Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Preparation Is Key
As I walk into the pitch-black auditorium, I catch a spotlight on the stage showcasing a girl.
I inch closer, getting a good look as she appears to be delivering a monologue, throwing her hands in the air, evoking so much emotion.
Each purposeful pause at the end of every sentence makes me even more immersed in her presence.
Her emerald-green fitted bodice hugs every curve as the rest of the material cascades to the floor. With puffed sleeves and a square neckline, it is a dress made for a queen.
Her jet-black hair is swaying across the stage as if she has been there her whole life. I catch her British accent more clearly as I move to the front row.
“I’m foolish for being near him. The way I long to be in his presence. The way the trappings of my mind are consumed by my longing for him. Nay, I can’t stop. And even though I’m betrothed to another man… I know my deepest desire doesn’t lie with him, but another.”
Her hazel eyes look on the verge of forming a tear before she rushes away behind the curtain.
A blinding light is peeking through to the crowd. The light grows larger, closing in on me until I can’t see anything in front of me.
Duas almas incompletas.
Duas almas incompletas.
Duas almas incompletas.
The phrase slithers in my ears in a set of three, hissing at me until another voice chimes in.
“Good morning, sweetie.”
It’s a cheerful, high-pitched tone that lacks any boundaries as she removes the covers from my face. The covers that were once shielding me from the blinding light coming from my window.
“What was that for?”
All at once, my head feels that pulsing ache after a dream again, processing in real time that everything I just saw wasn’t real.
“Did you know you snore in your sleep?” Skye shouts as I pull the duvet back over my eyes, refusing to start this day without a sufficient nine hours of sleep. Craving just a few more minutes where I can see more of the actress. The longer I am awake, the details of the dream blur in my mind.
Skye’s bouncing again, because everything on my mattress is moving, refusing to let me drift back to sleep no matter how hard I try.
She has enough pep to make me wonder if they served Red Bull in the afterlife.
“You know, you are nine days away,” she yells emphatically.
“God—ugh.”
My whole body groans. I sit upright, rubbing my eyes to see a little clearer through the light aimed at me.
“Can you shut the curtains, please?” I wince.
It takes me a whole twenty minutes before I can become fully human and start my day of strategic planning, mapping out the most uninspiring questions from the internet. The pitfalls of fame where they care about what you wear and who you date with a sprinkle of trauma mixed there.
I document it all.
She gleams with high energy. “This is your first day of work! Seize the day!!”
Skye is the physical embodiment of sunshine and rainbows, and I want no part of it.
She pushes me out of bed with a light shove on her part, moving my feet toward the kitchen, aiming my attention to the coffee maker.
Her keen sense of detail about me knows the only thing that can revive me is two Advil’s and a vanilla oat-milk latte.
I barely give her a smile as I turn on the machine. The smell alone after it finishes brewing leaves a satisfied grin on my face.
I’m ready to get started.
An array of pens, flashcards and my laptop are all sitting perfectly in front of me. I begin reviewing my Google Alerts for Holden, scanning every comment section I can find, picking out the most outrageous questions he could be asked and putting them on flashcards.
They all seem to fall into three categories which I narrow down in a color-coded system.
The first being his relationship fallout. I color-code this in red.
The next being his publicized behavior. I color-code this in green.
Lastly, his career reputation. I color-code this in blue.
Each card has a different color based on its category, and once I start, I can’t seem to stop. Even though I’m no longer working at Blackburn Press, I want to see this through for Holden. His brave face is mostly a mask.
We needed to prepare in case it falls.
Skye strolls into the living room, propping up her elbows on the table and resting her hands underneath her chin as she sits and stares at me. I refuse to let myself look up and be completely derailed.
“This will be awful,” I say, displaying all the cards I just wrote down all laid out in front of me.
“Ooo, let me see…” Skye abruptly asks before clearing her throat and reading one off to me.
She takes one in red and reads, “How is Sloane different from Charlotte?”
She barely finishes her sentence when I rip the card out of her hand, checking the card myself for what is listed.
“It does not say that!”
Skye straightens her spine and lifts her chin as I read the real question out loud: “How has Hollywood shaped the way you view relationships?”
She smirks casually. “It’s the same thing. You were even thinking of it.”
As if she is gearing up for another quip, Skye pauses, showcasing a contemplative look on her face.
“Have you even told Holden about the tickets?”
To my surprise, I was able to go from revealing I was seeing a dead girl and my life was in shambles to cashing in a favor from Lena. An odd but effective trajectory to getting something done for a client.
I shake my head at Skye, hoping the mail carrier will arrive soon. Lena mentioning they should be here by four with the two guest passes to the LoveSick premiere at the TCL Chinese Theatre.
“I am waiting for the tickets,” I say with my head down, scribbling away at another card.
“For what? For Sloane to give you written permission to come?”
“If I have them in hand and he sees how much trouble I went through to get them… maybe he won’t say anything?”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard,” Skye snaps back.
“Has anyone told you that you are abrasive?”
Before Skye can respond, there’s a loud banging at my door. I exhale once more before shifting myself back into reality and walking over.
Slowly, I take my time to unlock the door. I’m met with his floppy brown hair covering his eyes. He is wearing a formfitting white T-shirt, green cargo pants and that somber smile that always follows him.
“Uh, hey.”
“Hey, you…” I say, wagging my finger back at him, the most awkward gesture I could have done.
We haven’t spoken since the car ride back to LA. I hope he feels as uncomfortable as I do at this moment. Because I am stuttering, and as usual, he loves to live in silence…
Holden beelines to my couch without looking at the surroundings in the apartment—every misaligned picture frame and outdated piece of furniture shedding light on how different we are.
Holden makes no comment on the appearance of my place. Instead, he keeps rubbing the side of his left arm, waiting for me to sit next to him. I press my lips together tightly before heading to my spot on the couch. My cat, Mr. Freckles, is unmoved.
“So, what am I doing here?” he says, gently sending my cat into a deep lull as he finds his favorite spot to be pet.
“I told you, preparing ourselves. We have nine days left and I need you to expect what is coming?”
I leave my statement as more of a question, not fully knowing what to expect myself. A hard lump rises in his throat and he swallows it down at the mention of the podcast interview.
Holden asks, “What’s in that?”
He gestures to my coffee, wanting to take a sip of my drink. Without words spoken between us, I hand it over to him. With his lips almost touching my side of the mug, he asks, “You are still wanting to help me?”
I nod my head up and down, waiting a second to speak, not wanting to come across as too eager. So, I bite the inside of my cheek, pretending to sit with the question before letting out, “Of course, why not?”
Holden wets his lips after he takes a sip, passing the mug to my hand.
“Not bad.”
My focus is no longer on the coffee talk, but his forearms, his chest and then his mouth. I inch my body further away on the couch so our knees can no longer touch.
Holden is no longer petting Mr. Freckles. Just staring at me blankly, “So you are telling me that even though you quit your job and you have no incentive to fake-date me that you are still wanting to play along?”
My mouth is suddenly dry as I interrupt the eye contact with, “I quit Chris. Not you.”
A contained smile stretches over his face. Everything inside of me wants to desperately bring it back to the forefront.
“Besides, the only complication I see is going to be the interview. I just want to make sure you know what to expect.”
“I can’t pay you to freelance and work with Blackburn. I just signed with them.”
“That’s fine. Just think of it as a friend helping out another friend.”
Holden’s eyebrows are furrowed as he asks, “What are you gaining from this?”
“I am just starting out on my own, as you know. People won’t question us hanging out.” I flash a nervous grin, picking at my nail beds, avoiding his eyes once more. “I think I can do some good here. You can’t turn down free help, right?”
All I can seem to do is smooth the wrinkles in my trousers as Holden elongates his neck before scratching his beard.
“I don’t know, Char.” His words sound breathless, as if it’s a struggle to come up with a response.
“Are you really going to deny help for free?”
Never in my life did I think I’d be the kind of person to force someone to fake-date me in order to salvage their career, but here I am.
Charlotte Tate, the Fixer.
I cross my legs and feel a burning sensation run down the sides of them. A jolt of heat that stops me in my tracks. When I look down, my perfect latte is all over my cream, tailored pants I just bought the other day.
My cat looks guilty as ever, sitting on the rug with the emptied mug next to him.
Holden springs out of his seat. I stand up, staring at the state of my pants—a big, brown spot on the left pant leg.