Chapter 2
Molly
Ten minutes earlier
“Is there anything else you need to know?” I ask. “Anything that might help you make your decision?”
Molly, your desperation is showing.
It totally is. But I don’t even care. Because this is not how my audition was supposed to go.
And I should know since I spent so much time manifesting.
Not that I even believe in that kind of thing, but I tried anyway.
(Along with knocking on wood and crossing my fingers for luck.) According to my manifesting and visualization, I would walk into the room with confidence and poise.
I’d hand over my acting resume, which they won’t think is too barren, even though it is.
I’d highlight my millions of social media followers, which shouldn’t but probably does hold lots of sway.
Then, I would totally wow the casting directors with my reading, leaving them in awe and wonder as to how the perfect person for the role waltzed right in the door.
I’d waltz right back out with a leading role in a made-for-TV movie, a promise of income to fill my empty bank account, and an explanation for my parents as to why I’m not coming home.
And … scene.
In reality, the audition is being held in a trailer, not even a real building, which does not bode well.
Neither does the fact that it’s on the same lot as this little town’s festival.
Which means the smell of funnel cakes lingers in the air and my reading was punctuated by an air horn going off every thirty seconds or so, making me jump every time.
Suffice it to say, I did not nail the audition.
Manifesting, I decide, is for the birds. The flightless kind of birds. Ostriches or emus or the dodo. It’s about as effective as wishing on birthday candles, which never did me much good, either.
I’m still waiting on a pony and also for a lifetime supply of Hot Pockets—my favorite non-food food—to show up at my house.
Now, instead of celebrating a successful audition, I’m perched on the edge of a metal folding chair, palms sweating despite the blasting AC, while two strangers speaking in low voices at a table across from me seal my fate.
Dramatic much, Molly?
But hey—if anyone has the green light to be dramatic, it’s me: a fairly recent college grad and social media influencer desperate for this acting job I heard about from my sister-in-law, Harper.
She knows it’s not my top career choice, but she also is the only one who knows I’d like to quit influencing and move to Texas.
Living with my parents since I graduated in December has not been good for me—though I haven’t talked to anyone at all about that.
In any case, this job is my only hope if I don’t want to get back on a plane in a few days.
So, I am allowed to be dramatic given the circumstances. In fact, drama should be encouraged.
If I can’t be dramatic now, when can I?
“Your application says you live in Kansas City,” Kelvin says, disapproval clear in his tone. I’m not sure if it’s for the city itself or simply the fact that it’s not here.
You know what I disapprove of? His bowl cut.
“I’m willing to relocate.”
Kelvin nods and whispers something to the woman beside him. Her name is Vespa. Yes, like the scooter.
If Kelvin looks like he was plucked straight from the seventies and dropped into this trailer, Vespa appears to have come from some bleak, high-tech future.
She has a helmet-like silver bob, is wearing a black trench coat with the kind of asymmetrical collar my Project Runway bestie Tim Gunn might call fashion forward, and sports matte purple lipstick.
I think she also may have bleached her eyebrows because they’re almost invisible.
You do you, lady. So long as one of the things you do is hire me.
I swear I can sense the moment the odds start swaying fully out of my favor. Something about their body language and the way Vespa purses her purple lips tells me I’m about to get bad news.
They are unimpressed with my answer. Is this really the dealbreaker, not my audition? Because I can fix location.
A surge of hope courses through me, and I lean forward. “Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I was planning to relocate. Am planning. Have planned, am planning, and am currently in the process of relocating. I have family here,” I add.
Family nearby, but whatever. Tiny exaggeration.
White lie-ish. It’s fine. Harper and Chase live in Austin, which is less than an hour away.
We drove in last night to meet the rest of the Grahams, Harper’s family, at the Sheet Cake Festival and for this interview, unbeknownst to my brother.
I figured I’d tell him if—when—I got the job.
Plus, the Grahams own the town and are family adjacent since my brother married Harper. Which makes my lie about family less of a lie.
You need this, Molly. Just tell them what they need to hear.
“My brother and his wife live close by. And I’m going to look at apartments this afternoon.”
Still no reaction.
“With my boyfriend.” Their tiny flicker of interest in this new embellishment—It’s a lie, Molly—emboldens me. “I moved to be near him, actually. That’s why I don’t have an updated address yet and used my old Kansas one on the resume.”
Okay, I just took a flying leap past exaggerations and white lies and dove straight into total fabrication.
Lying in a job interview is just a thing people do, right? It’s like padding the resume or saying what the interviewer wants to hear.
Maybe so, but I feel immediately and horribly guilty. Also, I may be good at acting, but I’m not good at lying.
Does this make sense? Not even a little bit.
Acting essentially is lying—just of the vocational variety. When it comes to lying about myself, I am the worst. Chase always told me I should never play poker.
I open my mouth to roll this all back, ready to leave the interview with my proverbial tail between my figurative legs, but Kelvin sets down his pen and speaks first.
“Your boyfriend lives here?” he asks, finally sounding hopeful. Positive. Like this tiny detail—which has nothing to do with my ability to act—is the thing that matters most.
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod. “Yup. He sure does.”
Welp. Can’t roll it back now.
“That’s … good,” Vespa says. “Is it serious? I mean, clearly we aren’t hiring based on your relationship status.”
“Of course we aren’t doing that,” Kelvin adds quickly.
They both give little fake laughs, like this will convince me they aren’t actually trying to hire based on relationship status. Even though I’m pretty sure they are doing exactly that, for whatever reason.
I honestly don’t know why Vespa and Kelvin would care about my relationship status—er, my fake relationship status. And I don’t care, as clearly, this does matter to them. It’s somehow the tipping point.
The mood in the room is shifting from a sorry but no to a possibly yes. I can practically smell the job offer in the air.
Or maybe that’s just the funnel cakes.
“So, you’d say you have strong ties to the area,” Vespa says.
Kelvin leans forward. “You’re putting down roots here?”
“Definitely. I am an oak.” They totally miss my Tombstone reference, which is slightly disappointing. So few people these days appreciate the genius of that movie.
I should really talk less. I’m not doing myself any favors here. But I’m relieved that it seems as though they’re asking about a boyfriend because they want insurance that I won’t ditch them and run off to L.A. or something. They’re looking for stability, it seems, and I can give them that.
Or I can pretend to.
Stability with a side of imaginary boyfriend.
I’m not good at playing hardball, so I’ll keep this in my back pocket for now.
“And you won’t just leave if you and your boyfriend break up?”
“Oh, there’s no way we’re breaking up.” I say this with full confidence. Because it’s not a lie! No boyfriend, no breakup. My mental gymnastics game is strong. I’ve already hitched my wagon to the imaginary boyfriend train. Might as well take this baby for a ride.
Panic starts to rise in my throat. I’m so close. I can almost taste the job. Or the part. Whatever. Heck—I’d be the coffee-delivering gopher so long as it means not going home.
What I can also almost taste is freedom. The sweetness of not having my dad dictate every move and keep me under a bell jar of unnecessary protection. So I just keep babbling.
“My boyfriend is great. We’re actually here at the festival together. He promised to win me a stuffed animal while I’m auditioning.”
I smile, channeling the character I just auditioned for. She’s quick on her feet but also sweet as pie. Kelvin and Vespa look interested. Why not double-down?
“Actually”—I lower my voice and lean forward—“he’s about to propose. I think. I’m not supposed to know, but I saw the ring.”
Stop talking now, Molly! Before you upgrade to married with two-point-five kids and a golden retriever.
“That’s wonderful,” Vespa says, exchanging a look with Kelvin.
“Congratulations,” he adds, leaning back in his chair.
They both look pleased, but when there’s no immediate offer, I decide to add a little pressure.
“Can I ask why you’re asking so many questions about my relationship status?” I widen my eyes and attempt to look slightly confused. “This isn’t part of the official interview process … is it?”
I hope I sound innocent enough not to make them dislike me but on target enough to deliver an uncomfortable reminder about hiring legalities. I’m pretty sure it would give me grounds to sue the pants off of them over this. I may not know much, but I do know there are discrimination policies.
I can see by the way they both shift in their seats that I have effectively backed them into a dangerous corner. Excellent.
“I mean, I could talk to my lawyer,” I say, keeping the wide-eyed innocent thing going. “Currently, I have a lawyer rather than an agent, so he looks over my contracts.”