34. 20 Something
“I swear to God, if TSA opens this thing and sees how much shapewear I’ve packed—”
“You don’t even need it,” I mutter, dragging my bag into the entranceway.
Three weeks.
This has officially been the longest Broderick and I haven’t spoken.
Space.
God, I miss him. His touch, his laugh, my vibrator and hand had been working overtime to fill the void—but it’s not the same.
“Hey, what about this one?” Riley holds up a skin-tight black dress that looks like it belongs to a Bond villain. “For the after party?”
I barely glance. “Sure.”
She squints at me. “You haven’t packed a single shoe yet. And you’re bringing, like, ten outfits.”
“Rio will probably have us covered.”
Riley lets out a small sigh but doesn’t push.
The apartment buzzes with that pre-trip energy—half excitement, half panicked frenzy.
Then comes the knock.
Not a buzz from downstairs.
I freeze.
Broderick?
Riley tilts her head. “Did you order something?”
“No.”
I pad over and open the door to find no one there. Just a small, cream-colored box on the floor, tied with a yellow satin ribbon.
No label.
I pick it up carefully.
“What is it?” Riley asks, moving closer.
I pull off the ribbon and lift the lid.
Inside is a wooden music box.
I turn the little metal crank on the side.
The melody fills the room in soft, lilting notes.
Sparks.
My song.
Riley’s breath hitches beside me. “Okay, that’s…either really sweet or super creepy.”
There’s a card tucked underneath the lid. I pull it out with shaking fingers.
You deserve love.
My stomach drops.
It has to be Broderick.
It’s a response to what I said.
Was this his way of reaching out to me? My heart skips. I miss him. So much.
But something about it feels off. The lack of a name.
“Do you think it’s from him?” Riley asks.
“I think so,” I say, sounding way more hopeful than I want to admit.
The music box stops playing.
Maybe this is the olive branch. Maybe this is the start of fixing it.
I grab my phone and head straight into the music room, shut the door, and sink to the floor, the cold hardwood seeping through the thin fabric of my leggings.
I pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over his name. Broderick Schwartz.
He wanted space. I hate space. I want to scream into it. My chest clenches as I press call.
It rings. And rings.
Voicemail.
His voice pours through the speaker—steady, clipped, like he didn’t even want to record the thing. I close my eyes, let it wash over me, then end the call before the beep.
I try again. Panic starts low in my stomach, slow and thick. I waited too long. Pushed too far.
He’s done.
Maybe he’s tired of my shit.
The thought slices through me. I stare down at the phone like it betrayed me. My fingers tremble.
Pick up. Please. Just pick up.
Still nothing.
I check the time. Cambodia is fourteen hours ahead. Middle of the night. Maybe he’s sleeping. Maybe he’s off-grid.
I pace in slow loops. The phone sweats in my palm. I hover over his name again.
I hit call.
Please pick up. Please pick up.
“Hey, you’ve reached Broderick Schwartz. Please leave your message and I’ll get back to you.”
I sigh.
“Hey…how’s things, stranger. You’re probably off-grid in, like, the jungle or something. Which I only know because Philippa mentioned it—not because I’m stalking you on satellite maps or anything. Ha. Anyway…give me a call.”
I hang up. Stare at the screen.
Call again.
I walk over to the piano. Hit three random keys—discordant, sharp.
Sit. Try again.
Please pick up. Please pick up.
“Hey, you’ve reached Broderick Schwartz. Please leave your message and I’ll get back to you.”
Ugh.
“Okay, sorry, that last message was…weird. So weird. I got your gift. It’s really sweet. Creepy? No, no—it’s sweet. Probably sweet. We should talk. Not in a weird way. Just—no pressure, call me?”
I snap the lid of the music box shut, then open it again.
Dial again. My leg bounces as I move to the window. Pull the curtain aside.
Please pick up. Please pick up.
“Hey, you’ve reached Broderick Schwartz. Please leave your message and I’ll get back to you.”
Still nothing.
“Hey. Me again. Shocking, I know. It just dawned on me that you’re probably, like, busy…
saving the world. Doing some Broderick Schwartz humanitarian magic.
I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.
I care about you. So much. You’re one of my best friends.
And I hate how things happened between us. I hate how I left things.”
It beeps reaching the message limit.
I drag his hoodie off the chair. Pull it over my head. The sleeves swallow my hands. I tug at the cuffs.
Dial again.
“Hey, you’ve reached Broderick Schwartz. Please leave your message and I’ll get back to you.”
“Yup. Hi. Still me. I don’t want you to think I regret what happened between us.
Because I don’t. It was—amazing. You’re amazing.
You’re…super great in bed. And like…a really generous lover.
Like…Olympic level. And I’m just…fucked up.
And you’re so good and kind and…ugh, what the fuck am I even saying.
Okay. Okay. Sorry. I gotta go. Call me? Maybe? Or don’t. No—do. Please do.”
I stand in the middle of the room, phone to my ear, hoodie sleeves balled in my fists.
Please pick up.
The voicemail box is full.
“Fuck.”
I drop flat to the floor, Broderick’s hoodie twisted around me like armor. The music box sits open a few feet away, still humming the last bars of “Sparks” on a loop—too slow, slightly off-key now.
My phone blinks quietly on the carpet.
The door creaks open.
“Babe?” Riley’s voice floats in “We’ve gotta go soon…”
She steps closer. I hear the paper rustle as she lifts the card. The soft click of the music box lid follows as she shuts it.
I stare up at the ceiling.
“Riley,” I say, my voice stripped raw. “I think I fucked up.”
She crouches beside me, her hand warm against my arm.
“You okay, babe?”
The question is so loaded I don’t even know where to start.
When the gift arrived, hope crept in—quiet, treacherous.
Hope that maybe he was thinking of me. That I still lived somewhere in his mind the way he never left mine.
Hope is a fragile thing, though, and now I’m lying here praying for his forgiveness…
and for proof that I mattered enough to deserve it.
The longer he’s away, the more he consumes me.
Every thought. Every pause.
And the strangest part? I hadn’t thought about Alex these past few days. Not once.
But now they’re both gone.
Maybe I deserve it—for being selfish. For not choosing. For ruining something good with Broderick because I couldn’t let go of what hurt me first.
I swallow, my chest tight.
Do I actually want love—
—or do I need to prove to myself that I’m not unlovable?
We arrive in L.A. and settle into a luxe three-bedroom penthouse suite—ours for the next week.
“Wow,” Riley gasps, dive-bombing onto the oversized sofa.
“Settle in today,” Mark says, already flipping through the itinerary. “Rio wants to finalize fittings for your Grammy outfits. Then you’ve got dress rehearsals.”
He keeps going—interviews, photo shoots, and eventually the Oscars.
“I’ve got a list of questions for you to review and vet for Wake Up with Cali,” Kylie adds, handing me a sheet of paper while scrolling through her tablet. “We should also practice some red-carpet answers so you don’t get caught off-guard.”
“Sounds good.”
“You’re scheduled for facials and vitamin infusions with Dr. Bronte,” Mark adds. “We want you glowing.”
I scan the list, crossing out questions about who I’m dating and growing up a Montgomery—both still too raw. I hand the sheet back to Kylie without a word. She nods, understanding.
“Can you arrange for Riley to come to those too?” I ask Mark.
“Woo,” Riley cheers from the sofa, already glued to her phone.
“Certainly,” Mark replies.
A knock at the door has everyone turning.
“Rio?” I ask.
Mark moves to open it.
Ava Edwards stands there, champagne bottle in hand.
“Welcome to the neighborhood, pretty lady!” Ava screams, barreling inside. She wraps me in a hug so fierce I nearly lose my balance. “I’ve missed you!”
“Post some content together—the fans will lose their minds,” Kylie says with a wink. She’s grinning, and I’m pretty sure it’s the first genuine smile I’ve ever seen from her.
“We’ll leave you guys to catch up,” Mark says, herding her toward the door.
The moment it clicks shut behind them, the energy changes—a quiet excitement fills the air.
“I’ve missed touring with you,” Ava says, already popping the champagne. The cork ricochets off the ceiling, and Riley whoops from the sofa.
“Hey, babe, come join us,” I call.
Riley sits up, vaults over the back of the sofa like it’s an Olympic sport, and skips over barefoot.
“Ava, this is Riley—my best friend since forever.”
“Well, hello, gorgeous,” Ava says, flashing that megawatt smile like it’s second nature.
“Oh my God,” Riley breathes, her knees visibly wobbling.
I laugh, warmth blooming in my chest.
“Not to be weird or anything,” Riley blurts, hands flapping, “but you are so fucking beautiful.”
Ava throws her head back, laughing. “I like her already.”
“Uh-oh,” I smirk. “Looks like someone’s having bi-panic.”
“Babe, I enjoy dick way too much,” Riley says solemnly, “but for Ava? I could be persuaded.”
Ava nearly spits her champagne.
Laughter fills the room—bright, unrestrained, easy—and it feels good to let go a little. To embrace the familiar chaos. To surround myself with people who don’t expect answers from me. People who don’t ask me to be anything other than myself.
Growing up, it was always Riley and me against the world. We had friends come and go, but we were constant.
It’s strange—putting myself out there, living, means meeting new people. Building something. New memories.
Memories I wish I could share with my mom.
I can’t help but wonder what she’d think of them. Of the people who surround me—who support me.
I watch Riley and Ava fall into an effortless rhythm—already bonding—and relief washes through me. Still, I can’t help wishing Philippa were here to experience this too.
“One second, guys,” I say. “I want to call my sister.”
“Put her on video chat,” Riley suggests.
I check my watch. It’s evening on a Sunday—she’s probably out for dinner. I open my contacts, my thumb hovering as I notice the call log.
Ignoring the sting of my unanswered calls.
I push it to the back of my mind and dial Philippa.
“Hey, Hollywood,” she answers, all smiles. Her hair is up, the background in motion like she’s walking.
“Hey! Look who’s here with me.” I pan the camera to Ava and Riley, champagne glasses raised.
She squeaks. “Hi, Miss Edwards—I’m a huge fan.”
“Please, call me Ava!”
“Is that Elena?” a voice asks offscreen.
“Yes,” Philippa says, tilting the camera. Sienna, Avery, and Natalie come into view. “She’s in L.A. for the Grammys.”
They all wave, talking over one another as congratulations spill through the screen.
“Table for four,” one of them sings.
“What are you up to?” I ask.
“We just finished a yoga class at Natalie’s studio,” Philippa says, “and now we’re grabbing dinner.”
“Oh, fun! Eat something yummy for my nephew.”
“Now that I’m not puking, absolutely.” She grins. “Have fun—and good luck.”
“I love you, Pip.”
She pauses, just enough for her eyes to meet mine. “I love you too.”
“We’ll catch up when I get back?” I ask.
“I look forward to it,” she says. “Grammy winner.”
“Yes!” Riley hollers.
“A clean sweep,” Ava adds.
“Don’t jinx me!” I squeal, laughing as the call ends.
The screen goes dark, but the warmth lingers—soft, steady, anchoring.
While my love life might be in shambles, my heart is full with the sisterhood of friendship.
After Ava leaves, Riley and I drunkenly sprawl across my bed in oversized band tees and sheet masks, staring up at the ornate wallpaper curling across the ceiling.
“Why does that one look like a scrotum?” Riley muses.
I snort. “Please never say the word scrotum again.”
“Scroooooo-tum.”
I jab her in the ribs. “I’m so grateful you’re here.”
“Me too.”
The words settle between us easily. The kind of comfort that only comes from years of knowing someone in all your messy, unfiltered versions.
For a while we just lie there in silence, watching the patterns above us twist into shapes our tipsy brains invent.
“So,” Riley says eventually, “when you win your clean-sweep at the Grammys, what’s next for you?”
I huff out a laugh. “Well, first I still owe the label two more albums.”
“Minor detail.”
“But after that…” I pause, surprising myself with the thought. “I think I’d like to travel.”
“Travel, travel? Or rich-people-say-they-travel but actually just go to the Hamptons?”
“Actual travel.” I turn my head toward her. “I’ve never met my family in the Philippines. My mom used to talk about them all the time. Apparently there’s some full-blown telenovela drama in that family history.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah. Betrayals. Feuds. Long-lost siblings. The whole thing.”
“I’m obsessed already.”
“But my mom’s sister might still be alive,” I say quietly. “I think I’d like to meet her. See where Mom grew up.”
Riley’s eyes widen behind her sheet mask.
“That would be wild,” she says. “So when do we fly out?”
I laugh. “Straight after award season.”
“Two babes leaving all this behind for sand, beaches, and cocktails?” she says.
“Yes please.”
“Sold.”
She turns her head toward me.
“What about you, Miss Fisher? What’s next for the world’s most talented artist?”
“Therapy.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “You’re joking right?”
She peels one edge of her mask loose and shrugs.
“I’m serious, you know I’ve dealt with some pretty fucked-up stuff in my life,” she says simply. “And I think I hurt Luca and I didn’t want to.”
“Because you like him.”
“Because he’s good,” she says. “And I think I might have ruined it.”
“So you’re ready to commit?” I ask. “To Luca?”
She wrinkles her nose.
“I don’t know about commit. But what Pip said at SORA…about actually taking care of ourselves.” She exhales. “That stuck with me. I don’t want to spend my life drifting around pretending everything’s fine.”
She glances over at me.
“Especially when we’ve both been given opportunities most people only dream about.”
She’s right. She’s always right.
I stare back up at the ceiling, at the scrotum-shaped pattern Riley ruined forever.
Maybe I need to figure out who I am when I’m not chasing someone else.
The thought sits there for a moment—quiet, uncomfortable, unfinished.
Then Riley snorts beside me.
“I’m serious though,” she says. “If we go to the Philippines, I’m eating everything.”
I grin.
“Even balut?”
She groans.
“Absolutely not.”
I laugh, the tension easing from my chest.
While my future isn’t written yet. For now, it’s enough to lie here with my best friend and imagine the next chapter.