17. Bailey
BAILEY
I’m supposed to be focused.
The script is open on my tablet, the Friedburg sides marked up with highlighter and scribbled with notes in my loopy, stressed-out handwriting.
There’s a scene I’ve nearly memorized already—three pages of devastating dialogue with a man who slowly realizes his wife is dying—and I’m supposed to be working on the transitions.
The way she shifts from strength to surrender in two beats.
The breath between her first line and her last.
But the words keep blurring. Not because they’re hard. Because they’re huge .
Because every syllable feels like it’s got a price tag attached.
And this role? This callback? It’s the moment.
The one that turns “working actress” into “leading lady.” It’s the kind of role people get remembered for.
The kind of role that earns you meetings with directors who used to forget you existed.
And I want it.
Badly.
But I can’t get into the scene today. Not with the guys hovering two floors down like invisible body heat.
Not with the constant buzz of press monitoring in the group thread.
Not with the memory of the tweet of David slumped in that elevator with a note pinned to his chest still burned into my brain.
Not with everything still so fragile .
I take a deep breath. Try again. First line. Stillness. Wait for the shift. “It’s not the pain that scares me.”
I pause. I know what that feels like. David hurt me enough times that pain isn’t something I fear anymore.
But still, nothing. No spark.
“It’s forgetting what I looked like when I wasn’t hurting.”
I know that feeling too. Seeing my headshots, knowing the first batch were taken while I wore enough makeup to hide the earliest bruises he gave me. For a long time, I forgot what I looked like when I wasn’t in pain.
Still nothing. The lines fall flat in my mouth. I should connect to the material better than anyone, but?—
A knock on the door saves me.
“Come in,” I call, not bothering to sound warm.
Maeve peeks her head in. Her braid’s a little messier than usual. Her cheeks are pink. There’s a very specific look on her face—half irritation, half panic—and I sit up instantly.
“What happened?”
She steps into the room, arms crossed. “I think I’m dying.”
My heart drops. “Excuse me?”
She makes a vague gesture at her stomach. “I’m hurting here. I’m grumpy. I snapped at Eli for breathing, and then I went to the bathroom and saw blood. So. I’m dying.”
I swallow, not wanting to ask this. “Did anyone hurt you, baby?”
“No. I mean, I guess I’m hurting me. It’s not like a stomachache either. It’s worse. A lot worse.”
It clicks. I blink once. Then blink again. “Oh.”
Maeve narrows her eyes. “Oh?”
I set the tablet aside and stand slowly. “Baby, you’re not dying. You got your period.”
Her face twists like I just told her she won a lifetime supply of dental cleanings. “Oh, crap. That’s gross.”
“It’s not gross. It’s normal.”
“It’s stupid.”
“It is stupid,” I agree. “But it’s also…kind of a big deal.”
She groans. “Please don’t make it a thing .”
Too late. Because in my head? It’s already a thing. Not just because my baby girl is officially growing up—but because this is the moment I promised myself I’d get right. I knew this moment would come.
I just didn’t expect it today.
And I didn’t expect the emotional whiplash—going from Friedburg lines and Oscar dreams to panic and pride and a very real urge to cry because my daughter is officially not a little girl anymore.
Maeve is pacing in front of my desk now, still grumbling to herself, but all I can see is a flash of myself at thirteen. Standing in the middle of my mother’s yellow-tiled bathroom, holding a wad of toilet paper soaked in blood, and having no idea what the hell to do with it.
No one had told me anything.
My mother didn’t believe in “that kind of talk.” She walked in, saw the evidence, and sighed like I’d spilled something.
“You know what this means,” she’d said. No warmth.
No comfort. Just obligation. “You’re going to need to be more careful around boys.
Once they find out you’re a woman, you’re cursed. ”
That was the extent of my welcome to womanhood. No hug. No answers. No celebration. Just shame and fear. The kind you don’t have a name for until you’re much, much older.
I promised myself I’d do better when it was my turn. And now—it’s my turn.
Maeve groans again, clutching her stomach. “Ugh. Why does it hurt ?”
“Because your uterus is basically throwing a temper tantrum.”
“I wanna throw one too. This hurts!”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” I pop up and grab some children’s aspirin from the bathroom along with a glass of water. “Here. Take these.”
She glares at me. “This is so dumb.”
“It is. And you’re going to want the pills. Trust me.”
She takes them like a champ and scowls. “What now?”
I take her to the bathroom and show her how to use a pad. After several disgusted and disappointed faces, she orders me out of my own bathroom so she can try to do this on her own.
Fair enough.
But waiting on the outside of the bathroom isn’t easy. Not that I want to be in there with her for this part, but if she needs me, I want to be there for her. “I’m right here, baby?—”
“I know!” she barks through the door.
“Don’t forget—the wings go on the underside?—”
“Where else would they go, Mom?”
Well, she’s got the surly thing perfected for her teenage years. “If you need anything?—”
“I know, I know,” she grumbles. I hear the toilet flush and a quick wash of the hands. When she pops out, she whines, “How can I make it stop?”
“There isn’t a way to do that, I’m afraid.”
“Well, that’s stupid too.”
“You’re absolutely right about that.” I step around the desk, brush her braid back from her face, and kiss her forehead. She squirms, but doesn’t pull away. “You want to get out of here for a little bit?”
Her eyes narrow. “Like…out-out?”
“Just us. No guards. No brothers. No ‘you’re becoming a woman’ speeches. Just ice cream and maybe some shopping to make you feel better.”
She hesitates. Then nods. “Okay. But if you make it weird, I’m going to run into traffic.”
“Deal.”
I grab my keys from the drawer under the bookshelf, text Jessica a quick Taking M out for a bit. Don’t worry , and then glance toward the hallway.
I should tell Sean or Wes. I should let someone know. But if I do, they’ll insist on coming, which means they’ll want to know what’s going on, and Maeve doesn’t need that.
She needs me. Not a wall of muscle hovering in the frozen yogurt line.
I take her hand. “Sneaky exit?”
She grins. “Sneaky exit.”
We slip out the side door, through the back gate, and into my black Range Rover like we’re fleeing a heist. I don’t feel guilty. Not yet. Not until the last click of the gate behind us feels a little too final.
Maeve picks the spot—a little scoop shop on Ventura with chalkboard menus, pastel chairs, and the kind of teenage staff that looks like they’d die before asking for a photo.
Perfect.
She orders a triple scoop of cookies and cream with hot fudge and gummy worms, then glares at me like I’m about to say something about sugar.
I raise both hands. “I said ice cream. I didn’t say responsible ice cream. It’s your day, baby, get whatever you want. Extra whipped cream, sprinkles, double fudge, I do not care today.”
She softens a little. Not much. Just enough to let me see the kid under the attitude.
We sit outside, under one of the pink umbrellas. It’s too bright. Too normal. The sun hits my sunglasses just right, making the world hazy. Maeve props her chin on her hand, stirring her sundae like it wronged her personally. “How long does this last?”
“The bleeding?”
She nods, frowning.
“Usually five to seven days. Sometimes less. The cramps usually calm down after the first couple.”
She grimaces. “It feels like my stomach’s trying to eat itself.”
I laugh, then wince. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
She goes quiet for a second. “I know it was a thousand years ago, but do you remember your first one?”
I let the age thing slide and nod slowly. “Too well.”
“What was it like?”
I think about lying. Then don’t. “It was…confusing. And lonely. Nana wasn’t great with that stuff. She just handed me a box of pads and told me not to get pregnant.”
Maeve snorts. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. Also, don’t get pregnant.”
She smirks and pokes at her ice cream. “Thanks for not being weird about it.”
“I was weird about it.”
“You were weird in a good way.”
That catches me off guard. I’m not used to compliments from Maeve. For the past year, she’s been practicing her snarkiness for her teenage years. “Thanks, baby.”
She shrugs. “You could’ve gone full Instagram Mom on me. Balloons. Hashtag redtentvibes.”
“Tempting.”
“Not funny.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. And it’s nice. Almost like I have my little girl again.
For the first time in what feels like days, I’m not thinking about scripts or sympathetic judges or David. I’m just sitting here with my daughter, letting her be a girl with too many emotions and too much sugar and a uterus that just declared war.
Then I hear it. The click. Then another.
I turn my head.
Two men. One with a Canon. One with a phone.
Parked across the street. Pretending to look at a menu. One of them raises the camera again and aims right at us. None of them are the paparazzi I work with, which means Mira didn’t call these guys.
Unsolicited paparazzi are an utter menace.
“Shit.”
Maeve follows my gaze. “Are those?—?”
“Yeah.” My heart kicks hard. We’re exposed. Unprotected. Just us and the sidewalk and a Range Rover I parked a block down to avoid being recognized.
I glance at my phone. I could text Sean. I should text Sean.
But if I do…he’ll know I snuck out. They’ll all know. And right now, I don’t know if I want to deal with that fallout—or the alternative.
Maeve’s hand is in mine, small and tight, like she knows something’s wrong. “Can we go?”
I don’t answer her question. I just guide her away from the ice cream parlor and down the sidewalk, my pace a little too brisk for casual. The press hasn’t caught up yet, but they’ve seen us. That much is obvious.
One of them calls out behind us, “Bailey! Mind stopping for a minute?”
I don’t turn. There is no placating them. If you stop, then more come out of the woodwork. Any internet stalkers get a bead on where you’ve been, and they can show up too. It’s a nightmare. So, I keep going.
We pass a florist, then a smoothie shop. My car is parked at the curb half a block ahead, but it feels too far now. The block feels too open . We’re alone out here. Just me and my daughter.
And the unsanctioned press. Two of them now. Maybe three. Cameras out. Phones lifted. One of them jogs to catch up. “Bailey, how about some pictures?—”
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Maeve glances up. “Mom?”
I look at her. And for a split second, I think about it.
Pulling out my phone. Hitting Sean’s name. Dropping a pin, asking for help. I know they’d be here quick. They’d make a scene if they had to. They’d part traffic with their hands if it meant getting to us faster.
But I don’t reach for the phone. Because I broke the one rule I’ve asked them to follow without question: Trust me to know when it’s safe.
I don’t get to ask for help now. Instead, I squeeze Maeve’s hand and force a smile. “Let’s keep walking. Just ignore them.”
She nods. Doesn’t say anything.
And the cameras follow. We walk toward the car. Only then do I see it.
They spotted my car. There are more of them, waiting right there.
And I don’t know what’s worse—the paparazzi behind us, the ones ahead of us, or the silence that’ll come later, when I have to face the guys and admit I left with no backup and no plan.
I don’t call them. Not yet. Because I’m not sure if I’m scared for us, or scared of what they’ll say when they realize I let it get this far. The car is too far away, surrounded by vultures. Damn LA parking. Where to hide…yep.
Instead of freaking Maeve out even more, I tell her, “You know what? I could use another scoop. How about you?”
“Um, okay?—”
I whisk her to the ice cream shop, and inside, I bribe the counter staff to keep the doors closed to the press. It’s not much, but for now, it keeps the dogs at bay so I can think.
Who the hell am I going to call now?