TWO
Finn
Doesn’t she know I’m only doing this for her? I’m well aware that this is all my fault, but this is her podcast. I’ve gone along with everything the past two years because she deserves all this success so fucking much. And, selfishly, because I know that right now doing the show is the only way she’ll let me be in the same room with her. But without her, what is the point of any of this?
After Maeve slams the door behind her, her agent stands up. “The only way this will be possible is if there is no talk of what happened between the two of you. No talk of Cassidy. Or else my client will walk.”
My agent, Mark, snorts in disbelief without looking up from his phone.
“I need to apologize to her,” I try to explain.
Shazia quite literally shushes me. “No. You’ve explained enough.” She exhales and glances at Mark, who is ignoring us. She beckons me over, and I walk to her side of the long table, so she can lean in to whisper. “If you care about her at all, then you will agree not to talk about it. That is the only way to make this situation manageable.”
I blow out a puff of air in exasperation and stare at the ceiling. I hate knowing how much I’ve hurt Maeve. I am such an idiot. I thought I was just doing what she wanted. I was sticking to the premise of the show by trying to find Mrs. Right! Dating Cassidy was great for the Streamify deal negotiations, and it got us a ridiculous amount of positive press. And since Cassidy is such an It girl, being together elevated me from being famous but also not quite it —a child star from a celeb family that flamed out—to a genuine A-lister. Something I didn’t even want, but which benefited the podcast and Maeve significantly. And bonus: dating her made my parents happy for once. At first, it just felt easy. For me, Cassidy was always the one that got away … or the first one that got away, anyway … and I really thought that dating her could really be the start of the rest of my life.
But if this is what Maeve needs, then I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to make this right. “Fine. Agreed.” I nod once at her agent, shake her hand, then try not to flinch when she also lets the door slam on her way out.
I sit down and turn to my agent. “I am not doing this without her.”
Mark pauses his constant stream of texts and puts his phone face down on the table. “Finn, I know you like this girl. But she’s …” He waves his hand flippantly as though the thought of Maeve is an annoying gnat, and my blood starts to churn. “You don’t need her. You can’t break the contract, but you could record an hour a week remotely and we can get you on a movie set. You can be the next Batman. With your face and the scripts your dad has already written for you to star in alongside your mother, you’re golden. Just think of Maeve as the girl who got your head on straight, and got you out of the Wall Street gutter, and leave her behind. She’s a nobody without you.”
I want to fire him on the spot. But Mark has been a friend of the family since I was in diapers. He works for my mom, the revered Evangeline Sutton, and he’s known my dad forever, so he’ll be at every dinner party my parents throw. But I can’t let him talk about Maeve like that. And I am so tired of my family pressuring me to get into the business. “That’s not true. This show is all Maeve. And I don’t want to do movies, or shows, or whatever. I’ll do this with her, and that’s it. But isn’t there some way you can make sure we have to record together? I need to at least talk to her.” Even if our relationship is off-limits for now, I have to apologize in person. Then I know I can get us back to where we were, at least.
Mark actually rolls his eyes at me. “You’re a good-looking kid. Send some flowers. A car. Purses, perfume, whatever she’s into. She’ll come around.”
Except, that isn’t Maeve. She’s fiercely principled and doesn’t give a shit about bags and shoes if it’s coming from the wrong place. But Mark isn’t going to have any good advice for me. “Whatever. I’ll see you at dinner next week.”
My mom is throwing a huge party next week, which she’s calling an equal pay gala. Her foundation is a passion project, and I’m sure the party/gala will raise a ton of money for women and minorities in production, but, as I heard her explaining to my dad the other night, it also has the added benefit of reintegrating me into the Hollywood crowd and celebrating my move back to LA. Every A-lister in the industry will be there. Even though Maeve isn’t talking to me, I invited her and all three of her sisters, although Sarah is the only one of them in the area. None of them RSVP’d.
“Speaking of dinner, you should make sure Maeve is at that gala. There’s rumors that you two are fighting, and Streamify isn’t happy.”
“We are fighting,” I retort. “There’s no way she’ll go. And I thought you said not to worry about her.”
“Fine. You got me. Streamify doesn’t give a shit, but your mom wants her there. She’s irked they haven’t met.” Mark stands and drops his untouched coffee in the trash, then holds the door to signal me out.
“Now is not the time for them to meet.”
“Flowers. Purses. Perfume. See you next week.”
I’ve heard through Architectural Digest that Maeve is renting an expansive Hollywood Hills mansion. I, on the other hand, am living in my parents’ guesthouse because they were so horrified by the rental I picked last week that my mom called the real estate agent and sweet-talked her into firing me as a client. Which is exactly why I liked living in New York.
When I walk into our house, I hear music blaring from the home gym, where my mom is undoubtedly working out with her trainer. Ever since she turned fifty she’s been relentless with the workouts, although her fears about her popularity and roles drying up appear unfounded. My dad’s been writing for her since they met on her breakout movie set, when she starred in the first adaptation of Malibu Rising , and he’s never going to put her in a secondary role. Unless I’m the primary, despite my protests that I don’t want to act again. Acting is off-limits. I’ve seen the press rip my own mom apart, and I’ve experienced firsthand how critics and the paparazzi treat nepo babies. It’s harsh . I can’t go there again. Podcasting is a happy compromise.
“How was the meeting?” My dad, Richard, is in the kitchen, making an elaborate salad for lunch for himself and my mom. And by the looks of it, for me as well. Whenever I come home, they forget that I’m twenty-eight, and start acting like I’m sixteen.
“She hates my guts. So, same old.”
My dad dumps fresh-cut peaches into the massive bowl he’s mixing everything into. “Did I ever tell you about when your mom hated me? It was that first set and—”
“Yes.” I cut him off. “Only a million times, half of which were in the last week. Tail between my legs, I’ve got it. Except I’m not even going to be able to record with her, let alone talk to her. We’re recording this week’s episode separately.”
“How will that work?”
I shrug and start prepping bruschetta. My parents might be able to be practically carb free these days, but I need more than a pound of kale. “I don’t know. I’m sure she’ll figure it out, since she’s the smartest person I know. I don’t think it’ll perform, though.”
“You might be right about that. You can’t fake chemistry. You two have it on-screen, and talking to a wall and piecing together close-ups won’t cut it.”
“She’ll probably make it look like we’re in the same room. She’s that good.”
My mom sweeps in, dripping sweat and beet red, in a workout set that shows off that she has a better six-pack than I do. She kisses my dad on the cheek, and I duck away from her, not wanting to be drenched in secondhand sweat. “Is Maeve coming to the party? What a regal name. She’s made for the spotlight. And so young . Have you seen her skin?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “No need to tell me how good she looks. Trust me, I know.” She looked amazing in today’s meeting. Her hair was still the slightest bit damp, as though she’d just gotten out of the shower before driving over, so it looked more brown than auburn. Her skin was slightly red, the remnants of a sunburn, since it’s virtually impossible for her to tan, and she wore a dress that I’d never seen before. It was bright red, which she knows is the color I think she looks best in. When we met in college, she was wearing a red minidress and was adorably self-conscious because she thought it was too much for her as a quasi-redhead. I told her it wasn’t too much. She was outshining the dress, hands down.
My mom steals a slice of peach from the salad and eats it, giggling at my dad when he tries to push her hand away. They’re like newlyweds, truly in love, which is a rarity in Hollywood. “Well, just so you’re aware, Cassidy will be at the equal pay gala. Her mom is my best friend, she’s such a fierce advocate for equal pay on set, and our new movie launches next month. I had to invite her.”
I groan. “Just kill me now.” Cassidy also thought we made sense together. Which is true. We’re the kind of couple magazine editors and fashion houses dream about. Nepo babies with arresting looks and talent to back it up. I’ve known her since we were kids, and ever since that movie we did with our moms, pictures of us out together always get picked up. But we always have had a great time together. When we tried dating this summer, the dates were all fun. But we both realized quickly that we didn’t actually connect in that “talk until four a.m., share your hopes and dreams, text ridiculous GIFs, push each other to be better, and laugh until you throw up” kind of way.
“Relax, honey, she doesn’t hate you. It was good of you to take all the blame in the press, and her mom said she always had a hard time sleeping with you since you two used to take baths together.”
“Mom! Too far. Way too far. Getting together was Cassidy’s idea! Anyway, I’m not worried about Cassidy hating me. We’re good. I’m worried that if by some miracle Maeve shows up, this will only make things worse.” I start stress eating bruschetta.
My dad serves up the salad. “Maybe Cassidy can talk to her. Tell her how she really feels and all.”
“Your puns are awful corny for a screenwriter,” my mom chastises.
“Tell that to my Oscar.”
My mom fakes a cough. “ Our Oscar.”
“That’s what I said!”
They’re too much. This is why I need my own place. I’m going to find my next apartment on Zillow, where the real estate agent will think my mom’s a catfish if she reaches out. I pick up my salad and the cutting board of bruschetta, only to have my dad snatch two pieces off and hand one to my mom. “See you two later. If you think of some romantic grand gesture I can use to get Maeve to forgive me, please don’t use it in a movie, just tell me.”