Part I
November 2015
“I know I walk a fine line between being a respected actor and being what they call a sex symbol.”
Eva Mendes
“We’re in Mayberry. This is Mayberry. And I think the entire town is at this wedding,” Lina whispered, wearing incredulity and fascination beneath her flawless application of makeup. Whatever Lina thought or felt at any given moment always shone like a marquee on her face. This made her an excellent method actress but also a terrible liar.
I didn’t contradict her even though the name of the place was Green Valley, not Mayberry, and I doubted those assembled for our mutual friend’s wedding reception encompassed an entire town. The white tent was full, but I wouldn’t call it crowded.
Lina had arrived in Green Valley yesterday, whereas I’d flown in just two hours ago and hadn’t seen anything of the town. But if this place was at all similar to where I grew up, I understood her comparison to the fictional city of Mayberry from The Andy Griffith Show.
“I’m telling you, the downtown is one and a half blocks by six blocks, has two hardware stores and no Sephora. It’s a film set waiting to happen. I can see it now—a new quirky TV dramedy about lumberjacks and the bakers who love them, hokey and/or plucky background music included.”
Grinning at Lina’s description, I took a sip of my water. “Maybe there’s a woodworking culture here. Don’t look down on people for enjoying their wood.”
“Ha ha,” she deadpanned, but then smiled. “You and your innuendos are the highlight of my day.”
“Are there any other kind of innuendos? Speaking of which, want to invest in my new pornographic breakfast cereal venture called In-u-end-O!s?”
She grimaced and laughed at the same time. “Please don’t tell me what the shape of the cereal would be. I think I can guess.”
Chewing on my straw, I winked at her, and she rolled her eyes. I always used a straw whenever possible. Even these so-called stain lipsticks fared better and lasted longer if one drank through a straw.
“Look at all these beards,” Lina muttered, her eyes darting over the wedding guests. Seeming to shake herself, she sent me a look. “Oh, I forgot. You grew up in Ohio.”
“So?”
“So, it’s the cold part of the country. People probably have lots of beards there. It might as well be Michigan.” She shivered, her wince increasing.
“Never say that to someone from Ohio. And never say the reverse to someone from Michigan.” I may have left my hometown the day I turned eighteen, but the Ohioan in me—who still had the odd craving to play euchre around Thanksgiving and missed the changing of seasons—objected.
She scrutinized me. “Is this about sports? Is that why I shouldn’t say the thing about Michigan?”
“Of course.”
“It’s always about sports with you midwesterners.” Lina’s gaze moved from me and narrowed at something over my shoulder.
Likewise, I glanced around the white wedding tent without focusing on any details, not wanting to commit eye contact with anyone, instead absorbing the general splendor of our surroundings. I felt a sudden, strange pang of restlessness and anxiety. Sienna Diaz had somehow achieved the impossible in her wedding décor: understated yet opulent. I was not surprised. Sienna Diaz built her brand as Hollywood’s reigning sweetheart on achieving what everyone had believed was impossible.
But I hoped Sienna wasn’t making a mistake. In addition to understated opulence, from the outside looking in, her rushed wedding to a park ranger from small-town Tennessee looked and felt like a big, horrible mistake.
Too late now. It’s done. Poor Sienna.
With that depressing thought, and despite attempts to keep my gaze unfocused, Ana Ortega caught my eye and waved. I gave her a bright smile and waved back, telling myself to avoid that side of the room. She and I were up for the same role—a busty damsel sidekick in a Sclumicker blockbuster—and my callback was next week. I didn’t want her to inadvertently psych me out. Ana was good people, but I wanted that role.
Holding up a glass of champagne from her spot across the room, Ana pointed to it and mouthed, You’re not drinking?
I shook my head, gesturing to my water and mouthing the words, Early flight. My departing flight was early, but that wasn’t the reason why I wasn’t drinking. I never drank at industry events. My first year on the West Coast taught me that lesson quite well. It also taught me that sobriety makes other people uncomfortable, so I learned to fake being buzzed like a pro.
Ana thrust out her bottom lip, in the universal facial expression for That’s too bad.
“So many beards . . .” Next to me, Lina’s muttered lament snagged my attention. It sounded as if she found the sight of so many jawlines adorned with hair alarming.
I pretended Lina—whose back was to Ana—had said something funny, grateful she’d had the idea of being each other’s plus-one. Lina and I were never considered for the same film roles, mostly because she preferred indie films that made important statements in lieu of money. But then, she descended from Hollywood royalty and could therefore afford to make statements rather than a paycheck. My mom had just recently—and tentatively—started to warm up to my chosen profession, though I think my latest film may have put a damper on her enthusiasm.
It’s true. I’d been topless, full-frontal shot, arms over my head, tits filling the frame. For the record, I was not ashamed of going topless and it absolutely was not a reaction to my messy split from Harrison Kent. First of all, it was for work, and I’d accepted the role before Harrison had cheated on me; secondly, I loved my breasts; and thirdly, there is no thirdly. I was determined not to let anyone make me feel bad about showing off parts of my body I loved, doing a job I loved.
I just wished . . . sigh.
I just wished there were some way to both live my life on my own terms and spare my mom the judgy looks. She’d been through enough.
“Well, we have to do something when it’s cold outside,” I said brightly, turning so that I was no longer in Ana’s line of sight.
Lina moved her narrowed eyes to me. “Wait? What? What are we talking about? You grow beards when it’s cold?”
“Sports, Lina.” I shook my head at her. “I’m still talking about midwesterners and sports.”
“So, when it’s cold, you go outside and watch sports?” Her eyes rounded. “That makes no sense.”
“No. We sit inside and watch sports.”
My friend made an impatient sound, setting her empty champagne glass down on a nearby table. “That reminds me—I’ve been meaning to ask, what is a toboggan?” We were standing near a tray of both water and champagne, making it easy for her to reach behind me and grab another glass.
“Really?” I looked between her and the champagne flute. “You’ve been meaning to ask me what a toboggan is?”
“Yes. I keep forgetting to ask. I read the word in that dog sled movie Jorge is making and—anyway, you’re the only person not originally from NYC or SoCal that I know. What is it?”
I had to laugh at her. “You know you can search the internet and find answers to your most pressing questions anytime you like. You don’t need to save them for me.”