her skin had the faint aroma of sunscreen and chlorine.

A girl!

Dani wouldn't like it either.

Fuck Dani. And Darlene. Especially Darlene.

Had the wind gotten stronger, or was it the blood rushing to my head?

I was kissing Kelsey Evan's ex-girlfriend.

Ex- girlfriend !

Well then, fuck Kelsey Evans, too.

Somewhere, the sharp chime of a bell rang—was it the church from across the street?

Mighty fine timing you have, Jesus .

Well, fu—okay, that was taking it too far.

It startled us both, and I bumped my chin against her lips as I lurched away. "Shit, I'm sorry," I apologized, even while darting a glance around, furtive, feeling like I'd been caught at something I shouldn't have been doing.

I realized the sound had come from my phone. It was my ringtone. I rifled it out of my pocket to shut it up. I thought it might be Aaron. Or even Dani, to tell me what mind-blowing island excursion they had gone on today. It was neither. In the irony of what was becoming my bizarre universe, it was Carter.

I sent it to voicemail. I hadn't talked to him in a couple of months. Of course, he would call right now. He always had impeccable timing. That's why he was On-Again-Off-Again-Carter.

Dillon smiled, amused at my sheepishness.

"Need to take that?"

"No." I answered too quickly. "I—he's just—no."

She stretched and rolled her shoulders as I shoved the phone back in my pocket, and then with the agility of a cat, she jumped off the table.

"Come on." She offered me her hand, and this time when I took it, she didn't let go. "I'll walk you to your door."

We strolled to the resort. It was the shortest and longest half-mile of my life. The streets were empty, the town quiet, but I couldn't help but wonder if anyone saw us—two girls—hand-in-hand—wandering back from the beach. I didn't know if the thought scared me, or thrilled me.

"What time on Wednesday do you fly home?" she asked. We were standing in front of my door. I wanted to invite her in. A drink. Coffee. Whatever. But it was that whatever that paused me. I didn't have the guts. I got the feeling she might decline, even if I had.

"Early morning." My heart sank, realizing how quickly that was approaching. I should have scheduled the late-night flight. Or better yet, changed it to Thursday. I didn't have to be home until Friday.

If she was going to be here…

"You?"

"Not until Thursday."

Between her black eye and close-lipped smile and the damp curtain of her hair hanging across her face, she was seriously attractive.

I leaned back against my door. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

Her smile grew broader. "I'll have to check my schedule."

By the Gods of Decency, I managed a nonchalant shrug. "Well, maybe you can pencil me in."

"Same time, same place?"

I nodded.

This time when she kissed me I didn't think of anything else. Well, except changing my flight from Wednesday to Thursday.

"Goodnight, Kam-Kameryn."