Chapter Two TMZ Will Break Your Heart #2
version of myself burst into the living room stage set with a boisterous, “Honey, I’m home!”
I can’t help but cringe.
My character was always the loud, ridiculous one—the comic foil designed to reassure parents that they didn’t have to worry,
that things would never get too serious around here. Meanwhile Nikki’s character was the sweet, quiet, thoughtful one—the one you rooted for.
I had tried out for that role too, but they said my “face wasn’t quite right for the part.” I had heard that before—had spent
hours in the mirror wishing my eyes were less owlish, my features more delicate. When I saw Nikki on set the first day, I
got it, though. She was perfect. A classic beauty even at seventeen—able to seamlessly morph between looking like the girl next door and a silver screen
starlet with a flick of her makeup brush.
As if on cue, Nikki appears in the clip with a wide grin on her face. This is from early in the first season, when the show
was still trying to decide if we were going for slapstick or snarky and when Nikki and I were just getting comfortable enough
with each other to flirt.
I catch myself smiling at the younger version of us, even if I am on-screen carrying a comically large movie theater soda and popcorn destined for disaster. Naturally, they had me trip over
an ill-placed backpack that Nikki’s character had been warning me not to step on. In the time-honored tradition of cheesy
kids’ comedy, everything goes flying everywhere . . . but especially all over her.
I vividly remember filming this one.
Nikki’s supposed to be furious after getting covered in my soda and snacks, her straitlaced stick-up-the-ass character still
not sold on being friends with such a clown . . . but she couldn’t be. Not back then, when it was all brand-new butterflies
between us. Little me winks at the camera—my character’s signature move—and Nikki exaggerates her pout in attempt to not break
character once again.
This was the seventh take, the first six ruined when my giggling triggered hers. The director was getting angry, as were the
producers, right along with Nikki’s agent, Eliza, who was always ready to ruin our fun. She was twice the stage mom Nikki’s
real mom was, and getting paid for the privilege.
Screw Eliza and screw the director and producers too.
Maybe they should try being seventeen on an ice-cold set, dousing their crush in soda over and over again until her shirt
clings to her like a second skin and her bra loses the battle to contain freezing nipples. I dare them not to blush. Not to
giggle nervously as they notice. Not to worry about the heat pooling deep in their bellies and whether everyone on set can
tell. Whether the whole world could tell.
The canned laugh track rips me out of my thoughts, and god, how I hate that sound now.
Back then, I used to pretend that it was real.
I obsessively watched each episode when it aired, trying to find ways to do better and convincing myself that the laugh track meant that I had pleased the studio execs and other gods of Hollywood—that I was doing a good job.
Surely they wouldn’t add laughter if the episode sucked, right?
I was so hungry for approval and praise back then, like a dog begging for pats whenever anybody looked my way. I just wanted
to be accepted, you know? To be loved. But love is fickle, anyone in Hollywood will tell you. And the quickest way to make
Hollywood fall out of love with you is to outlive your usefulness.
So I tried, desperately at times, to stay useful, even if that meant doing double or triple the amount of work on our show
than Nikki did. God, she was barely even on set the last couple of seasons, her star rising so fast it outpaced mine and then
all of ours, long before any of us wanted it to. Blink and we’re costars, blink again and she’d become the sun itself.
She never even said thank you for all the times I covered for her—I don’t think it ever even occurred to her that she should.
Yet to most of the world, I’m the awful one—because I’m the one who left.
I swipe up again, just about ready to switch back to the florist account, when I see Nikki—not past Nikki, but current.
It looks to be a teaser for an upcoming E!
exclusive interview that’s going to go up tomorrow.
They’ve sat her in an all-white room, and whatever intern is in charge of random TikTok graphics has even stuck an annoying “breaking news” gif on top of it.
It flashes gaudily in the corner of the screen, ruining whatever effect they were going for with the colorless background.
I’m about to scroll by—my eyes already rolling at what I assume is the latest casting news for some indie movie that’s much cooler than anything I ever did—when I hear it.
“I don’t know if I would call it a tell-all,” she says with a laugh, “but it’s definitely a tell-most. It might even clear up a few mysteries for my fans.” And then she does it, the wink. The wink that I came up with for my character all on my own, but never got
credit for—the fourth-wall-breaking wink that made our show iconic and left the writers scrambling to look like they did it
on purpose. The wink that then went on to become my signature move, not just on our sitcom but at every red carpet and comic
con signing table I graced before I disappeared for good. My wink. Not hers. Hasn’t she taken enough?
And, what, is that supposed to imply she’s talking about us? Me? Not just her time on the show, but mine as well? I swear to god, she better be sitting on some other whole-ass mystery, because if she even thinks she’s going to
use me leaving her, leaving Hollywood, as memoir clickbait . . . then she’s not just a bad person, she’s evil.
I check the timestamp on the TikTok—seven minutes ago.
This really is breaking news. I click over to google her again, this time adding words like “book” and “memoir.” The results start piling up, mostly social media stitches of people reacting to her quickly-becoming-viral TikTok in real time.
But they’re not talking about her, they’re talking about .
. . me. Reveling in the idea that they’ll finally get their answers, their pound of flesh for me daring to take back my life.
My quiet anonymity is threatened in the blink of an eye, and even Gouda scratching at the door to be let in—evidently done with napping in the shop—can’t pull me away.
Because she’s really doing it. She’s writing a memoir, telling her version of our story—and it is our story, judging by all the winks and comments she’s sending to everyone freaking out beneath the post.
It has to be a public spectacle with her, always. How very typical. How very Nikki.
The urge to unblock her number long enough to scream at her for doing this again, for talking over me again, wells up inside me. I even get so far as to pick up my phone . . . but good sense wins out at the last minute, and I call
Regan instead.
“She’s writing a book!” I practically screech the second the call connects, trying to hide the hurt and fear behind my anger.
“Who is? What are you talking about?”
“Nikki! She’s writing a book about growing up in Hollywood and her time on the show. She even did the wink. My fucking wink.”
“Are you okay?”
“She’s going to ruin everything!” I try to run my hand through my hair, remembering too late the predicament with my hand
when the crunchy glue snags my strands. “Also, I may have superglued my hand together.”
“You . . . never mind. I’ll be right there,” Regan says. In the background, Johnny asks, “What’s going on?” because of course
he’s at her house. They’re in love, Your Honor, I’ll swear to it even if they pretend they’re not—but none of that matters
right now.
“Thanks,” I say. It comes out more plaintive than I mean it to, and I can’t decide what I hate more: that Nikki’s writing
a book or that my past still has this much power over me.
I don’t have to wait long for them to arrive, seeing as how Regan lives barely a block and a half away.
The fact that Johnny’s right behind her bearing pizza and more beer is a welcome surprise, as is the acetone Regan brought for my fingers.
I must have interrupted a date night . .
. not that they would ever call it that.
“Who needs to get slapped?” Johnny asks. “The publisher for agreeing to this, the TikTok gods who put it on your For You page,
or can I finally go straight to the source?”
I shrug and accept his one-armed hug while Regan gets busy putting away the beer. To say that Johnny hates Nikki would be
an understatement. He’s taken on the role of a protective big-brother type after we somehow managed to turn a drunken one-night
stand into an actual yearslong friendship.
I think it was that protectiveness, mixed with his special blend of bluntness and honesty, that had me ready to jump into
his bed that night. I wasn’t used to that sort of thing after being surrounded by fast-talking, double-tongued Hollywood types
who would sell you out on a dime, and I was intrigued. I suppose the fact that we also closed down the bar didn’t hurt. I
wouldn’t say we regretted it the next morning, but we both knew sleeping together was a mistake.
Regan told me not to worry about it when, not long after hiring me, I confessed that I had slept with someone she obviously
considered a close friend. She said Johnny was basically part of the town’s welcome basket: here’s a map of the farmers market,
here’s one of Janey’s pies, and don’t forget your complimentary dicking down, courtesy of the owner of Main Street Mechanics.
Plus that was long, long before I realized that Johnny was head over heels for Regan, and that she was pretending not to return the feeling. They weren’t as obvious back then as they are now.
“No one’s slapping anyone,” Regan says, handing me a plate and carrying the box into the living room while Johnny is preoccupied
with soaking a paper towel in acetone.