When Stars Align

Four Miranda

Four

Miranda

2007

Six months before Sicily’s due date, Miranda drops yogurt, peanut butter, bananas, blackberries, milk, and a whole heap of spinach into her Hamilton Beach blender and hits the switch. She’s been starting her day with these green smoothies, a recipe that someone in rehab posted on a beat-up bulletin board next to the counselor’s office.

She does her gratitude exercises as the contents spin hypnotically in the plastic pitcher. I am grateful to be alive. I am grateful to have friends. I am grateful to have a home. I am grateful to be working toward health.

Picking up the mantra—and saying it out loud where the counselors could hear—was what allowed her to finally graduate from rehab. When she was kicked out of Miami, she went to Taos, and then to a mind-numbing stint in Bemidji, Minnesota, where she almost lost the will to live. But it had worked. Miranda’s now off painkillers for the first time since she was thirteen, and her drinking is under control. She’s back in LA and about to start work after almost two years, a point that felt impossible to reach over the past few months.

The doorbell rings through the Malibu beach house, a light-and-airy tone that Miranda picked out herself. There was still plenty in her savings after the rehab bills were paid, so why not celebrate? Miranda feels she’s earned it.

“Knock knock!” Miranda’s mother squeals, even though Miranda has already opened the door, green smoothie in hand. “Oh, it’s so good to see you back where you belong!”

Bobbie bursts forth and hugs her daughter, squeezing a little too tightly for Miranda’s liking. “Hey, Mom,” Miranda says. “Thanks for coming by.”

Bobbie steps back and smooths her box-blond hair. “ Absolutely. You are my only child, and I want to make sure you’re healthy as a horse.”

Miranda lifts the tall glass of green liquid in a toast and takes a sip. “So far so good.”

“Sleeping well?”

“Well enough.” The sleep of the dead, actually, now that her brain has been unplugged from electronics and substances long enough. It was in Bemidji that Miranda, for the first time in a long time, slept through the night without waking.

“Staying out of trouble?” Bobbie arches an eyebrow as they head back through the house.

Miranda feels a twitch of annoyance. “Mother, I have been out of rehab for all of seventy-two hours.”

“I know, I know.” Her mother waves her hand vaguely.

They settle into the living room, where wide bay windows let in the sea breeze. There’s a black leather sectional that Miranda loves—she had it shipped over from Italy, and now she eases back into its plush cushions and puts her feet on the glass coffee table while Bobbie perches on the other edge.

“What?” Miranda says when she sees the way her mother’s hands are folded and her lips are pressed in a line.

“I’ve been talking to Joan, and she thinks it’s a good idea for me to voice some things to you,” Bobbie says, referring to her therapist.

Miranda nearly rolls her eyes—it’s what she would have done pre-rehab—but resists. “Oh, Mom, please.”

“No. Now listen—”

And Miranda does, because she has no other choice, and her mother’s eyes are welling up with tears.

“The place you were two years ago—you can’t go there again. You can’t backslide. It was so hard to see my baby girl struggling like that, and—”

She wipes impatiently at her eyes.

“Mom,” Miranda says, more quietly now.

Bobbie puts her hands up and shakes her head. “And now you’re healthy. You’re going back to work. Nothing could make me happier. So think of this as a pre-intervention: you need to stay clean this time. No drugs, no drinking, and especially no bad-boy relationships.” She leans forward more intently as Miranda opens her mouth to protest. “In fact, how about no good boys, either? There’s too much on the line; take some time to yourself, time to get your head on straight. Sure, it’s easy to fall for someone, but that feeling makes others think they can—well, control you, influence you ...”

“Are we talking about me, or you?” Miranda says flatly.

Bobbie is just as bad as Miranda with relationships. Miranda knows that Doug, Bobbie’s second boyfriend of that year, is home right now in Bobbie’s condo watching World Series of Poker tapes to “hone his craft.” He’s been trying to hone it for over sixteen years, apparently. But Doug has told Bobbie that what he’s been missing is a good woman by his side to help him win—and to fund his lifestyle—and Bobbie seems to be more than obliging.

“We’re talking about you.” Bobbie frowns. “Because we both know that you-know-who is supposed to be coming back from Venezuela soon.”

Miranda is still holding her smoothie glass, and she looks into the dregs. Zane. He got out of jail before she emerged from rehab, and his parents sent him to the family hacienda outside of Barquisimeto to work on the land, take care of the horses, and make a clean break with his old life. Which meant a break with Miranda, too—permanently. Zane’s family’s dislike for Miranda is clear; in fact, his parents seem to think it’s her who’s the bad influence. And despite what Bobbie is saying now, Miranda has gotten the distinct impression that her mother, in her heart of hearts, feels the same way.

Every time Miranda got her phone back from confiscation, she was sure she’d have a message from Zane. It seemed like an impossibility that he wouldn’t reach out after his release from prison. But time and time again, she powered up her cell, just to be disappointed.

At last, Miranda had composed her own text to Zane when she got out—just one. She still had some pride.

Finally made it out. U 2?

He hasn’t responded yet.

“Just—no distractions, okay?” Bobbie continues. “ The Bennington Bookshop will be a good step to building a career. It’s wholesome, it’s low stakes, it’s cute—”

“Mom, I know. I have a career. I just need to get back into it.”

What Miranda doesn’t want to say is that she knows her mother is right. A low-budget film for the Holiday Heartwarmers channel does not an Emmy nominee make. She will not be walking the red carpet at the Golden Globes or the People’s Choice Awards this year. She’ll be lucky if she gets a photo in TV Guide , much less the cover. Maybe if she really sells the performance. Her audience will not be high-profile critics and loyal fans, but retirees and parents with young children.

But it’s a step. A step forward.

“No.” Bobbie looks grim. “No. You do not have a career. You are building back from square one, do you understand, Miranda? You need to start over. The move here is to behave, put your head down, and produce good work. Show people you’ve matured. Turn this slump into life experience that you can use, because the career that Kidz Klub alumna Miranda Montana had is gone. Forgotten. And I’m waiting to see what kind of career post-rehab Miranda Montana will make .”

Bobbie would have gotten along with Henry at Horizons, Miranda thinks, as her grip on her glass tightens.

It’s not exactly a pep talk, and it’s a hard truth that Miranda isn’t interested in hearing, but there’s no stopping Bobbie. As her lecture intensifies, Miranda swears to herself that she’ll do so well that her mother will be embarrassed to think she ever needed a pre-intervention.

And she does do well, at first. The next morning, Miranda wakes up early, showers, and even fits in a half hour of yoga before pouring her green smoothie into a stainless-steel coffee thermos and heading out the door.

She drives herself—in a Porsche, to be sure—but drives herself, alone, to set. She used to be important enough for someone else to do that job. It used to be the three of them—Miranda, Sicily, and Germaine—piling into whatever car their agents had arranged for them, tearing off down the Hollywood strip. They rarely even knew their drivers as more than silhouettes behind privacy glass. They didn’t need to worry about where they were going—it was a given that they would reach whatever destination they were meant to, and that the press and people there would be thrilled to see them.

How things have changed. As Miranda grips the steering wheel and inches impatiently down the 110, she does her gratitude exercises and swears she’ll get back to that place again. She’ll claw her way back if she needs to.

She arrives on time and breathes deeply, caught off guard by the electric ripple of nerves that hit when she finds herself back on a soundstage for the first time in what feels like forever. It even smells the same—sawdust, hydraulic oil, the buttery scent of stale croissants on the craft services table. She’s back. She’s ready.

The set has been built to look like some Anytown, USA, Main Street, with a wrought-iron lamppost and tiny boutique storefronts, including the pastel-pink one with the white trim like a gingerbread house that will serve as her character’s shop. Miranda has been cast as Genevieve, a young woman who takes over her ailing grandfather’s beloved bookshop and organizes the town to prevent a big-shot investment banker from developing the historic street.

Miranda knows it’s not real. But the glass of the streetlight is frosted just so; there are actual vintage books in the window of the shop, and the snow that pools in banks along the curb of the cobblestone street looks as though she could reach out and feel the cold on her fingertips. It’s beautiful. She wants to be part of it all again, and just for a moment she remembers feeling the same magic when she stepped onto the Kidz Klub set for the first time.

And then a tall man with blond hair and a trimmed beard opens the door of the bookshop and strolls out.

Miranda laughs. “Tyler? What the hell?”

Tyler grins sheepishly. “Hey, Miranda. Surprise.”

Tyler Xavier—now known as Tyler X—is another one of the Kidz Klub alums. He was the funny one back then, always cracking jokes and playing pranks on the cast and crew, but he got away with it as a cutie with a gorgeous smile. He’s still cute now, Miranda notices, although alcohol and steroids have bloated him a bit. She knows he’s also recently out of rehab, but she didn’t know he was ready to work again.

“What is this?” she asks, giving him a hug. “You weren’t at the table read! I had no idea.”

The only person who’d been missing from the table read was Jacob Sullivan, an up-and-coming character actor who was playing Chris, the New York banker. The director and coproducer, George, had stepped in to read for him, saying he was recovering from strep.

“Yeah, it was pretty last minute.” He scratches his nose and leans in close. “Jacob got poached for a better project. Don’t tell anyone.”

Miranda opens her eyes in mock scandal, though she is surprised. “Juicy.”

“Yeah. George was furious. It was a right-place-right-time kind of deal, and my agent got me in.”

“Well, hey, congrats! It’ll be great to work together again.”

“I think so, too. We’ll show these losers what Blast Off! Network kids can do, huh?” Tyler winks at her.

Miranda flicks her long hair over her shoulder. She can’t help it; it’s instinct. “You ready to get your ass handed to you by a small-town gal who’ll do anything to save her family’s bookshop?”

Tyler puts on a very serious expression. “Young lady, I’ll have you know that in the cutthroat world of investment banking, we have entire departments devoted to the business of handling asses. Dear me, I mean assets. Your shop has large assets, and I’d like to handle them.” He narrows his eyes. “Those are my lines, right? I’ve been practicing since the crack of dawn.”

Miranda snorts and then succumbs to full-on laughter. He’s still got it.

The way he breaks, relaxes, and then laughs with her makes something in Miranda flutter.

“Okay, shut up about my assets,” she says. “I have to get to costumes.”

“Not a chance.” He winks again.

The first few scenes are gold. George begins production about a third of the way through the film, starting Miranda and Tyler with the scene in which the two main characters meet. They bring the same energy that came naturally an hour before, combative yet playful, easing into their characters and developing the tenuous chemistry of a man and a woman who are hopelessly at odds. Tyler has been outfitted in a tailored camel coat and starched white shirt with a few of the top buttons carelessly left open. He wears a cashmere scarf around the lapel of his jacket, and his blond hair is combed rakishly to one side.

Holiday Heartwarmers may tout themselves as a wholesome, family-friendly channel, but there’s no question that they go for bodice ripper in their male leads.

Miranda’s auburn hair flows in elegant—if slightly stiff—curls, and she wears a navy-and-white polka-dotted dress with a Peter Pan collar under a soft cream coat. And a scarf. Everybody wears scarves.

They shoot one full scene and then move to another, George seeming happy with the pace. He wants to shoot all the Genevieve and Chris scenes early on, then add characters as production continues until they finally fly to Vermont to shoot on location with a hundred or so extras.

By the end of the day, a small pocket of confidence is glowing inside Miranda. It only intensifies when Tyler walks into the parking lot with her, touches her shoulder lightly, and says, “Hey, great job today. See you tomorrow, Genevieve.”

This time she’s the one who winks. “Wouldn’t miss it, Chris.”

The first few days of shooting sail by. Miranda feels invincible. Then, on Friday, they’re scheduled to do the scene in which Genevieve and Chris have an argument and end up kissing.

She knew it was in the script. It shouldn’t have surprised her.

But Miranda hasn’t kissed anyone in a while. Like, since before rehab. And no one since Zane, who has—frustratingly—still not responded to her text. So Friday morning is the first time in four months, two weeks, and six days that she suddenly, unexpectedly, craves Oxy.

She wakes up with it like a low burn in her mouth. Oxy, a bump of coke, even a shot of cheap vodka—anything to blunt her nerves would feel like a cool, refreshing drink of water right now.

Bobbie has emptied the beach house of all substances and alcohol. In rehab, Miranda sat with a sponsor and texted or called anyone in her phone who enabled her use, including her dealers.

She drinks her green smoothie, and it tastes like sand.

She drives to set and notices every liquor store, every alleyway, every gas station. By the time she gets on the 110, it’s too late to stop anywhere. Why didn’t she pick up a pack of cigarettes? Cigarettes would be good. They’re allowed. She should be keeping a carton in her purse, in her glove compartment, under her pillow at night.

Miranda grips the steering wheel and stares at the license plate of the car in front of her. She reads it over and over: 9JRI205. She feels sweat damping the underarms of her shirt. She tries to do her gratitude exercises but is so distracted she can’t think of anything she has ever been grateful for.

If she gets through this day, she tells herself she will buy out Mobil’s entire stock of Kools.

“Cut!” George yells. “Come on, Montana.”

She’s flubbed the line again. She’s supposed to say, Well, you’re not so innocent either! And shove Tyler; then, after a beat, they of course fall into each other’s arms. But Miranda can’t get it straight in her head—it keeps coming out as Well, you’re not so great yourself! which, of course, has a slightly different connotation and doesn’t make as much sense in context.

“Sorry, sorry.” Miranda rubs her hand over her face, a habit she got into in rehab, and too late remembers her makeup.

George gives her a hard stare, then sighs with exasperation. “Let’s just take five. Miranda, have makeup touch you up, and then get your head in the game, yeah?”

Tyler looks like he’s about to say something, but Miranda hurries away before he can. She feels a familiar shame, like she can’t do this and doesn’t remember why she ever tried. But as the makeup artist reapplies powder, it turns into something worse. Miranda knows she’s letting Tyler down, too. The two of them really have to prove themselves here, turn The Bennington Bookshop into a launchpad for the bigger, better projects they used to score in the past. She’s embarrassed that he’s seen her stumble.

So when makeup is done with her, Miranda slips out the stage door and goes to Tyler’s trailer. She wants to apologize to him; as costars, she wants them to be real with each other. She wants to lay out what she’s been through, what this project means for her, and promise to be a better coworker.

But all these thoughts vanish from her mind when Tyler opens the door with a bottle of Don Julio in hand.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

Miranda looks from the bottle to him. It’s hard to tear her eyes away. “What are you doing?” she asks.

“What?”

“You’re sober, aren’t you? You’re out of rehab?”

Tyler blinks at the tequila as if he’s surprised to find it in his hand. “Oh, this? I mean, I’m California sober. No drugs, but I still drink here and there.”

She wants to chastise him, to tell him it’s not even 11:00 a.m. But she also wants him to share.

He squints at her, trying to figure out her silence. “You better come in,” he says.

“Sorry.” Miranda shakes her head. “I’m not here to judge you. I just wanted to apologize.”

Tyler frowns, waves his hand like it’s nothing.

“No, really,” Miranda protests. “I need to get it together. I was just nervous this morning, and I let that affect my performance.”

He smirks. “Nervous? About kissing me?”

Miranda sucks her teeth. “Oh, come on, don’t make it sound like we’re in middle school. Listen, it’s just ... been a while since I’ve kissed someone.”

She expects him to make a joke, but instead he rubs his nose and becomes solemn. “No, I get it. You’re—you’re not the only one who’s been through that,” he says. “Not a lot of dating opportunities in rehab.”

She gives a short laugh, shakes her head.

“Here.” He hands her the bottle of tequila. “Just take a sip, reactivate your acting muscles. I mean, we never used to do this shit completely sober, right? Why would everyone expect us to now?”

It hits her like down-home common sense, because of course not—from her injury forward, Miranda always took something to help her on set. This past week has been the first time in her adult life that she’s been doing her job completely on her own.

In a perfect world she would protest. She would call her accountability partner. She would at least take a moment to weigh her options and consider the gravity of what she’s about to do.

But Miranda simply takes the bottle from him and drinks without hesitation.

The effect is immediate. The familiar taste gives her a deep comfort, and suddenly everything about the world seems a little warmer, kinder. Tyler is smiling at her. She realizes he’s a shot or two ahead of her.

“There we go,” he says.

“Maybe we should practice.” The idea just occurred to her.

“Practice what?”

“You know ...”

“Oh.” He raises his eyebrows. “Listen—I’m going to confess. I always had a little crush on you at Kidz Klub . Let’s face it, all you girls were hot. So maybe that’s what’s making this harder.”

The tequila is leaving a gentle burn through her throat, her abdomen. She takes another sip, just a tiny one, and moves closer to Tyler.

He takes a moment, brushing his nose against hers. Then he kisses her. The feeling is electric; Miranda leans into it and so does he, not pulling away but going in for another and another. She brings her arms around his neck, and he wraps his around her waist, gently at first, then pulling her tightly in against his hips.

Back on set, they nail it.

“Whew!” George exclaims, pretending to fan himself. “Whatever you did to turn things around, don’t stop!”

So they don’t. Miranda and Tyler steal time in their trailers between scenes to undress each other as much as possible and later get scolded by makeup, who can tell exactly what’s going on, seeing their blotchy skin and mussed hair.

So proud of U, honey , Bobbie texts, one phrase in a series of motivational messages she’s been peppering Miranda’s phone with for the past two weeks. U got this!

Miranda just texts back 3 .

At the top of the bell curve, it’s good. Miranda feels sharp and relaxed, acting with an ease she feels she never could have achieved without the tequila. And Tyler.

But somewhere in the second week, things start to slip. She hasn’t been feeling well—the lights on set are starting to give her a headache. She’s in a red satin evening dress—sans scarf, for once—and kitten heels, dressed up for the town benefit that Genevieve organizes to raise money for the Main Street Business Association. There’s a group of extras with them now, gathered on the interior set of the historic library. Genevieve is supposed to give a speech about how the town came together to save their shops, but she can’t remember how it starts out.

Tyler comes up in a sharply pressed suit, heading to his place.

“I’d like to rip that thing off you,” he murmurs in her ear as he passes.

She giggles, heart racing at the thought. They haven’t gotten much further than second base, but she wishes the two of them could spend some time alone. Maybe this weekend. Maybe she could take him to her beach house, or they could drive up the coast, or find a secluded spot in Franklin Canyon under the stars ...

She realizes everyone is staring at her.

“Sorry?” Miranda says.

“Goddammit, Montana, I said action!” George shouts. “Can we focus , please?”

“Sorry, sorry.” She finds her prop champagne glass and steps up on her podium.

George runs a hand over his face. “Top of scene. Action!”

Miranda stares into the bright lights. The extras look up at her, faces expectant.

“People of Bennington,” she begins after a moment of silence that lasts a little too long. “My friends and neighbors. I could not be more proud to call you my—no, sorry. My friends. I could not be more proud to call you my neighbors—”

Crash .

Everyone jumps. George has thrown his clipboard like a Frisbee onto the set.

“My neighbors!” he yells, clapping his hands to emphasize every word. “I—could—not—be—more—”

“Proud to call you my friends ,” Miranda recites along with him, face burning.

“What’s going on?” He lifts his shoulders, hands open, like he’s genuinely asking.

“I’m sorry.” Miranda tries to shake the feeling that she’s underwater, one step behind. “Sorry, I have it now. I won’t mess it up.”

“You better not.” George points a finger at her. “Again!”

At the end of the day, Miranda gathers her things without speaking to anyone and hurries to her car. She’s fumbling with her keys when she feels a hand on her waist in the twilight and recognizes Tyler’s scent—musky, a little sweaty, spearmint from the chewing gum he uses to curb his cravings—before she sees him. Miranda turns instinctively into his arms and buries her face in his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, enveloping her. “Hey. You okay?”

“No.” It’s muffled.

“Let’s get out of here, huh?”

She nods, not caring where they go, not wanting to be in charge.

He buckles her into the passenger seat of his car and drives to his house in Santa Monica as she pretends she isn’t crying. Tyler leads her into a cavernous living room and sits her on a sectional in front of a gas fireplace. He flicks a switch on the mantel, and it roars to life.

“Pretty cool, huh?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

Miranda laughs and nods, rubbing her nose. He leaves her alone for a moment to stare into the flames, and then returns with two cut-crystal rocks glasses and a bottle of Jameson, setting them on the coffee table and sitting on the couch opposite her. He pours two fingers in each and then folds his hands.

Miranda shakes her head. “I’m not supposed to ...”

He sighs. “You’ve been acting your ass off, stone-cold sober. Even before the tequila. I see how hard you’re trying with recovery. You know that, right? I see you. I know how it is, too.”

God, it feels so good to hear someone say that.

“So now cut yourself some slack,” Tyler continues. “Let yourself take a break.”

Somewhere in her more rational mind, she wishes it took more convincing. If Tyler had simply said, Drink the whiskey, Miranda , she would have. But it’s nice to have someone rationalize things for you.

And he’s in rehab, too. He seems to know what he’s doing. So Miranda feels good, almost eager, and much more like her old self when she reaches for the glass and touches it to his in a toast.

One glass turns into three.

Three turns into four.

Four turns into Miranda crawling across the table, the two of them grappling with each other, finding bare skin as quickly as possible, hands in each other’s hair and around each other’s necks and backs.

“You’re so good,” Tyler murmurs.

“But a bad actress,” Miranda teases, sighing into his ear.

“Mmm. No.” He shakes his head. “You’re the best actress, better than all of those Kidz Klub girls, better than Sicily ...”

She giggles, confused; he’s slurring a little. “What? Am not.”

“Are too. Just look at you.”

Miranda knows it isn’t true, but the comparison to her international pop star best friend does wonders for her insecurity. She straddles Tyler, guiding him into her, and then they’ve somehow ended up on the floor, with him on top and holding her as close to his chest as possible.

She loses track of everything, able to focus only on how he makes her feel until it’s as though she’s about to tumble off the edge of the earth.

They fall asleep right there in front of the fireplace, wrapped in each other’s arms on the floor.

Sometime in the night Miranda wakes up, body stiff and mouth dry. Her head is pounding as though she’s been hitting it against a brick wall.

She somehow makes it back up to the couch, shivering in bare skin, but Tyler is nowhere to be found.

Miranda sits up and tries to get a bearing on her surroundings; the room is completely dark. Where did she leave her phone?

There, on the island in the kitchen. She digs in her purse, finding the cell and flipping it open: 1:37. She’s going to be dead tomorrow.

There’s also a text from Bobbie: Howd it go 2day?

By force of habit, she checks for a text from Zane, but there are none.

“Hey.” Tyler’s voice comes from behind her.

“Hey,” she says quietly. “What are you doing up?”

He gives her a crooked smile, and where it would normally trigger butterflies, Miranda now feels a foreboding. It’s too formal. He’s found a pair of sweatpants and has his hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t know where else to put them.

He shrugs. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well ...,” she starts. “Maybe we should get to bed.”

“Maybe.”

She waits for him to make a move, to invite her to his room; he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You want me to ... Should I call you a cab?”

Miranda is aware of her heart beating. Its pulse is fast in her throat. “You don’t want me to stay?” Her voice sounds embarrassingly small when she says it.

“I just think we’d both get better sleep in our own beds. We have to be fresh tomorrow, you know.”

“You sure?” She’s trying to sound coy, but she doesn’t know why she’s pushing it. It’s over. “We could get some breakfast ... ride to set together ...”

He does that smile again. She hates it.

“Eh.” Tyler shakes his head. “I think it’s better this way.”

Miranda is late to set in the morning. She was out of spinach for her green smoothie. It didn’t matter; she didn’t feel like she could keep anything down, anyway. George glares at her when she arrives, but she just walks past him and finds her place next to Tyler in the scene. He smiles politely at her, then stares straight ahead.

That day proves to be the worst day of shooting she has.

Miranda misses cues, mixes up her lines, and has trouble focusing on anything that’s going on. Trying, at one point, to understand where lighting wants her to walk, she catches Tyler rolling his eyes at a few of the extras and shaking his head. They snicker, trying to hide their laughter from Miranda.

But she sees it. She knows that Tyler didn’t want to be seen with her this morning, doesn’t want anyone to know that the two addicts are sleeping together. She’s bad for his image. Or maybe good, if he uses her correctly: Look how much better Tyler is doing than Miranda! If anyone can make a comeback, it’s him.

She can see the headlines now.

When the day is nearly over, there’s a knock at the door of Miranda’s trailer, and she hates her heart for leaping in the hopes that it’s Tyler.

But she opens the door to find George, brow sweaty and shirtsleeves rolled up.

“We have to talk,” he says.

Miranda sighs. “I know.”

“This isn’t working. Production is behind. You and Tyler were hot stuff at the beginning of shooting, but your chemistry’s gone, poof . I don’t know what to do here.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better, I promise.”

George wipes his mouth. “I’ve heard that before. Promises don’t get movies made. Montana ... we may be looking at a pinch hitter.”

The world tilts around Miranda for a moment, but she should have seen it coming.

“George, I hear you, but please—don’t replace me,” she says. “I’ll do whatever you need. I’ll stay later, I’ll get a coach. Tyler and I will make it work.”

Miranda had been seeing a future again when she started this project, just a pinhole light at the end of a long tunnel, but one that would allow her to get back to the old life she used to love. Without that life, what is she? She has no degree, no education. She has no transferable skills and has never been part of “regular” society an adult day in her life. She would be reduced to nothing but a savings account, slowly dwindling over the years.

“It’s not Tyler that’s the problem.” George shakes his head, stares into the middle distance. Then he passes a hand over his forehead. “All right, look. We’ll see how tomorrow goes, and we’ll have a production meeting about the whole thing tomorrow night, all right? I can’t make any promises, though.”

“Okay.” Miranda could hug him, but she just nods very quickly. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

That night Miranda lies in bed and dials Germaine’s number.

She’d made a quick call to the girls right when she got out of rehab, but quickly turned the conversation to Sicily’s pregnancy and Germaine’s parental woes. Beyond that, they’ve exchanged texts, but they haven’t had a real conversation in forever.

Miranda still feels a little embarrassed. Germaine and Sicily have their lives together—thriving in a global business, going on a world tour and becoming a mom. She’s the only one that’s a mess. And although G and Sicily would never care about that, she hasn’t really figured out how to talk about herself again. But she feels like nothing could make her feel lower than this week has.

There’s a loud shriek on the other end of the line when Germaine picks up; Miranda smiles and holds the phone an inch away from her ear.

“ Miranda !” G hollers. “Babes, how are you?”

And in that moment Miranda knows she was being silly. As if a conversation with Germaine could ever be awkward or stuffy.

“Hey,” Miranda says. “I know, I know. I’ve been bad at reaching out.”

“Listen, it’s my fault, too,” Germaine says. “I think about you every day, bitch.”

Miranda feels a hard lump in her throat. “You too. How have things been?”

“Tragic. Greg and Giles are as nightmarish as ever—Dad has them out for something in the Maldives right now. But am I invited? No. I’m stuck at home with Queen Maleficent.”

“Shh, she’ll hear you,” Miranda says. She hears G scoff on the other end and imagines her rolling her eyes.

“Yeah,” says Germaine. “And come and prick my finger on a spindle of Botox.”

“You should get out of there,” Miranda says, only half joking. “Why don’t you go somewhere? You could go anywhere you want.”

Like here, she means, but she doesn’t say it.

“I don’t know. Maybe I will. But M it drives me insane how they paint him as the picture of reform, turning his life around, doing think pieces about him on celebrities and recovery. But they don’t do anything except slander you, dissect your looks, post awful pictures of you leaving rehab ...”

“I know, G.” Miranda doesn’t need to be reminded of that. Part of her recovery plan was a strict and total ban on reading anything that’s been reported about her, at least until after her first project has wrapped.

Germaine sighs. “I wish I could come out there right now. I wish I could steal the family jet and be there before you can snap your fingers.”

Then do it! Miranda wants to say. She would give anything to have a sleepover with Germaine and Sicily right now, just like they used to back in their Kidz Klub days, crimping each other’s hair and watching George of the Jungle and talking about how they would rule the world someday—where they would live, what they would do with their lives, whom they would marry.

But Miranda already knows why Germaine can’t. She may be richer than all of them, even Sicily with all her international success, but it’s family money. And her family doesn’t like Miranda. They wouldn’t even let her come to the opening of one of their fancy hotels on the beach in Santa Monica, even though she was less than fifteen minutes away.

“We’ll find some time,” Miranda says, which is what they’ve been saying and texting for two years. “We’ll see each other soon enough.”

Germaine sighs. “I love you, M&M.”

“You too, G.”

Things are not exactly better. But talking to Germaine has given Miranda resolve. She feels marginally more confident the next day on set, and by the time she’s driving to the address George gave her for the production meeting, she feels certain that she’ll be able to convince the producers to keep her on. She’ll be honest about the backsliding she’s done with Tyler, straightforward about how she plans to stick to her recovery plan. She’ll show them the number of her accountability partner, Margie. She’s identified an AA group in LA that will help her stay on track.

She needs this job.

Miranda pulls up to the house in Westwood and takes a deep breath. It’s a more modest one than the mansions she’s seen—a short driveway and a bungalow style—but still smacks of money. She squares her shoulders and rings the doorbell.

George answers. “Miranda. Come in.”

He’s wearing a quarter zip and khakis. She steps inside and finds herself in a well-furnished living room with a Chesterfield sofa and framed posters of Holiday Heartwarmers movies on the wall, among other made-for-TV hits.

This is George’s house. And the room is empty.

“Am I the first to get here?” she asks, her mind beginning to catch up with her observations. She already knows the answer. But she wants to hear him say it.

“You’re the only one,” he says without missing a beat. “I thought we could do some one-on-one coaching.”

“Oh.” There is no question about what that means. She is here, alone, and she is being offered a choice. But part of her is still hoping that the other producers are on their way, that Tyler is here somewhere, that they’re going to talk about performance goals and strategies and other cut-and-dried things. She suddenly misses her mom. So, so badly.

“Because, you know,” George says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Without some coaching, I don’t know if we’re going to be able to keep you on.”

She needs this job.

Miranda shifts her weight. She tosses her hair over one shoulder and smiles.

“What did you have in mind?”

On the drive back to Malibu, Miranda pulls the car over on San Vicente Boulevard and throws up beneath a coral tree, vomit spattering the rotting fruit that has fallen on the curb below. She will not tell anybody about this—not even Germaine or Sicily. She will not let anyone know how low she’s sinking.