Troublemaker: The Big Picture Edition (Name in Lights: Special Editions #3)

Chapter 1

EMILIA

Here I am.

I am so ready.

I did not miss my exit.

Because I am Miss Independent.

Now I am a warrior, a shooting star.

I’m so movin’ on, yeah yeah…

Etcetera.

I am here.

Now, after spending hours and hours unpacking, organizing, and rearranging the pieces of myself that I brought with me to this big bright bedroom in this big bright city, I am so ready to curl up in my overstuffed armchair.

I’m ready to think about what the next chapter of my life is going to be about.

This is the only piece of furniture that I brought with me.

I just want to dangle my legs over the side of the chair and write in my journal, with a mug of tea and Atticus in his dog bed nearby.

I just want to think about how lucky I am to have this chance to start over.

But I can’t.

Because a very well-groomed, well-intentioned asshole is banging on my new bedroom door and insisting that I go out with him to actually begin the next chapter of my life and start over—tonight.

My best friend, Franklin Baldwin, bursts in, belting out the chorus from “Defying Gravity.” He is all about me letting go of the man that I used to love so that I can fly.

If it weren’t for Franklin, I’d probably be dragging my feet all the way back to Brent’s place already.

Still, it would be nice to feel like I’ve landed at my new home first before taking flight.

“Why are you sitting down?” He claps his hands together, and my dog perks up a lot more than I do. “It’s time to celebrate! We do not celebrate being single by plopping down in nondescript armchairs that don’t match the rest of the carefully curated furniture in this house.”

“You said I could bring it.”

“And I’ll let you keep it as long as you promise not to spend the rest of the summer in it. Up! Get up!”

“Okay, but can we do an Eat Pray Love sort of celebration? But you know—locally? We could go to an Italian restaurant and then come home to meditate and watch a Javier Bardem movie. But not Eat Pray Love. Because we don’t like the movie version.”

“We can definitely do the first part of that, except instead of an Italian restaurant we’re going for sushi. It’s beach season—we’re low carb. Get up! Get up!”

Groan. “You aren’t going to make me wear a penis hat again, are you?

” I came to visit the last time I broke up with Brent.

Franklin took me out and told everyone we were having a bachelorette party to celebrate the fact that I wasn’t going to marry Mr. Wrong.

And then I accidentally got back together with Mr. Wrong again.

But that was the last last time I made that mistake.

As Franklin says, I only have a few years left in my twenties to make some really great new mistakes. So I’d better start now.

“I’m going to make you wear the full penis costume if you don’t get up off of that fat chair immediately.”

Franklin is my new landlord and housemate.

He has been my best friend since high school in Paso Robles.

He called me Hermione because I was a prissy nerd, and I called him Ferris Bueller because he was always trying to get me to take a day off.

Not much has changed in terms of our dynamic since then, although I am considerably less prissy.

He has been an in-demand interior designer in LA since he came here to study at the Otis College of Art and Design.

He has more followers on Instagram than most of the authors I read.

He is a quarter Jamaican, a quarter English, a quarter Norwegian, a quarter Chinese, 1000% gorgeous, totally gay, a nonstop bossy pain in my butt, and the only reason I can afford to live in such a beautiful house in Silver Lake on an elementary school teacher’s salary.

Franklin has been vehemently disappointed by most of my life choices ever since we met, but he was so happy to hear that I had finally decided to break up with Brent for good that he begged me to move to Los Angeles and offered to let my dog and me live with him for as long as we need to.

I insist on paying him an adequate amount of rent and a portion of the utility bills, of course.

But what I’m really giving him in return for this exquisitely decorated space is permission to push me outside of my comfort zone.

“If I go out with you this one time, will you let me stay at home for the rest of the summer and stay in with me at least one night a week?”

“Absolutely not, young lady. Why are you so opposed to having fun?”

“Why is fun such an important thing to be had? And who says it’s not fun for me to stay home with Atticus and do my crafting?”

“First of all—never say the word ‘crafting’ to me again. Secondly, it doesn’t matter how much you bedazzle your vibrator; it’s never going to turn into a real sparkly penis. This is not a negotiation.”

He pulls me up and then opens up the closet to pick out an outfit for me to wear. His face falls immediately. “Oh God. It’s worse than I thought.”

“What? I organized everything by garment type and color. The color scheme matches the color blocking of my book collection. See?”

He doesn’t even attempt to look at my bookshelves of awesomeness. One judge-y fist snaps to his hip as he flicks his other hand dismissively. “Okay, this is not an organized closet.” He makes a supremely dramatic, sweeping gesture. “This is a declaration of celibacy and a silent cry for help.”

“These aren’t celibate clothes. I wore these clothes back when I was still having sex with Brent.”

“You mean before or after you broke up for the last last time?”

I sigh. “No comment.” I may have had sex with Brent once or twice in the four months since we officially broke up—but in my defense—it was really boring sex and it made it easier for me to get over him.

And we were still living together because I didn’t have time to find a new apartment while I was finishing out the school year in Paso Robles, and it seemed like a better option than moving back in with my parents. And I was a little bit drunk.

Franklin continues to stare into the abyss of my somewhat conservative apparel. “Permission to take this dumpster fire of a wardrobe, which represents your dumpster fire of a love life, to an actual dumpster and set fire to it.”

“Permission not granted. These are very work appropriate. Seven-year-olds like and respect me when I wear these clothes.”

“Right, well, my grown man penis literally started shriveling up as soon as I saw these cardigans.”

“It’s taken me years to assemble this selection of fun cardigans.”

“That is the saddest sentence I have ever heard, and there is no such thing as a fun cardigan.”

“Could you maybe wait until you’re actually the host of a makeover show before acting like the snippy host of a makeover show all the time?”

“Just because you don’t see any cameras following me around, that doesn’t mean I’m not the snippy host of a makeover show.

And I’m about to remind you of who you really are and not who you thought Brent and your parents wanted you to be.

You know what the title of this episode is?

It’s called ‘Dress You Up in Self Love.’ Cue Black Eyed Peas song.

Commence shopping and makeover sequence. ”

“It’s very confusing when you reference a Madonna song and then cue up a Black Eyed Peas song.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his temples like I’ve given him a migraine. “Shut up. Just shut up and be your fun self, I’m begging you.”

“This is my fun self. Dude, I just moved to Los Angeles. And I just called you ‘dude.’ That’s like…next level fun.”

I get zero response for that, not even an eye roll.

I cross my arms and frown at him. “Cardigans can be very sexy with the right accessories, you know?”

He scoffs. “Did you hear that, Atticus?”

Atticus barks and gazes up at me lovingly. Such a big, sweet, nonjudgmental dog. Why can’t everyone be a dog?

“Ferris. I’m not going to buy all-new clothes just for one night out.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re buying quality secondhand clothes for every night that’s not a school night. I’m taking you to my favorite consignment stores before dinner. You don’t have to spend big to live large. Mantra.”

“See, but to me, living large means staying in to read a six-hundred-page book and eating an entire bag of white cheddar popcorn.”

He slaps his hands to his face like Macauley Culkin on the Home Alone poster. “My darling Emilia. What has life done to you?”

Good question.

I guess I’m not opposed to doing some harmless LA Cute Guy Sightseeing.

Okay, I’m so ready to do some semi-harmless LA Cute Guy Sightseeing.

Franklin entwines his arm with mine. “We are going to take Atticus for a quick walk, and then—cue Lizzo song—I’m taking you shopping for our nights out.”

Atticus is already up, tail wagging and looking back and forth between us. He’s such a good, sweet dog. Never any trouble. If I could find a guy like Atticus, I would date him in a heartbeat.

“Fine. But you better not abandon me for a hot guy.”

“When have I ever done that?”

I give him the side-eye.

“Aside from all the times I’ve done that.”

We make our way out of my cozy bedroom toward the front door. “You aren’t going to make me look fierce though, are you?”

“Only if I get my time machine working and we travel back to 2008. I’m thinking more of a sexy boho nerdy chic vibe. Like very Hi, I’m on my way to Coachella but I have to stop off at the library first.”

I can’t help but smile at that.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?”

Yeah. Maybe I am ready for this. Maybe I’m ready to meet someone new tonight.

The New Me.

I wrap my arms around Franklin’s waist and give him a squeeze, grateful to have this well-groomed, well-intentioned asshole to remind me that I’m not running away from a life that I don’t want anymore.

I’m heading into a life that I want, and it starts tonight.

With a sexy boho nerdy chic outfit. And sushi.

And one or two shots of whatever. Whatever it takes to make me feel like I can fly again.