Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Finally Annie’s phone lit up. A reply from Lola. Oh no!! One sec…
Squinting, Annie watched Lola twist around in her chair—every seat around her was full—then flag down an attendant, who knelt before her as they conferred. The attendant melted off.
Another text slid in. My hands are tied. I’m SO sorry. See you after?
Annie read then reread the message, her surprise sharpening into dismay, then shame. She’d assumed Lola would fix this. Hands brushing in the popcorn. A shared secret look. But she was a normie stuck in coach while beautiful Lola flew business class.
Embarrassed tears pricked Annie’s eyes. She blinked, embarrassed to be caught crying at a premiere.
But no one was looking at her. She didn’t matter at all.
Annie thumbed a reply. No worries! Already made friends up here
A lie, but that was what Lola wanted to hear. She sent back a heart, then the lights went black.
Sal’s words came back, uninvited: Make sure you don’t get left behind.
· · ·
Three excruciating hours later, the credits finally rolled.
Lola was right—the film was a disaster: an overblown mess of CGI and space battles with a wooden script probably written by AI.
Annie followed the crowd, ready to get the hell out of this theater.
Maybe Lola wouldn’t even stay to say goodbye.
“Annie!”
To her surprise, Lola stood at the top of the stairs, waving.
Annie waded through the crowd, half of which were shamelessly taking pictures of Lola like she was a zoo exhibit.
“I’m so sorry!” she began before Annie was even in front of her.
“I didn’t tell Kimberly we wanted to sit together—I just assumed…
” She shook her head in subtle annoyance while managing to smile graciously at some well-wishers.
She held up a gold lanyard hopefully. “Let me buy you some free champagne at the after-party? Start the night over?”
Annie knew she should tell Lola that of course, that plan sounded great! But honestly, it didn’t sound great. So WWDD—what would Dylan do?
“Or,” Annie said, raising a suggestive brow, “we could go back to yours and chill? Order takeout. Go crazy.”
Lola blinked, her smile frozen in place. “I’d love to, but this is sort of a work event for me. I have to go. You can go back to the loft,” she added, her tone edging into disappointment, “if you want.”
Instantly, Annie regretted showing her hand. Lola wanted an up-for-anything date, not a disillusioned Debbie Downer. She strong-armed an excited grin. “No way. Let’s rage! I am going to rip up that dance floor. That’s why I wore sneakers.”
Lola exhaled in relief, hooking her arm into Annie’s. “Not sure there’ll be a dance floor, but yes, amazing. Let’s get out of here.”
Annie let herself be led, relishing the feel of Lola’s arm in hers.
Maybe the champagne would help. Maybe the night would turn around.
Or, a small, worried voice whispered, maybe this was exactly what life with Lola Wilson was going to be like.
· · ·
The after-party was at a rooftop bar in SoHo.
Polished concrete floors, minimalist furniture, and tempered glass walls with staggering skyline views that everyone ignored.
Violet up-lighting and flickering tea lights turned everything into a soft-focus dreamland, perfect for Instagram but impossible for Annie to read the bar menu.
“I’ll have a…Moon Juice?” she told the disconcertingly attractive mixologist. Hopefully the drink was less ridiculous than it sounded. She turned to Lola for backup.
But Lola had spotted someone across the room. “Babe!” she squealed, arms outstretched.
“Babe!” echoed a six-foot supermodel type in a snakeskin jumpsuit. The two collided in a flurry of air kisses. “How are you?” Snakeskin demanded. “This dress! So fuckable.”
Annie flinched, but Lola just laughed. A more animated version of her real laugh. “How was Berlin? Tell me everything!”
“Wrapped a week ago and I still have fake blood under my nails,” Snakeskin said with a moan. “Director was such a hack. Quick pic?”
Annie stepped back as Lola leaned in. One, two, ten selfies. Then, finally: “This is Annie,” Lola said, smiling at her. “My rock.”
Annie lit up, as bright as the bar wasn’t. My rock. How badly she wanted to be that for Lola—the one who grounded her.
She’d never been called that by anyone before.
The supermodel looked Annie up and down, eyes snagging on her thrifted dress. “Don’t tell me you finally got an assistant!”
Annie nearly choked on her Moon Juice.
“Annie’s my very good friend,” Lola said quickly, giving her arm a supportive squeeze. “We grew up together.”
“Cuuute!” Snakeskin declared, looking over Lola’s shoulder. “Oh Christ, there’s Marty. Better go kiss the ring.” She vanished into the crowd.
“She had a small part in the film,” Lola said, nodding at Annie’s drink. “What’d you get?”
“Moon Juice.”
“Is it good?”
“It is not.”
Lola laughed. Her real laugh. “I kind of just feel like a beer,” she admitted.
A warm pulse of relief eased the tension in Annie’s shoulders. Lola might be friends with supermodels wearing dresses straight from the Kardashian playbook, but she was still a girl who opted for a beer at a fancy after-party. She was still Lola. “Me too,” Annie said.
Maybe they really would have fun.
They turned in the direction of the bar.
Kimberly appeared in front of them. “Hi, doll. Can I steal you for a sec?”
Annie half expected Lola to say she was getting a drink, she’d just be a minute.
But Lola nodded, straightening like an activated sleeper agent. “Sure.” Then to Annie, while already getting shepherded off, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Mingle! Have fun!”
And then she was gone.
Ordinarily Annie was good at mingling and having fun.
But this was no ordinary party. The women were preternaturally thin, with teeth as white as porcelain and stomachs like tanned leather.
The men wore leather oxfords or pristine sneakers and were intimidatingly hyper-confident, mostly talking to other men wearing expensive-looking watches.
Annie was pretty sure she was the only person at this party who shopped secondhand.
Still, she was determined to try. Life began out of your comfort zone—she’d seen that on a bumper sticker. “So, what’d you think of the movie?” she asked some tatted-up hipsters who were both wearing shades and smelled like weed.
“What?” they replied, dissolving into giggles.
“What’d you think of the movie?” she asked a guy her age in a button-down.
“I think they buried the third act pivot to save face on the Burns cut, but you can’t salvage back-end points if the streamers don’t window it internationally.” Pushing past her, “Marty, my guy!”
And so on.
After an hour of glimpsing Lola through the crowd, Lola finally returned to Annie’s side, looking frazzled.
“Jesus, this place is packed with everyone I’ve ever met, apparently.
” Someone pushed a glass of champagne into her hand; someone else hovered nearby, trying to catch her eye.
She touched Annie’s arm, looking worried. “How are you?”
Annie considered the truth—over it, ready for bed—but that seemed radically uncool. “Living my best life. Did you know there’s a whole company that just does CGI smoke?”
“Huh?” Lola blinked, as Kimberly reappeared.
“Doll! Chloé Zhao just arrived!”
Lola whipped around. “Really?”
Annie knew it was important for Lola to meet a director even she had heard of. “Go!” she said, forcing a laugh.
Lola gave her a grateful smile, allowing herself to be once again tugged away.
Annie gave a tight-lipped smile to the cool chick in a micro dress and go-go boots who asked, “What do you do?”
“I’m a dog groomer,” she replied. “I’m Annie.”
“A groomer?” Go-Go Boots frowned, leaning in. “Like a stylist?”
“No, for dogs,” Annie almost shouted.
“I know.” The girl made an empathetic face. “Men are dogs.”
Annie tried one last time. “No, a dog groomer. I have my own salon, Upstate.”
“Ooh.” The confusion on Go-Go Boots’s face cleared up, her gaze tracing Annie’s dress and sneakers.
The wrong dress. The wrong shoes. Bumpkin alert. Why hadn’t Lola given her a proper heads-up?
“I’m here with Lola Wilson,” Annie added.
“Cool,” the woman said, waving to a sleepy-eyed rocker boy loping toward them. She gestured at Annie. “This is Lola Wilson’s dog groomer.”
Annie balked. Shame rose in her throat like bile, making her feel small.
She wasn’t Lola’s date. She was a comfort blanket. The soft old thing from home you keep by your bed, not because you love it—because it’s familiar and nonthreatening and safe. A reminder of where Lola came from. Not a part of where she was going.
The truth was Annie didn’t belong here and she never would.