Chapter Sixteen
Annie cried until her insides felt scooped out, hollowed out by an uncaring hand. Tears of guilt, of shame, of regret. And a sadness with jaws the size of a mountain that swallowed her whole.
She’d made a choice and it’d been the wrong one. She wanted to be a good person, but she was just a person.
Eventually, her tears subsided. Annie washed her face in the kitchen sink before returning to the couch to wait for Lola.
Finally, the bathroom door creaked back open. Annie scrambled to her feet, fresh adrenaline in her veins.
Would Lola leave? Never speak to her again? Scream at her for an hour?
On seeing Annie, Lola pulled up short in the hallway. For a long beat, they regarded each other. Annie had the strange sense she was meeting Lola for the very first time.
“Can I have”—Lola inhaled a heart-stopping breath—“some water?”
Annie almost broke a sweat fetching it. Lola downed it in three quick pulls, handing back an empty glass.
The pause between them lengthened.
“So…” Annie said. “Where do we go from here?”
“Part of me wants to run away,” she said slowly. “But I think I should probably stay.”
“Why?” Annie couldn’t help asking.
Lola’s hazel eyes looked darker than usual: the color of syrup held to the light. “I guess…when I’m with you, I feel like myself. And I don’t want to lose that.”
Relief cascaded through Annie. She could finally breathe.
They returned to Annie’s couch. In the corner, Socks snored softly. Outside, the rain was easing. Inside, things were shifting.
Lola sipped from the fresh pour of wine in her glass. “So I’m trying to be optimistic about this new film I’m in, but I’m pretty sure it’s garbage.”
Annie blinked, the confession catching her totally off guard. “Sorry, what?”
Lola sighed, looking down at her glass. “Forget it.”
“No,” Annie said, nudging Lola with her foot. “Say it.”
A beat. Then Lola let the air leave her lungs. “Basically, my big break is a feminist nightmare in zero gravity. I’m a blue-skinned bimbo with a complex backstory no one asked for. Honestly? I’m not that proud of anything I’ve been in recently.”
Annie felt surprised. Sure, Lola’s films weren’t winning Oscars. But she was usually good in them. And they were actual movies. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Lola looked right at Annie, her expression rueful. “I’m not living the dream, Annie. That was also a lie.”
Annie shook her head, unable to accept this. “But you’re a movie star. You’re living the life you always dreamed of.”
“I’m someone who’s paid less than the men around me, and while they’re stuffing their faces at craft services, I’m in six-inch heels and forced to indulge brainless interviews and sexist directors.
People who’ve never met me trash-talk me online.
My schedule makes it impossible to date or have a work-life balance. So yeah, sure, I’m a movie star.”
It hit like a small, electric shock: the truth behind Lola’s words. Annie had the sense of puzzle pieces rearranging themselves, making a new, previously undetected pattern. “Oh.”
“You’re right that this is what I worked for,” Lola said. “But I’m scared I’m living a life that suits everyone except me. I’ve worked so hard, for so long, but I never really pause to check in with myself.”
Annie shifted closer. “Check in with yourself how?”
“Like asking, does this make me happy?” Lola took another gulp of wine.
“It’s easy to delude yourself when everyone’s saying you’re doing a great job.
When you’re too overworked to think about your own feelings.
When you put yourself last on the list of people to keep happy.
” She exhaled sharply. “I’m in a position a million actors would kill for.
It doesn’t feel like I have permission to say, maybe I don’t want it. ”
Annie’s heart throbbed with empathy. “That sounds so hard.”
Lola rubbed at her eyes. “Everyone said moving to film was the right call. And it was, professionally. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t what I wanted.” She let out a strained laugh. “I don’t want to blow up my life, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that everything’s great.”
Annie kept her eye contact steady, while inwardly reeling. “Oh, Lollie.”
Lola’s old nickname—the one only Annie used—fell out of her mouth. Lola softened, a smile flickering over her lips.
Annie sipped a nervous breath. “Can you handle it if I reveal we have a trio of lies on our hands?” She braced herself. “My salon isn’t doing well. It’s not dawn to dusk dogs dogs dogs. It’s barely a dog a day. I’m not a hometown hero and I’m not too blessed to stress.”
For the first time since she came out of the bathroom, Lola looked amused. “I figured.”
“What? Who told you?”
“You’re still a terrible liar, Annie,” Lola teased, adding quickly, “which is a good thing.”
Annie blushed. “Incorrect. I lied to you. I told a twenty-year lie.”
“You did.” Lola’s smile faded into something sadder. “I sort of see why you did. But I wish that you hadn’t.”
“I know. Me too.” Annie reached over to squeeze Lola’s arm. “I’m so sorry I lied.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest, too,” Lola said. “Moving forward, let’s always tell each other the truth, okay?”
“Definitely,” Annie promised, meaning it. “One thousand percent.”
They stayed holding eye contact for another few seconds. Then a few more, and it felt like realizing you couldn’t touch the bottom at the deep end of a pool. Disorientating, a little scary, but also exhilarating.
Lola broke contact first, returning to the metaphorical shallow end. “So…you going to feed me or what?”
That she was still staying for dinner felt like a huge win. Annie lit up, even as she remembered she’d been too nervous about this conversation to plan anything. “Yes! On the menu…Spaghetti à la Spontaneity. The trick is there is no trick, or plan, or method of any kind. Prepare to be amazed.”
Lola smiled. “You’re a goof.”
“Fun fact: Only natural-born goofs use the word goof.” Annie got to her feet, extending a hand. “I heard that on NPR.”
Lola laughed.
The night relaxed into improvising some pasta, taking turns playing DJ, opening another bottle of wine.
Annie remembered how easy spending time with Lola was, like they were attuned to the same frequency.
They never ran out of things to say. They found the same things funny.
And now, nothing was off-limits. The air between them felt pliable and honest, as washed clean as the streets outside.
And then, it was midnight. Dishes were done, wine bottles were in the recycling. Lola lingered by the front door. “Of all the dinner dates I’ve spent crying in the bathroom, this was by far my favorite.”
Annie laughed. “You are very generous, Lola Wilson.”
“And you’re a good host, Annie Lightfoot. And a good friend.” Lola touched Annie’s bare arm. “Look, we can’t change the past. We can only move forward with what’s happening right now. A fresh start. The play.”
Annie groaned. “Don’t remind me. You’re Dame Judi Dench, I’m Judi Bench—sitting this one out.”
Lola giggled. “I love that you can make me laugh.” Her hand slid slowly down Annie’s arm to her hand, folding their fingers together. “We can do this, Annie. Together. You and me.”
Annie felt cautiously hopeful. She squeezed back, their fingers lacing together. Familiar and entirely new. “You and me…”
Time became slippery. Annie knew she should step back, mention being tired, call it a night—but she couldn’t let go.
Her thumb stroked the back of Lola’s hand, swirling slow circles over her warm skin.
She could feel her pulse in places she didn’t usually feel things.
Their hands were still touching, fingers sliding together.
Lola sipped some air, her gaze bright, on high alert. Pupils and possibilities expanding.
Annie wasn’t looking away. Her entire body warmed with a bright golden feeling. Every cell in her body urged her to lift her mouth to Lola’s parted lips. On instinct, she did, just a millimeter.
Lola moved closer, too.
A dog barked, sharp and close.
Annie jumped, startled.
Socks was awake, tail wagging with enthusiasm.
Annie dropped back into the present. The reality of what’d almost happened widened her eyes. She let out a shaky laugh, looking confused. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to…”
“Right—me neither.” Lola’s hand flew to the doorknob, cheeks flushed. “Too much wine. I should…good night.”
“Good night,” Annie called after her, heart pounding in rhythm with Lola’s retreating footsteps.
What. The hell. Was that?