Chapter 17
17.
At lunchtime, Liz brought up a tray of soup and buttered toast to Violet’s room. Her soft knock went unanswered. Hours later, the food still sat untouched in the hallway. As time ticked by, Liz grew increasingly worried. She should’ve led with more ideas—she’d been trying to give Vi space to speak, but she saw now that was the wrong strategy. The impostor syndrome Liz valiantly tried to ignore reminded her it was highly doubtful she was qualified for any of this and who the hell did she think she was? With her family still on the art crawl, Belvedere Inn was oddly quiet. Liz tried not to ruminate on the fact that the one day they had it all to themselves was a wash.
In the late afternoon, Liz lit a fire and decided to start decorating the tree—something productive to distract from the failed workday.
Each decoration was wrapped in old newspaper, a mix of priceless and pedestrian. A handblown glass ball that’d belonged to Babs’s grandmother. Santa hoisting a beer. An angel edged in real gold. A reindeer made from popsicle sticks. She’d just unwrapped a neat black-glitter star on a wood slice when she heard footfalls.
Violet entered the family room, eyes soft and regretful. She was still in her pink hoodie and sweats, but her braid was mussed, hairs falling out of the plait. “I am so sorry—”
“It’s fine!” Liz practically yelled, dropping the decoration in a fluster. “This is all my fault, I never should’ve—”
“Liz.” Violet interrupted what was sure to be a long, self-punishing rant. “Let’s sit.”
They took a seat on the squishy sectional, the fire crackling quietly opposite them.
Violet took a deep breath. “I know that what people say about me on the internet shouldn’t matter. But it does. It affects me, makes me question my self-worth, my ability. My voice. Working with you, on these ideas, is something I really want to do. To help you, and the show, because I really care about it. But this morning my fear got the better of me, and I’m sorry.”
“Vi, it’s okay,” Liz said. “Really. I can only imagine how hard being in the fishbowl is. I’d forgotten how much everything you say and do gets picked apart. It’s not natural, especially for someone as private as you are.”
“I am private,” Violet said. “But I do have things to say.”
“Like what?”
“Like…well, I want to talk more openly about being queer, but I get the impression the higher-ups think that’d be a bad idea because I’d lose fans. Or because I’m not actually dating someone, everyone would be like, Prove it! ”
Liz chuckled, feeling a tickle of pleasure at Vi referencing liking women.
“Or they’d be way worse,” Vi went on with a shudder. “The comments can be vicious.”
Liz sobered, nodding.
Violet sat up straighter, her voice sounding more urgent. “Sometimes I feel stuck between having a really big voice and not having one at all. Like—I have a platform, people pay attention, and I’m so grateful for everything that means. But I haven’t figured out how I want to use that privilege. Cat keeps saying I should be free to express myself, but at the same time, she kinda keeps warning me against it.”
“I think you should say what you want to say,” Liz offered. “And if that loses you fans, who the fuck cares? Your truth, and being able to express it, is way more important than how many followers you have, and if Cat has a problem with that, I have a problem with her. And when it comes to the comments…” Liz let out an annoyed sigh. “Not everyone has permission to affect your emotions. You can choose who you listen to, whose approval means something. Just because someone wants to hurt you doesn’t mean they get to.”
Violet looked doubtful. “That’s easier said than done.”
Liz smiled sympathetically. “I know.”
Violet let out a breath. “I’m still figuring it all out. What I want to keep private. What I want to tell the world. Even just what I want to tell my friends. There are things about me hardly anyone knows. Sometimes that feels safe, and sometimes that feels hard.”
What did Violet keep hidden? Liz tried to stay focused. “You can always tell me anything, if that feels right. Just never forget you’re a wonderful, talented actor and so many people believe in you, including me. I will always have your back, and I will always fight for you. If you want. If I’ve earned that.”
A smile bloomed across Violet’s mouth. They were sitting so close, Liz could see the baby hairs at her hairline. The unbearable way her top lip was slightly fuller than the bottom. Violet’s voice was soft. “Can I give you a hug?”
Liz’s heart filled with helium. “Of course.”
Violet shifted close enough to circle her arms around Liz’s neck, softening their bodies together. Liz inhaled the familiar scent of rose-and-black-pepper shampoo. The smell sent a flush up Liz’s body. Violet’s chest pressed into her own.
When she was with her ex-husband, Liz had focused on making herself desirable. But when it came to women, her instinct was to desire. And desiring Violet was as easy as breathing.
Liz pulled back first. Vi’s cheeks were pink. She smiled at Liz, pupils dilated. “You always know the right thing to say.”
Liz smiled back. “Just doling out some Christmas magic.”
Violet rolled her eyes, impish. “Ugh.”
In an effort to calm her heart rate, Liz got to her feet, focusing on the decorations. “Want to help hang a few?”
“Sure.” Violet gazed up at the pine. “We never had a Christmas tree—my grandfather and me. We weren’t that into the holidays.”
Liz affected horror. “Sacrilege. Santa sacrilege!”
They both laughed. Real laughs, the kind that make you feel like you’re lit up from inside. It wasn’t that Liz’s joke was so hilarious, more that they both seemed more relaxed around each other. Connected. A mellow, solid feeling settled into Liz’s bones. Hope, perhaps. Happiness. This was how it used to be.
Violet picked up the black-glitter star Liz had dropped. So perfect it could’ve been store-bought. “This is cute.”
“That’s one of mine. Craft project from middle school. Everyone else’s was a mess.”
Violet made a sound of charmed delight. “It’s adorable. I bet you were such a cute kid.”
Liz shrugged, hiding a pleased smile. Birdie and Rafi were the cute kids. “The rest of the class did gold or red stars.”
Violet ran a finger over the black glitter. “A rebel from way back.”
Liz almost laughed. “I think you’re the only person who has ever called me rebellious.”
“You’re the showrunner of a show that featured pegging.”
Liz recalled the comic-sexy scene with a chuckle (Jessica Wakefield wearing a strap-on and declaring herself—what was it? Pirate Peg?).
Maybe she could be a rebel. Maybe she already was.
“So,” Violet said. “Should we try again?”
Excitement fizzed into Liz’s chest. Take one hadn’t worked, but there was always take two. “If you want.”
“I do.” Violet smiled. “Let’s talk about our show.”
And how different the conversation felt now: not like a test they might fail, but a door to walk through if only to see what lay beyond.
Liz thought aloud. “I was thinking I could generate the B-plot melodrama between the parents. That’s just an endless war for control of the PTA and all their shady business shit.”
Violet grabbed the bowl of almonds from the kitchen island and brought it back to the coffee table, sinking into the sofa. “And they’re all screwing.”
“Exactly: sexy musical chairs.”
Violet snorted, crunching a mouthful of nuts.
“But we still need some big, overarching idea. Something wild. Something…” Liz looked to Violet for help.
Violet crossed her legs, wiping off her hands. “What are your favorite second seasons of television?”
Liz had considered this question before, but worried about being influenced by other creators’ ideas. Now, with Vi asking it in such a straightforward way, her brain started whirring, surfacing everything she loved about TV: The way a great show could break your heart, then put the pieces back together in a way you never expected. The way you could feel so close to the characters that they felt like friends. The comfort and pleasure it offered, the connection being part of a show’s community could bring. “ Parks and Rec leveled up with a more generous tone, more emotion, better use of the ensemble,” Liz thought aloud. “ The Sopranos humanized Tony, and the new characters dished out all those amazing plot twists. Season two of Buffy ’s my all-time fave—so clever, genuinely hysterical, but also emotionally devastating. ‘Halloween,’ ‘School Hard,’ ‘Becoming.’?” Liz named the classic episodes with ease. “The world-building was incredible.”
Violet hugged her knees to her chest. “I had such a crush on Willow.”
“Checks out.” Liz nodded. “I was more into Faith.” It felt like the old days, chatting on Liz’s sofa or Vi’s pool loungers. “Y’know, Jessica, our Jessica, dated a vampire.”
Violet looked intrigued. “Really?”
Liz had skimmed most of the original Sweet Valley High paperbacks while writing the pilot. “ Tall, Dark, and Deadly, Dance of Death, and something like The Killer’s Kiss. No: Kiss of a Killer. ” Liz recalled the plot revolving around a mysterious new student whom Jessica was into, and a bunch of creepy bite-mark-related deaths. At the end, Vampire Boy turned into a bird—yes, a bird—and flew away. “Vampires are canon in Sweet Valley.”
Violet’s pretty face lifted with surprise. “Vampires are canon?”
Liz nodded. “Vampires are canon.” Something clunked in Liz’s brain, like a heavy trunk falling open. “Vampires,” she repeated. “Are. Canon.”
They could introduce a supernatural element. One with a rich and fascinating lore. One that offered the potential for danger and secrets. Sexiness and surprise. Liz’s breath clipped. The tips of her fingers started tingling. This was either the best idea or the craziest. In the world of Sweet, that was a good thing.
Liz stared at Violet, wide-eyed. “We could do a vampire season.”
Violet nodded, slow, then quicker. “I like vampires.”
“I love vampires.” Liz began coursing with something electric, otherworldly. “ Buffy, obviously. True Blood, The Lost Boys, Interview with the Vampire. Twilight! ”
“ Let the Right One In, ” Vi supplied. “That one with David Bowie— Hunger ?”
“ The Hunger. ” What if Jessica dated a vampire? Became a vampire? What were vampires like in Sweet Valley? Ideas were raining down faster than Liz could catch them. Her brain sparked and popped like a live wire. She knew this feeling. Inspiration. Imagination. An idea.
Over the next few hours, Liz and Violet brainstormed. Liz typed so fast every second word was misspelled, but that didn’t matter because this was something. Liz knew it as clearly as recognizing her own face. Some ideas were silly (the twins become vampires and start robbing blood banks?), some were impossible (the show flashes a thousand years into the future!), but this was progress.
“I can totally see Jessica being like”—Violet slipped into character—“ there’s something about the undead that gives me life.”
Liz snickered, typing it down. “That’s perfect.”
“And Elizabeth would be like, I know this sounds a little cuckoo Cocoa Puffs, but would being a vampire help me get better grades?”
Liz laughed. It was like being kids let loose at a carnival, jumping on every ride, trying every piece of junk food, giddy with the thrill of being alive. No: being together. Liz had had breakthroughs before, but never one this important, and never with another person.
By the time they came up for air, it was early evening. The fire was low in the hearth, the bowl of almonds empty. Liz let her head fall back against the sofa, her fingers numb from typing. They found each other’s eyes. In the space between them, mischief and mayhem and maybe even a miracle. Liz let out a satisfied groan. “God, that was productive. ”
“Is that your biggest turn-on?” Violet teased.
“Maybe.”
Violet’s smile was affectionate. “You’re such a dork.”
“Never said I wasn’t.” It was the happiest Liz had felt since arriving. The room was toasty, work had been done, and Violet was here. “Great work today, partner.”
Violet smiled back, her doe eyes catching the firelight. “Thanks for being so understanding. You’re a really good friend.” She squeezed Liz’s forearm, letting her hand linger.
The sensation flooded Liz’s veins like melted milk chocolate.
The moment lengthened. Neither of them looked away.
Liz’s heart was thumping so hard she could practically hear it. No, she could hear something. From outside, a rumble. A car. The others. “They’re back.”
Disappointment flitted over Violet’s face, echoing Liz’s feelings. Vi drew her hand back. “Pick this up again tomorrow?”
“Count on it.”
Liz told herself to go put the kettle on—surely, the rain-soaked art lovers would all want a hot cup of tea.
But she didn’t want to leave the comfort of the couch and the woman next to her. Rebelliously, Liz stayed right where she was.