3. Nepotize Me, Cap’n
NEPOTIZE ME, CAP’N
HIS NAME WAS TEDDY Finch and I hadn’t seen him since high school, though his username (@PhinchsPhotos) was a constant on my socials. I only had about three thousand and some followers at the time, though I didn’t let it worry me. As Grandma would say, Jesus had only twelve.
Teddy was a routine fixture, always liking my posts and stories, never actually approaching me but always observing politely from afar.
He liked or reacted regardless of how I looked or how much cleavage I was showing; whether my news was exciting and good or just something promotional in spirit, a glorified ad.
He liked the “get ready with me” posts, the makeup brush challenges, the pass the phones …
it seemed to me that Teddy had been a staple throughout the various stages of my life, beginning with that first performance on stage in my freshman fall musical—Cabaret.
I was a wunderkind Sally, peak Filipina in that I, like all my kind, can sing reasonably well.
Still, I always felt it was my grasp of vulnerability that sealed it.
I played Sally like she was Holly Golightly played by the ghost of Audrey, filled with regret that at fourteen I knew nothing about.
Teddy, meanwhile, was taking some shots of us in rehearsal.
His father was a producer, his mother an Oscar-winning director who was the daughter of another Oscar-winning director who was the son of a prominent studio actor.
Hollywood royalty, in that sense, though at a performing arts school with a de Witt endowment, there was a lot of that to go around.
Teddy only interacted with me once directly, to ask me to prom his senior year, when I was a sophomore.
I was already going with Jake Mendoza, and Teddy was mortified not to have known—so embarrassed that he never spoke to me publicly after that, only engaging with me tepidly online.
I would have gone with him to be kind, I think, though I was wary of Teddy even then.
Not because of his hormonal acne or his tendency to lurk, but because of the girls he’d already dated.
Katrina Chen, the valedictorian who’d been a year above him (tiny, nerdy Asian).
Sage Nakamura, who modeled for J.Crew (lithe, willowy Asian).
Liv Huynh, who went on to play water polo for USC (stocky, athletic Asian).
Beautiful, smart, accomplished girls who became beautiful, smart, accomplished women—all more accomplished than me, in fact.
I just couldn’t ignore the throughline, or what it might say about me if I was next.
“Anya Morris,” called grown-up Teddy Finch, jogging over to me where I was struggling with the door.
There was a gauzy sheen of perspiration glinting from his forehead.
He’d been stepping into a Rivian when he spotted me, a bottle of water sweating in his hand from the 7-Eleven next door.
“I forgot your family had a store here!”
He would have known about the store because he followed our social media accounts, all set up by my mom but run by me, the resident young person. I’d done a collaboration post once with my personal account and noticed that Teddy followed the store’s account within minutes of my posting.
“Teddy!” I said, injecting my voice with enthusiasm. “Wow, it’s been forever!”
Even I could hear the falseness, the tacit desperation in my voice at the sudden, warp-speed recollection of his lineage, the Oscars dotting his chromosomes like stars.
Still, I was a pretty good actress when I tried, and I knew just what he wanted.
I knew, too, that a little transaction wouldn’t hurt.
If I simply behaved like The One Who Got Away, who’d always secretly adored him from a distance, then perhaps that would grant me the latitude to one day ask So is your mom working on anything new?
How about your dad? Any chance they need a brilliant up-and-coming actress? I can be anyone they want me to be!
Which, unfortunately, was like saying I could be anything he wanted me to be, which left me with that familiar acrid bile in my mouth. (The aftertaste of the word fetish.)
Still, forgive my crudeness, but I’d swallowed a lot in my time.
Teddy leaned in for a hug, which I allowed.
He smelled expensive, cool. The acne had been dealt with.
He was taller than I remembered. If I’d met him at a bar or on an app I think I would have been readily taken in.
Even with what I did know, I felt myself think: If there’s a catch to this, I’ve done worse things for less reward.
My philosophy was very simple. (A prayer: If this dream goes unrealized, it won’t be because of anything I didn’t do. If I fail, it will be because fate conspired against me. Because luck is fleeting and cruel. But not because I chose to let opportunity pass me by.)
The wind gusted a sizable palm frond across the parking lot while Teddy said some things to me, various small talk things.
I didn’t remember them for very long afterward—I made a point, in fact, to forget them.
Things like: “Sorry that pilot didn’t work out, I thought for sure you’d really made it, what a cool concept that show was—”
“It’s fine, there’ll be something else—”
“Definitely, definitely. You’re so talented, something will come along—”
“Oh, thanks for saying that, yeah, I’m sure—” (A reach, a hasty subject change.) “So what have you been up to these days?”
“Oh, well, I was doing some cinematography stuff here and there—”
“Right, yeah! You were always so good at photography—”
“Thank you, thank you, but you know, finding work is tough these days—”
“Right, of course, the industry—”
“And yeah, I actually got a finance degree, you know, just in case. So, kind of falling back on that right now, thinking about getting into entertainment finance—”
So he was unemployed. I became aware again of pigeon shrieks behind me, the heat evanescing off the asphalt, the fact that I hadn’t checked my phone in almost ten minutes. Anything could happen in ten minutes.
“—but for now I’m working for Ara, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it? It’s—”
“William de Witt’s production company.” The words flew out of my mouth unbidden, like a punch to the gut.
My breath caught. The question of my phone receded from relevancy.
It occurred to me that the thoughts I’d had of William de Witt the previous night were quite possibly a foretelling of some kind.
So there was that for my inherited gift of portent.
“Well, I’m technically working for the humanitarian arm of the business,” Teddy clarified. “Will’s really into philanthropy these days. Right now he’s using the production team to make a documentary on human trafficking. Really meaty stuff.”
I could feel my ears pricking at the familiarity of “Will,” which I narrowly managed to hide. Teddy wasn’t born yesterday—he knew any connection to William de Witt was a meaningful one. I doubted he’d taken this particular finance job for no reason.
“Wow, that’s great.” I was breathless, my mind swept up in rapid calculation.
There was a play here, a simple one. I’d like his next post. He’d take the bait, DM me.
We’d chat. I’d ask him to meet up for coffee.
He’d counter with a drink. Loosened tongues could lead to something fruitful.
What would it cost me, transactionally speaking? I could survive in the red for a time.
The wind whipped by again, and I let myself be swept a little closer.
Teddy’s phone buzzed in his hand. “Shit,” he said, looking down at his screen.
“I was supposed to be back at the office by now. There’s this major gala thing downtown tonight, everyone’s been shitting themselves over it for weeks—”
“Oh gosh, go! I’m so sorry to keep you—” I’d be fine.
I had a plan. I knew this choreography intimately.
He’d post something from the gala and I’d DM to ask him how it went.
Everything would progress from there, effortlessly familiar.
The clearer the plan became, the calmer I was, the more easily detached.
I’d message him late, really late, like I’d just gotten home from something interesting.
Behind me, a seagull squawked in distress.
“Actually,” Teddy said. “Is there any chance you’re free tonight? I know it’s super last minute—”
“Oh?” I shaded my eyes, having pushed go on a persona: cool, busy, already trying to leave.
The opposite of how I really felt, but I wasn’t going to commit to something unknown.
My appeal—anyone’s appeal, if we’re really being honest—centered on being desirable, which was the opposite of available.
This I knew like the most critical survival technique.
You can have anyone you want if you simply withhold any evidence of your wanting.
“It’s going to be really cool. Mayor’s going to be there. Plus all of Will’s business partners.” Teddy gave me a wry smile. “Can’t hurt. Right?”
“Right.” I gave him a look, like game respects game. That was what he wanted. And anyway, he wasn’t wrong, even for the person I was playing. Even for the most indifferent person in the world, it definitely couldn’t hurt. “I’ll try to move things around. What time?”
He gave me the details. I shuffled mentally through my closet, already several miles away. He leaned in for a hug; I slid my lips across his cheek like we’d just missed each other. I brushed the side of his mouth and hit my mark.
“See you tonight,” said Teddy. In my head I was shaving my legs, taking my whiskey neat.
Pulling him on top of me. He had that West Coast ubiquity, that Angeleno polish.
Coke-white sneakers, lane changes with one hand on the gearshift.
He smelled like indigo sky, bonfires on the beach. Santal 33 and moral compromise.
“See you,” I said, and went inside.