Chapter 1 Aria
ARIA
*Three Slightly Off-Key But I’m Over It Years Later*
Well, that was the worst ride I’ve had in ages.
I’m so fried from tossing and turning last night, I probably should have just stayed home today.
There were so many kooks out on the water this morning, I just couldn’t enjoy it.
But I’m over it. It’s blown. It’s a beautiful day nonetheless.
On to breakfast and another exciting day of super low-budget children’s musical theatre production.
My luck appears to be changing because there’s one parking space free right in front of the café.
I’m always happy for these small business owners when summer comes around, but sometimes a girl just wants to walk in, take a seat at an empty table, and wolf down a breakfast burrito so she can get on with her morning.
Wait-times lately have been at least twenty minutes, and I have to get out to the theatre to meet with my set designer.
When I park, I see that my ex has sent me another text.
Sometimes he’ll go a couple of months without contacting me at all, and then there’s a deluge.
Who’s got two thumbs, doesn’t want to use them to text her ex-boyfriend, but also can’t ignore him because she’s incurably nice to everyone? This would-be asshole.
TYLER: You need to accept the money I sent you through Zelle or it won’t go into your bank account.
ME: I’m not enrolled in that and I don’t want your money. Please stop sending it. I tore up that check and I will tear up any check you send me.
ME: But thank you.
ME: But I don’t want it.
TYLER: You have 14 days to enroll in Zelle or the money gets returned to me.
ME: Good. I’m not doing that.
TYLER: You need the money, Aria.
ME: I don’t need yours. I invested in your first film through the proper channels, and my profits will be paid to me through the proper channels eventually. I’m fine.
TYLER: I still remember what you liked me to do with my two fingers…
I see the moving dots and mute that text convo before sliding my phone into the back pocket of my jean shorts, because that is not a text road that I want to go down with him and he should know that by now.
It’s sweet that he wants to share his new wealth with me, I guess, especially since I blew so much of my own young wealth on him.
If I were even a little bit shrewd I’d take it.
Or I never would have blown so much of my own money on his career in the first place. But it’s just money.
I’m fine.
Sure, I’ve almost completely emptied out the trust fund with all the money I made when I was a minor.
Yes, I should have bought an apartment in New York when I lived there with him instead of wasting all that money on rent.
No, I still haven’t made back my investment on his first film, but I’m sure I will eventually.
He’ll probably win a best director Oscar for his next feature.
That’s the kind of luck he’s had in his career ever since I left him.
But things will work out for me too. They always do.
Okay, so musical theatre is probably the least financially prudent career I could pursue, given my talents.
At least I’m doing what I want to do. At least my talents aren’t owned by a massive conglomerate.
They’re all mine now, to do with as I please.
And now that Great Vibes is streaming on Disney Plus, the residuals from that and royalties from my album will cover my rent…
Or at least they would have, if my landlady hadn’t just informed me she’s raising the rent.
It’ll be fine.
I’ll feel better after I eat something. I might not get a table for half an hour because it’s so crowded in here, but it will be worth the wait. Carmela, the owner, catches sight of me at the end of the line and gives me a wave from behind the counter.
The usual? she mouths at me. She never calls out to me or uses my name because she doesn’t want to draw attention to me.
Not that many people hound me for selfies or autographs in the beach neighborhoods anyway.
It’s so laid-back here. And it’s not like I’m the biggest star—or former star—who comes here. But I appreciate it.
I nod enthusiastically, mouth back to put it on my tab, and signal that I’ll find a table. As I look around, there doesn’t seem to be a free one. Except…there’s one table in the corner with one chair free.
And in the other chair sits Miles Brodie, Esquire.
From the law firm of Grumpy, Sardonic & Shirtless.
Except he’s wearing a shirt now. Not his usual dress shirt, since it’s a Saturday, but a tight black T-shirt that stretches across his chest like a wicked grin.
Not that I can remember what he looks like when he’s grinning because ever since he realized I was Tyler’s ex, he’s been scowling at me.
For three years.
Miles Brodie—the man who claims he won’t date me, on principle.
But it has to be more than that. He seems to be repelled by me for some reason.
It’s fascinating. I mean, he represents everything that I hated about Hollywood, but I’m kind of over all the actors and musicians and surfers that I’ve been hanging out with… But I’m somehow off-putting to him.
And yet, I keep seeing him around. Jogging on my beach with his shirt off. Grabbing breakfast at the café that I told him I frequent. Frowning and flexing and ignoring me.
He’s finishing up his breakfast burrito and there isn’t another plate on his table.
He’s definitely here by himself. He always gets here before I do, so it always looks like I’m following him.
But I am definitely not following him. He clocks me and then immediately looks away.
He doesn’t even pretend that he didn’t see me. He just blatantly ignores me.
Which is why I’m going to sit at his table.
He usually picks up and leaves as soon as I get here, so I’m going to grab that table of his before anyone else does.
I wave to him, even though he isn’t looking at me, as I approach him. “Hey! Sorry I’m late!” I pull out the chair across from him and take a seat. “Almost didn’t recognize you with your shirt on. I’m glad you started without me. I already ordered.”
He blinks once and mutters, “I’ll be done soon and the table will be all yours.”
“Awesome, thanks! Have a good run?” Manny the busboy brings me my coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice. I thank him and then turn my full attention back to Grumpy Grumperson. “Sorry. You were saying?”
“Yes.”
“Awesome. Hey, can I have a potato?” I reach for one of the many untouched breakfast potatoes on the plate in front of him.
“Sure,” he mumbles.
“Thank you so much!” I dip one in ketchup and pop it into my mouth. When my mouth’s still full, I say, “Hey, could you do me a favor and ask Tyler to stop trying to send me money?”
His facial expression almost never changes when I’m around, but I notice his jaw clench. He raises his coffee mug to his lips before saying, “I can’t get in the middle of your personal issues with my client.”
“Well, it’s not exactly personal. It’s more of a financial issue, and you’re the one who got him all that money for his deals, right?”
“Yes, I am. But it’s not my job to tell him what to do with that money. You could try taking it up with his business manager.”
Something about the way he said that makes me think he meant that I could try taking it up the ass. He has this charming way of making the few things he’s said to me over the past few years sound like an insult. And for some reason, my brain just interprets it as filthy.
I’m not the hottest woman in the world, but this is the first time I’ve encountered a man who appears to be completely immune to my charms. This is also the first time I’ve ever been attracted to someone who isn’t into me.
Or if he is, he doesn’t realize it. Or if he realizes it, he won’t admit it.
It is uniquely frustrating and entertaining.
And it just makes me want to flirt with him even more.
It’s like—What? You don’t want this? Bam! Totally accidental nip slip that only you can see! Take that, Suit!
I am not well.
I’m not going to nip-slip him over breakfast today. But I am thoroughly, disturbingly aroused right now. And he can see it through my T-shirt. He clears his throat and looks away. I’m sure he’ll take his leave now.
But he doesn’t.
He looks like he just sucked on a lemon or bit into a jalapeno pepper, and I’m expecting him to grunt or something. Instead, he says, “Why don’t you act or sing anymore?”
It takes me a minute to process this question because Miles Brodie doesn’t ask me questions.
He’s exasperated with me for not answering, so he continues.
“I mean, if Tyler is trying to send you money and you still haven’t fixed the rear bumper on your car, you must need the money.
It’s not like you’re over the hill, and it’s not like other former Disney Channel stars haven’t gone on to have fantastic careers—my little brother included.
I know all the guys from That’s So Wizard—Shane Miller, Nico Todd, Alex Vega.
They’re all doing great. So why don’t you sign with an agent again? ”
I love all those guys and I don’t even want to ask him how he knows I fired my agent because I have a feeling it will bother Miles even more if I ask him about his little brother.
I engaged in one brief Google session after meeting him, but I keep forgetting he’s related to Dylan Brodie.
They’re so different. “How is Dylan anyway? I haven’t seen him in years. ”
“He’s engaged,” he snaps. “He’s got a feature coming out in the winter that Alex Vega directed. And he’s engaged. Happily engaged.”
“That’s wonderful to hear. You must be so happy for him.”
The tension leaves his face for one shocking, glorious moment. His brown eyes are warm again, like when we first met. The color of spiced black tea. The same shade as his short, wavy hair in the sunlight. “I am, actually. She’s great for him.”
I wish he didn’t seem so human all of a sudden, dammit.
Despite the consistent monotone dickishness, he still seems sad to me, and I can't stop imagining what it would have been like if we'd come here for breakfast after we met that first time. “Are you okay?” It’s been three years since I asked him that, and I use the same tone as I did back then.
It startles him, just like it did back then.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Course I am… So why aren’t you acting anymore?”
“I only acted when I was younger because I liked singing, and when the Great Vibes thing came along, I did it because I got to sing and dance and pretend to surf. I never intended to have an acting career.”
“Then why don’t you have a singing career anymore?”
Questions, questions. Why so curious, Mr. Brodie…? “If I could just record songs without having to tour, I would. But I don’t enjoy performing that way. I’ve always been a musical theatre nerd.” I shrug. “If I could have a career performing on Broadway, I would, believe me.”
“Why can’t you?”
“When I lived in New York, I auditioned for musicals all the time. Serious theatre people don’t take people like me seriously.”
“People like you?”
“Former Disney Channel stars who haven’t proven their chops anywhere else.”
One of those tea-brown eyes twitches, as if he has been personally insulted by this. “That can’t be true.”
“I mean, I know Dylan’s worked on Broadway, but not until after he was cast in those BBC-type miniseries. Right? I just don’t want to go that route. Or I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not good enough.”
“Well, I know that’s not true.”
“Oh yeah? How’d you know that?”
“My daughter used to watch your old show. And listen to your album. Over and over.”
How did I not know that this man has a daughter? “How old is she?”
His tea-brown eyes go ice cold again. He lifts his aviators out from the collar of his shirt and puts them on.
He’s removed a ten-dollar bill from the pocket of his sweatpants by the time he finally answers my question.
“She’s eight. Macy Brodie. She keeps auditioning for the shows you direct, and you never cast her.
” He stands up, dropping the tip money on the table as if he’s dropping the mic.
Macy. Macy? The girl who yells songs like she’s mad at them.
That poor girl can’t sing, can’t act, can’t dance.
But she never stops showing up for auditions.
And she’s never shown up for an audition with her father.
Always her mother. Her beautiful, voluptuous, bombshell earth goddess mother who signs in with a different last name. Not Brodie.
“She’s your daughter?”
“She is the light of my life, yes. And you are the murderer of her dreams… One of many murderers of her dreams, but a significant one.”
Is that why he hates me?
“You’d save a lot of money if you didn’t pay for parking at the Zuma parking lot,” he says. “Most surfers park on the street.”
“I pay at the meter so I won’t stay out there all day. I like having a time limit.”
He almost looks impressed by that. Almost. "You really need to fix that bumper," he grumbles as he walks away from the table.
This is one of the only things he ever says to me when we cross paths, and maybe the reason I never get it fixed is because I know how much it bothers him.
Or maybe it's because I think that deep down, "You really need to fix that bumper" is Miles Brodie's version of "As you wish," and what he really means is "I love you. "
I burst out laughing at that because I bet this guy's never even seen The Princess Bride or if he did he probably hated it. Now I just want to chase after him and slap his stupidly handsome face in case he actually does hate The Princess Bride.
Why does he do this to me?
Or I guess the real question is—why do I do this to myself? Because Miles Brodie isn't really doing anything to me. So why can't I stop fantasizing about all the things I want to do to him?