Chapter 10
10.
After dealing with four customer service agents over three hours on the phone, two lost passwords, one trip into town to buy a new external hard drive, and a partridge in a freaking pear tree, Liz finally solved all her mother’s tech issues and was able to escape outside with her laptop.
The fresh air was bracing, her breath leaving her lungs in white puffs. Tiny icicles clung to the juniper bushes, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. Liz hurried around the side of the house, through the small, wintered orchard, toward the Barn.
In decades past, the Barn had been an actual barn. When Babs bought the house, it sat unused, full of creepy-crawlies in the woodpiles, until Babs booked the part of wacky lawyer Dolores Ding in the network sitcom Kangaroo Court, and the Barn was fully renovated.
Liz switched on the heat and the lights, illuminating polished wood floorboards, thick, sturdy beams, and rows of arched windows. The ground floor was empty except for some yoga mats—Liz and Birdie had taught Rafi how to do a downward dog in here, many years ago. A circular metal staircase wound up to the carpeted second floor and balcony that overlooked the main space. Toward the back, the Barn widened. There was a desk and two comfy beanbags facing the huge semicircular window of the Barn’s rear, which looked onto trees and greenery. The kitchenette in the corner had a microwave and kettle. A bookshelf housed an array of screenwriting books. Babs had been convinced she’d write a screenplay here— the light is inspiring! —a dream that lasted as long as it took for the kettle to boil.
Liz was grateful to be able to work in a beautiful space like this. She’d spent years in airless writers’ rooms or on sets. After moving to L.A. as a freshly heartbroken divorcée, she didn’t just want the challenge of brutal production schedules—she needed it. Hollywood rewarded tunnel vision. Liz worked hard. Networked strategically. Never missed a deadline and relentlessly improved her craft. And now she ran a successful show on the most powerful streaming service in the world. To keep doing that, she just needed to crack this goddamn pitch. And stop thinking about Violet. And what Violet was doing right now.
Liz had left L.A. in such a hurry she’d forgotten to pack her tamari almonds, the ones she could find only at a mom-and-pop grocery store on her block. As she settled into a beanbag, she told herself it didn’t matter, but not having part of her writing ritual felt like a bad omen. Since her routine was all off anyway, Liz figured a very quick check of Insta wouldn’t hurt. But when she tapped the app open, Liz saw she’d been tagged in some shares of Violet’s just-released Elle cover. Gothic Vi in Dior the color of blood. Lips parted. Eyes low-lidded.
Liz’s heart gulped, fanning itself.
And that led Liz to spend her precious time in the least productive, most ridiculous way imaginable: combing through the last two weeks of posts on the account whose bio read: I play twins on @SweetTV. At a party, you’ll find me napping.
Of the many actors Liz had worked with, Violet was the most private. She also had the biggest public profile. In a matter of months, she’d gone from three hundred followers to thirty thousand to three hundred thousand to more than a million. Liz knew the self Violet presented to the world via her social media was 5 percent of who she was. Even so, Liz’s focus sharpened as she started to scroll, attuned to the fresh breadcrumbs in the mysterious path that was Violet Grace.
A pretty but unrevealing skin-care selfie from her partnership with Maybelline, which paid the same as her first-season salary for Sweet. Even understated, her beauty was Grecian; natural and lush.
A spare photograph of Violet’s shadow against her bedroom wall, the caption promoting a nonprofit that offered low-cost therapy. Violet was open about having a therapist. It was one of the reasons why Liz initially felt confident Violet could manage the pressure and visibility Sweet would bring her way.
Liz recognized the third picture. She’d taken it herself, on the Charles Bridge in Prague. Violet and the three other actors from the junket, grinning. Xiao Zhaolin, who played bad boy Bruce Patman; Cashmere Crowe, the TikTok star who portrayed Jessica Wakefield’s number one frenemy, Lila Fowler; and Diego Carbon, the former Disney star who played Jessica and Elizabeth’s mutual love interest, hunky Todd Wilkins. Egotistical Diego tended to date underfed models. Not my type, Violet had said once, which reassured Liz more than she wanted to admit.
Liz’s breath quickened when she scrolled to the three black-and-white shots. A photo shoot by someone’s pool, a full style team tagged. Violet in seamed thigh-high stockings, a high-cut bodysuit with puffy satin sleeves, and a long pair of slinky gloves, her body an exercise in fluid curves. She met the viewer’s gaze with a sizzling sidelong glance. The caption: welcome to my ego death.
In the next, Vi stood tall in the same outfit, ass cheeks pressed against a clear glass balcony. Head thrown back, neck exposed, legs spread. The caption: who’s got the windex?
The third was a portrait. Violet holding her breast through a bikini top, squeezing gently, hair poufy, gaze distant and dismissive. came to crush your dreams
Desire awoke in Liz like someone being shaken awake from a nap. Beautiful Violet, gently squeezing her own breast. Vi’s nipple brushing the inside of her own palm. Liz had thought too many times about what that might feel like. The roundness of Vi’s ass, pressing against the clear balcony. The sass in her gaze, looking directly at Liz. It was all such a turn-on, Liz could practically feel her own pupils dilating.
It was one thing to find another human attractive. It was another to be served up insanely hot photographs of them. After you’d kissed. Photos one million other people were seeing, too. Photos not just for her at all.
Frustrated, Liz hoisted her arm and threw her phone across the room. It bounced against the wall, landing on the carpet. Liz immediately stood to retrieve it, embarrassed by her outburst and very glad no one saw. She plopped back down on the beanbag and turned her phone off. She had to stop thinking about Violet.
Liz had to stop thinking about how the bridge of her nose crinkled when Violet grinned, extra happy.
She had to stop thinking about how she’d tilt her head and bite her lip when she was especially focused on set.
She had to stop thinking about how she’d looked that fateful night in Italy.
But it felt so fucking good to remember every last detail.
It had been early evening. They were at the hotel in Rome, in Violet’s suite. The sun was setting, the light the color of Aperol spritz. Violet was getting ready for their last group dinner, putting on a pair of delicate gold hoops. They were done with press commitments: they were alone. Liz recalled chattering about something geeky—regional viewing numbers? A half smile twitched Violet’s mouth.
Liz had paused, noticing Violet’s amusement. What?
You’re cute when you’re nerdy.
Violet had never called Liz cute before. Not in such a playful, almost seductive way.
Vi was in a white cotton dress. Her hair was pinned back in a loose bun. A strand had come loose. Liz moved to tuck it back. She was close enough to smell Violet’s spicy-sweet shampoo—rose and black pepper. Close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. In the show, she wore Mediterranean-green contacts, but Violet’s actual eyes were the color of storm clouds: bruised purple-gray with lightning streaks of gold. They’d been intimate before—they watched movies with their feet in each other’s laps, they hugged hello and goodbye. But this closeness was different. Liz felt a strange, nervous heat as she finished tucking the soft lock of blond back into Violet’s bun. The inside of Liz’s arm brushed Violet’s cheek.
Violet caught her wrist. Circled it with her thumb and forefinger. Violet pressed it to her lips. Her plump, warm lips. A pulse of energy had kicked up Liz’s arm. Violet didn’t look away. Her eyes were as authoritative as the moon. Her lips were still on Liz’s wrist. Her soft mouth, on Liz’s skin.
Their train jumped the tracks. They were going somewhere new.
And then, they weren’t. Their publicist, Cat, had bustled into the room, asking if they were ready to go. Vi switched instantly into pleasant, professional mode. The whole thing lasted three, maybe four seconds.
Their big, noisy group left for dinner at a rustic trattoria wrapped in little white lights. But something had shifted between them. Liz couldn’t meet Vi’s eyes without blushing. Violet was paying attention only to Liz. This was a rewrite Liz wasn’t aware of. A scene she hadn’t approved.
Afterward, everyone wanted to go out. But Violet had curled her fingers around Liz’s arm. Let’s go home.
Liz went with Violet because Liz would’ve followed Violet anywhere.
They meandered along Rome’s charming cobblestone streets. The air was silky on their bare arms, and the night felt ample and ripe. Violet tipped her face to the moon, admiring the sky. She’d had only one glass of wine. Liz had had a few more. All she could think about was Violet’s lips on her wrist. Had that really happened? Was something going to happen now?
The hotel was beautiful, ancient, all stone walls and cascading plants, wending around a circular internal courtyard. Outside Violet’s door, they paused. Moonlight washed Vi’s face silver-white.
Liz said good night.
Yes, Violet had said. Good night.
They hugged. It was different. They didn’t separate. Liz’s hands dropped down the curve of Violet’s back, lingering on her hips. Violet’s arms stayed looped around Liz’s neck as she pulled back slowly. Her gaze dropped to Liz’s mouth. Liz’s chest was rising and falling, the faintest scent of red wine on her breath. They were back on that train, destination unknown. Liz knew she should step away. Pretend her body wasn’t coursing with golden heat. Pretend everything hadn’t been leading to this.
Violet cupped the back of Liz’s head, and then there was no distance between them. Their lips touched. Something finite inside Liz dissolved.
The first few seconds were giddy, dreamlike, an experiment of mouths colliding, opening wide. Liz wasn’t in her body; she was fifty places outside it. What was happening? Were they really doing this?
They’d broken apart, staring at each other, wide-eyed in the dark. Liz had grasped for something to say— guess we’ve had too much wine. Before she could, Violet was on her. This kiss was deeper. Deliberate. Violet kissed Liz like she was afraid someone was going to take her away before she was done. Liz sensed the animal in her, flexing its claws.
Vi backed Liz against the hotel room door, crowding close. Her hunger switched Liz on like a light, her nipples becoming stiff peaks inside her bra. Abandoning all restraint, Liz kissed Violet back, finally giving in to her own desperate need.
So, Violet had panted, still pressed close, you do want to kiss me. Her eyes were lit with mischief, and something else—vindication. I’ve been wondering.
Liz half groaned, half laughed, drunk with the feeling of this girl in her arms, the taste of her, the feel of her skin. Of course I want to kiss you . The truth was a drug. Liz wanted to get as high as she could.
For how long?
Just—always.
Violet laughed and tugged them back together, kissing Liz in a way no one else ever had. Single-minded focus undershot with something huge and mystic, as hard to pin down as music. Desire exploded in Liz’s body like illegal fireworks. And for just one moment, everything was perfect. This felt right.
Then, the sound of too-loud voices ricocheted up the stone staircase: tourists, returning from dinner.
Panicked, Liz broke the kiss, putting a foot of air between them before Violet even opened her eyes.
The tourists passed, a chatty American family with adult kids. The youngest, maybe seventeen, looked twice at Violet. A glance and then a stare. Maybe because she was beautiful, or maybe because he recognized her.
Liz’s heart boomed in her ears like a bass drum. What was she doing? Kissing her lead actress? On a work trip?
The tourists disappeared. Violet floated forward. Liz stopped her. Wait. What are we doing?
Violet’s voice was teasing, her fingers curling around Liz’s collar. I think this is called kissing.
But I’m—and you’re—
Yeah. Violet spoke like it was a no-brainer. Hot.
But Liz was Vi’s showrunner. The person who cast her, who wrote three of the ten episodes. That seemed to bear some sort of responsibility to resist temptation, be noble, be good. And the last time she’d felt this happy with another person, he’d taken her heart and blown it up. She’d barely survived.
Liz backed up. I can’t.
You can, Violet had whispered, unlocking the carved wooden door.
But warmth had been replaced by fear. I’m sorry. I can’t.
She’d stepped away. Run away. And the next day they flew home to Los Angeles as if nothing had happened, and they hadn’t spoken since.
The piercing screech of the kettle jerked Liz back to the present. She was in the Barn in the Catskills, not outside a hotel room in Italy. She wasn’t supposed to be replaying her kiss with Violet—again—she was supposed to be working. If she didn’t, her dream job would slip through her fingers and this dream girl—dream actress, Liz corrected herself—would be cast in something else, disappearing from Liz’s life. Liz Belvedere was the responsible one, and the responsible one didn’t cultivate a crush on someone she couldn’t have.
Liz made herself a coffee and resumed her position on the beanbag, exhaling slowly. Inhaling a lungful of air. Exhaling again.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Inside Liz’s head, the scene rewound and started again. A hotel room. Light the color of Aperol spritz. You’re cute when you’re nerdy.