Steamy on Set (The Messy Friends #1)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Never in my life have I left my house in the state I’m in today. Sweats cover my body, gray, drab, and loose, hiding my full round shape. My face is clear of makeup, letting the newly developed bags under my eyes pull focus from my otherwise clear brown skin. I’ve thrown my curly hair into a bun so messy it shows the lack of effort it took to make it. A week since Christian ended things, and I look like it just happened today.

Walking up to the patio, my best friend Monty, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. She is dressed in a tight jumpsuit that does wonders for the thick curves and muscles that make up her body. Her makeup is on point, and her braids are trailing behind her looking new and neat. Next to her, I look like I plan on begging for spare change outside of a convenience store.

“Damn girl.” She plops down into the patio seat across from me. “You look like shit.” She looks me up and down, and then picks up the drinks menu.

“I know.” Shame peeks through the sorrow enough that I try to pull the top into a more flattering shape.

Ordering us shots and margaritas like it’s not 11 a.m., she settles back into the chair, her hands coming to rest on the table.

“So, any updates? Has he gotten back to you?”

Blowing up his phone like he owes me money has resulted in exactly no response thus far. Unsure how many more times I can call or text before I earn a restraining order, I’ve given up.

“Nothing, yet.”

Monty shakes her head, her braids swaying with her.

“I can’t believe it. I honestly cannot believe Christian did this.”

I mindlessly nod, far past the disbelief at this point.

“I mean, he has been pining after you for years. Staying single, all while being at your beck and call. All that just to cheat?” The long style with which she keeps her nails only helps emphasize her hands moving around with her words.

For ten years, Christian and I were friends. From the moment my eighteen year old self stepped into his fraternity house in my anything but clothes costume, we were close. It took one year of dating for all of that to go down the drain.

“Fucking men.” Bitterness twists my mouth into a scowl. “I can’t believe that in the span of a thirty-minute conversation, our whole relationship blew up.”

Monty leans across the table, pulling my hand into hers, trying to squeeze all the sympathy she can’t communicate into my fingers.

“I know, Farrah, I know. It’s bullshit.” The drinks arrive, and I jump into the alcohol’s welcoming arms. Downing mine before the waitress can even leave the table, I immediately order another one.

“I don’t know what to do.” The first week I had tried existing like it wasn’t real, like nothing had happened, figuring it wasn’t the end. When it became clear he planned on never speaking to me again, I had pathetically crawled under the covers and stayed there until today.

Monty perks up and her eyes gleam with enthusiasm “I know what you can do.”

“What?” I ask, genuinely in need of guidance.

“Move with me to LA. I need a fresh start, you need a fresh start, and it might just be the thing that jump starts your career again.”

With fewer phone calls for styling work, I have no choice but to showcase my talent on myself to my thousands of followers. Being a plus size fashion blogger is not where the dream is supposed to end. The thought is depressing enough without the realization that soon I may actually have to tap into my trust fund if things don’t pick up. The pity party begins to set up, as balloons of doubt and insecurity now decorate my mind. Before I can dance to the music that is my list of failures, Monty snaps her fingers to get my attention.

“You want to leave San Francisco? What about Charlie?” She’s so fresh into that relationship that the idea that she is willing to leave him surprises me.

“My dance career comes first. I have a few choreography gigs set up, and I could make more of them if I live there. Plus, Charlie gets it. We’re chill like that.”

The saltiness of my jealousy sours my mouth as I realize her friends-to-lovers situation is going a lot better than mine.

“When?” I change the subject before tequila and lime loosen my lips.

“A month, I have to give thirty days notice at my place and pack.”

A month? I can do a month. Promising her that I’ll think about it, I then down one more shot.

Today Monty made me promise to stop wallowing. Enticing me with free drinks and a good shoulder to cry on, she put in perspective the fact that I’m not going to get over Christian by laying in bed. I thought today was what I needed to get to the top of all the emotions that have been weighing me down.

Too bad that even as I sit in the back of a car share, I have to fight back the tears that are threatening to spill. They sucker punch me right in the ducts as I think about how he cheated. The fact that he then had the nerve to break up with me is a swift kick in the chest, making it hard to breathe. Tilting my head against the leather seat, I use gravity to force the tears to stay in as I remember how this all began.

The day Christian told me he loved me, we were sitting on the floor of my kitchen, two bottles deep into our favorite wine. Tart grapes loosened our tongues of anything we were scared to say while sober, and we cackled over the stupid stories we should have been too ashamed to share. We rested against one another, shoulder to shoulder, leg to leg, hands holding on to glasses, and each other.

I remember the way he wouldn’t look at me. I was half way through my tale of the time I put gum in my grade three nemesis’s hair when he cut me off and said the words that would forever shift our relationship.

Hearing that he loved me was the spark to ignite the feelings I had been hiding even from myself. And as the soft pressure of his lips landing on mine shot down into the core of my being, I knew that part of me always loved him too.

I need to understand how we got from that place to where we are now. Which is why I try calling him again. When he doesn’t pick up, I spend the rest of the ride trying to hold it together.

Soon I am perched on my couch, wine and remote in hand. The TV blares in the background, playing the symphony to my dancing thoughts. I’m almost thirty and single, and my career is in shambles. If I take Monty up on her offer, what would I even do in LA?

I think about everyone that I know who lives there, and the first person to come to mind is Mira. We met each other during an internship at a design house in France; being the only two Americans working there had bonded us. If anyone knows about potential work, it will be her.

I grab my phone and click on her contact, hoping her number hasn’t changed. On the third ring, she picks up, her voice just as raspy and bubbly as it was the last time we talked.

“Farrah, oh my god. It’s been forever.”

“I know.” I try to think of the right lead-in. “How are you?”

“Keep on keeping on, living each day in its glory.”

“That is good. Are you still in LA?”

“You know it. Why?”

I put my wine glass on the table, feeling like I need both hands to talk.

“I’m thinking of moving out there and wanted to know what the styling scene is like. Have you heard about any openings or places you could put a good word in?”

“Oh my god Farrah! If you’re willing to step out of your comfort zone a little, I have the perfect job for you.”

“You do?” Elation brews in the pit of my stomach, mixing with the alcohol to make my head spin.

“I just got booked as the lead costume designer on a movie, and I’m currently looking to hire my assistant designer.”

I can’t help but wonder if I’d be good at doing this job.

“Wow, okay. Should I send you my portfolio?”

“No need, I see your work all the time online.”

I can’t believe this is actually happening.

“Okay, so what does that mean?”

“It means get your butt to LA. We start pre-production in five weeks.”

Heat flares across my skin as she rattles off the details, pulling me further into this decision. Thirty minutes go by before I’m off the phone and able to take in what I’ve just done. Working on a movie isn’t necessarily the dream, but the celebrities I can possibly meet and style makes the idea worth it.

Before I can change my mind, I text Monty and let her know I’m in. Falling back against the couch, I steady my breath as I try to picture myself on a movie set. Maybe there I can get my confidence back and finally get over him. Maybe I will even learn to trust again. All I know is nothing is going to change if I stay here lost in the memories of who we were to each other. Before I even think about calling him again I turn up the volume, finally letting TV drama overtake my own.