Twenty-Seven Miranda
2028
In the banquet hall, Germaine has donned the DJ’s headphones and commandeered the turntables to uproarious applause. Miranda cheers along with the crowd as Germaine spins the records, totally engrossed in adjusting the bass and mixing one song then the next, jumping back and forth between tracks with the ease of a concert pianist.
Susan has turned the lights all the way down and the disco ball up, throwing glittering spotlights everywhere and bathing the hall in laser lights. Miranda takes to the floor like a pro, as comfortable here as she is at her club in Cyprus, feeling like a better, relaxed, and somehow more energetic version of her teenage self.
And she’s bursting with pride for Germaine—despite the hiccups, this wedding has been so joyful. Even Germaine’s irritating brothers are on the dance floor, doing the cancan with each other and bouncing around like goofballs. Her parents do a graceful two-step, and Tyler X taps his foot in the corner, hands in his pockets.
And Sicily—wow. Here she is, coming back through the garden doors, Kent nowhere in sight. Instead of clinging to her latest man like she usually would, she seems comfortable without him, at ease in her own skin.
“Where’s Kent?” Miranda asks as Sicily finds her in the crowd.
“I sent him home to LA,” Sicily says over the music.
“What? Really?”
Sicily nods. “I talked to him about what happened. He’d like to apologize to you, face-to-face. I told him maybe the three of us could talk sometime—but tonight’s not about Kent. We should just be having fun.”
Miranda has to admit she’s surprised. “Thanks, Sis. That would be really nice.”
“It’s the least I can do. But for now the past can wait!” She swings Miranda around in a spin.
“The past can wait!” Miranda agrees, laughing. One of Germaine’s cousins from the bridal party starts a dance circle, and Sicily hops into it, amazingly carefree.
But Miranda still feels something holding her back. There’s a tugging like a loose thread, like an idea she’s forgotten. It’s not because Germaine and Justin seem so happy. It’s something from the past that actually can’t wait.
She takes one step backward, then another, making her way back through the hall and past the dessert table and bar before she fully realizes where her feet are taking her. But soon she finds herself outside the hotel, in the grand circular drive, where a driver is leaning against a limo, on call in case any of the guests need chauffeuring.
“Zane,” she says.
He looks up, startled at first, and then a little sheepish. “Miranda,” he says, straightening up and brushing nonexistent dirt off the sleeve of his driver’s uniform. “Hey.”
“You should be in there with the rest of us,” she says.
Zane rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “I’m more comfortable out here these days anyway. Sounds like quite the party, though.”
Miranda folds her arms across her chest, looks down at her feet, and spits it out: “Germaine hired you to teach you a lesson. To show you how good I’m doing, rub it in your face or whatever. I already gave her a piece of my mind about it. I’m sorry.”
“That sounds like her,” Zane says with a chuckle. “I was surprised when she contacted my company, and even more so when she specifically requested me to drive. But I thought she was just being nice—reaching out to throw me a bone after all these years. I didn’t think about the implications until I started recognizing people I used to do two-hundred-dollar shots with. That really puts your ego in place.”
“You don’t usually drive?”
“My friend and I finally got our business off the ground.” Zane nods. “We co-own the limo service. But I do drive whenever we’re shorthanded.”
“You did it!” Miranda raises her eyebrows. “Zane. That’s pretty impressive.”
“Thanks. It’s nowhere near the kind of money I used to make doing literally nothing, but it’s decent pay by regular-people standards. And it’s ours.” Zane smiles, then looks down and nudges a piece of gravel with the toe of his shoe. “So ... are you doing good?”
Miranda hesitates, thinking of how short a drive downtown Los Angeles is from here, but how very far her old life in Hollywood feels from the spot where she now stands. “Yeah. I would say that I am.” And before she can overthink it, she adds, “I’ve missed you, though.”
“You too,” he says. “I hear you’re an expat now.”
“Yeah. Cyprus has a similar climate to LA, but I like it better, somehow.” She laughs. “Have you ever been?”
Zane shakes his head. “I bet they’ve got great windsurfing, though. That and scuba diving—those are my new things these days. If I could do it all over again, I think I would’ve gone to school for marine biology.”
“The water’s the cleanest in the Mediterranean,” she says. “Blue and perfect—you’d love it.”
“I’m sure I would.” He takes his hand out of his pocket to rub his chin, and Miranda catches a band of gold on his finger. She feels a slight pressure in her chest.
“You got married?” she asks.
“What? Oh.” He looks at the ring and sighs. “No, it’s my dad’s. I just like to keep something of him around.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Miranda shakes her head. “He passed? I didn’t realize.”
“Yeah, it all just caught up with him. He wasn’t the healthiest guy. They wrote a little blurb about it in Rolling Stone , but it was a small family funeral—he might not have preferred it that way, but I did.”
“I’m really sorry, Zane.” Miranda wants to reach out and touch him, but she keeps her arms crossed awkwardly, unable for one reason or another to step forward. “I know you were close.”
“Thanks, Miranda.”
“So peanut butter cup girl didn’t work out, huh?” she asks.
“Who?” He frowns for a moment, then laughs. “Wait—Chrissy? I can’t believe you remember that. Nah. She wasn’t looking for anything serious; I kind of was ... She wanted to stay in LA; I wanted to travel ... We were too different. Plus, those organic peanut butter cups got expensive.”
Miranda laughs. “Gotta stick to Reese’s.”
“Isn’t that the truth.” He fiddles with the ring. “What about you? Got some hot Turkish bouncer waiting for you back in Cyprus?”
“No. Not yet.” She chuckles, but there’s a quiet tension between them, a kind of sadness. The twenty-odd years they’ve spent apart create what feels like an impassable space between them. Maybe, Miranda thinks, Zane should have been the love of her life, after all.
“I hope you give yourself enough credit, too,” Zane says, breaking the silence. “For building a business, you know. I overhear people raving about it when I’m driving them around Beverly Hills. Classy atmosphere, the best hidden gem, unparalleled views of the sea. It sounds perfect.” He seems a little wistful. “You were always capable of anything you set your mind to.”
“Oh, come on.” It’s Miranda’s turn to be sheepish. “You know that’s not true. I pretty much bombed my own chances of a movie career, I’ve embarrassed myself in front of the whole world, I’m not famous anymore ...”
Zane has a small, bemused smile on his face. “You need to be happy,” he says. “Being famous again—would that make you happier?”
Miranda shrugs. But she knows it wouldn’t.
They both look down the drive, watching the sky sink from indigo to navy blue over the hills in the distance. They’ve drawn closer to each other, Miranda realizes, though she isn’t sure who made the first move.
“Hey,” she says. “What are your summers like? You should work at my club in Cyprus.”
Zane laughs. “Oh, come on.”
“No, really. I’ve been meaning to expand beyond the kayaking and parasailing we offer. If you have your scuba certification and you’re willing to get some teacher training ... you might just be the man for the job.”
“I could do that,” he says, thoughtful. “We’ve been wanting to promote one of our drivers to assistant manager—he’s a good guy. He could handle it. And, I mean ...” He looks her full in the face, eyes bright. “I would love that.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.”
“Look at us.” Zane shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Two adults with their own businesses, making their way in the world. Now we’ve both grown up.”
Something in Miranda shivers; an old feeling that she thought was long lost begins to come back. She smiles. “I used to think I’d hate getting older. But I’m glad we’re not kids anymore—we can be happy on our own terms. Run our own lives. Not care about what other people think.”
“Thank god.” Zane laughs. Then, in a way that feels sudden and yet perfectly natural, he opens his arms and pulls her in for a hug. Miranda presses her cheek briefly to his shoulder; it feels so good to see him again. Germaine may have invited him here for all the wrong reasons, but Miranda’s thankful for it. Without Germaine, she and Zane might never have crossed paths.
Now they can be friends again. Maybe something more.
“Get back to that party,” Zane says. “I know you’re a guest of honor.”
“We’ll talk, though, okay?” she says. This time, she means it.
He smiles. “We’ll talk.”
She practically floats up the steps, feeling a lightness that’s been long absent. Music echoes through the warm night and, inside, the dance floor is vibrant and alive. For the first time, Miranda realizes she has made peace not only with Zane but also with the girl she used to be—someone who lived only for the moment. Someone who was afraid of the future, maybe, because she wasn’t sure she had one.
Now the future is here, colorful, beautiful, loud. And Miranda knows the best is yet to come.
At the bar she bumps into Tyler X, red faced and sweaty from dancing.
“Hey, Miranda,” he shouts over the music. “I was thinking. I’ve had a lot of event experience, and I was wondering if you need any extra hands on deck at your club?”
Miranda smiles sweetly and shakes her head. “No!” she shouts back.
And then she walks away. Zane is one thing, but Tyler? Come on! Miranda doesn’t have endless patience. She isn’t the Mother Teresa of reformed starlets.
In the ladies’ bathroom, high on the heady joy of the party and the promise of all the life she has yet to live, Miranda wriggles out of her underwear and drops them in the trash. Her skirt is so long that no one will notice. Only she will know.
And Sicily and Germaine, when she whispers it to them.
3AM Girls forever!