Chapter Seven
Justin Timberlake accompanied Taylor on her drive through the hills that night, and the lighter traffic had her singing right along with him. The day had been full of twists and turns, much like the roads she took now. Her drink with Isabel was a definite bright spot and might have been partially responsible for her high notes.
The idea of spending time with Lyric Larkin on her silly nun show had been the opposite. Lyric was nothing but a potent reminder of a time in her life when Taylor’s own self-worth was startlingly different from what it was now. She didn’t think about those old high school days anymore for a reason, but alone in her car, under the veil of the night sky, she allowed her mind to travel.
Ninth-grade gym had always been the nightmare portion of Taylor’s day. Except, with a nightmare, at least you could always wake up. For Taylor, her high school years had seemed never-ending. Her mother had been a casting agent and her father a props artisan, which left her growing up right in the middle of Los Angeles and everything sparkly and shiny. This included the students at Hollywood High School, who floated through the halls without touching steady ground. To say that most of them came from famous parents was not at all an overstatement. To say that nearly all of them were beautiful, and rich, and highly judgmental wasn’t either.
If you weren’t a ten on the looks scale, you were instantly outcast. Your only chance at redemption was a famous parent to dangle in front of the elite as payment for taking up space. Taylor, being forty pounds overweight and from two unheard of parents, wasn’t even up for social consideration. In LA, it was far more acceptable to be a drug addict, liar, or common thief than it was to be overweight. She’d committed the ultimate crime and thereby existed only to entertain the students who came with names reflecting either exotic locations or sexy objects. Paris, Lyric, and Cloud, yes, Cloud, were the worst of her classmates and sought to make her life a living hell for sport. Did she report them to the administration when they’d left a live rat in her locker wearing the nametag Tubby Taylor? Of course she did. But things had only gotten worse from there. Centerfolds from Playgirl had been taped to her backpack when she wasn’t looking with the words “The Object of Tubby’s Dreams,” scrawled across the male model’s picture-perfect abs. Lower on the page, they’d written, “Tubby Taylor sucks on this.” As horrifying as the experience was, she never did correct anyone or argue that she didn’t dream about men at all—out of fear for how much worse things might get. Why give them another reason to paint her as different?
Taylor blamed those adolescent years for the extended amount of time it took her to finally admit that she was, in fact, gay. A failed marriage to a guy she actually liked and years of lying to herself were certainly influenced by her early need for acceptance. Now, she could shake her head at the lunacy of it all, because Katia Rolinski, with the dark curls and smoky eyes, should have cleared it all up for her if nothing else had. She was a grade older than Taylor in high school, and a good two notches above her on the social ladder, which still wasn’t high. Katia was scholastic and opinionated, not unlike Isabel Chase, now that Taylor thought about it. She argued back against the beautiful elite and called them to the carpet when they said or did something hateful. She snuck cigarette breaks and read poetry quietly to herself. Katia had captured Taylor’s attention when she’d debated their history teacher, for twenty straight minutes, on the merits of the English monarchy. She’d somehow found the nerve to mention it to Katia when she saw her reading in the corner of the library.
“I thought what you had to say in history class was spot-on.”
Katia had looked up and smiled. As in, she didn’t look past Taylor or offer a belittling comment. She saw her. “Thanks. I perhaps should not have argued, but I couldn’t stop myself. You sit at the back, yes?”
Taylor nodded. “Yes. I don’t say a whole lot.”
“And why is that?”
“Not a ton of people care what I have to say.”
Katia slid the chair next to her out with her foot, and that was the start of Taylor’s first real friendship since elementary school. They’d started eating lunch together at the back of the cafeteria to avoid the Bostons and Candles of the school. Katia’s exotic past was what kept the popular kids at bay and her torment level set to low. She’d been born and raised for the most part in Prague and thereby came with a certain amount of intrigue that got her a pass. She’d lecture Taylor in her thin European accent on the importance of environmental preservation, to which Taylor would nod and moon, and nod and moon, thinking Katia was the most wonderful and attractive person she’d ever met. When Katia left for college two years later, Taylor thought she’d seen the last happy day of her life. She’d emailed Taylor once just to check in on her, but that was the last she’d heard.
Taylor’s naïveté hadn’t been limited to her sexuality. She’d also had no concept that she’d go on to leave a decent-sized footprint on the world through the simple act of storytelling.
She remembered the moment it had all changed.
“What are you staring at, Tubs?” Lyric had asked one afternoon, perched atop her desk before trigonometry like the princess she truly believed herself to be. Her father was a television producer and her mother one of the most famous actresses in all of Hollywood.
“Did you not hear the question?” her sidekick asked.
“I’m not looking at anything,” Taylor said simply, politely. “I’m just waiting for class to begin.” To escape from the moment and their accusatory stares for her merely breathing the same air, she’d buried her nose in the leather-bound journal her mother had given her for Christmas and set to writing straight away, anything to look busy, anything to make them lose interest. It had worked. Lyric and Co. had moved on to discussing their very busy weekend of shoe shopping and party planning, but Taylor didn’t stop writing. She also didn’t employ the journal to record her thoughts, as her mother had intended. Instead, she used the pages to write a short story. And the next day, another. The more she wrote, the more invisible she became, wrapped in a world of her own creation, where she was in control and safe and sane. She wrote until she had more stories than she knew what to do with. Generally, her plotlines surrounded an underdog character who won out in the end, stories where the ugly duckling rose to power and showed all the beautiful ducks once and for all that she was worthy. While those kinds of tales were fantastically motivating, she moved beyond them as weeks turned to months and her pen kept moving. She wrote about dragons, and wizards, and stockbrokers, and teachers, and high school kids, and the elderly. No subject was off-limits or beyond the bounds of Taylor’s imagination.
“The short story you submitted for class is really quite exceptional,” Mr. Delacroix told her one day when he asked her to stay after his creative writing class. She’d selected the course as an elective her senior year, hoping to score more time to write. Mr. Delacroix took off his glasses and regarded her with a candor she wasn’t expecting. He seemed to truly mean it. For the second time, she felt like someone saw her. “I’ve never read that level of precise detail from a high school student, and I’ve been teaching a long time. I didn’t want to put your story down, Ms. Andrews. It was that good. Have you considered writing as a career? You have a flair.”
A flair. She took a moment with that. Someone thought she had a flair, and they weren’t just saying so to be nice or cheer her up. Mr. Delacroix wasn’t the type. “I’d like that very much,” she said, attempting to hide her smile and losing the battle. He thought she could be an actual writer.
“You’ll have to put in a lot of work, but I think it just might pay off. USC isn’t an easy school to get into, but you have an impressive GPA. You should take a look at their dramatic writing offerings.” He reached behind him and handed her a brochure. It felt like a ticket of sorts, and she ran her thumb across the bright colors and texturized paper, enjoying the weight of it in her hand. Taylor still had that brochure, tucked securely away in the jewelry box on her dresser. It was too important for the attic.
After that conversation, she’d found her stride and pushed herself that much harder.
In a remarkable turn of events, she was accepted to USC, and though she couldn’t come close to paying for it, she’d taken out a gazillion dollars in school loans to attend. She’d also tentatively joined a gym and slogged away day after day until, one pound at a time, the weight crept off. She’d learned healthier eating habits and how to not use food as a method of cheering herself up when she was feeling down—the hardest of all habits to break. The thing was, Taylor had never been obese. She just hadn’t fallen into the one percent, a necessity at Hollywood High.
What a strange feeling it was to receive an appreciative look as she walked down the sidewalk. The concept of people taking notice of her was foreign and odd and, well…not awful. Who knew that under the weight, she was decent looking. Maybe even, dare she say, the slightest bit pretty.
Working with Lyric in the here and now, however? A gut punch, and one she needed to wrap her brain around, and fast, before it undid years of work. No, Lyric Larkin and her crazy affinity for wacky nuns was not about to get her down again. She would fix that show, get back to her job, and find a way to stop noticing Isabel Chase.
Her to-do list was a lofty one, sure. But she’d been up against worse.
*****
The nuns, it turned out, were in complete and utter fucking shambles. It didn’t take Taylor long to come to that conclusion once she arrived outside the Sister Dale soundstage, two weeks after her meeting with Gerald. Members of the production staff walked past on the sidewalk like victims wandering around a nightmare. She knew that look. She’d worked on shows like this one, limping along without direction. The concept that you were weeks from unemployment could be suffocating.
“Hello, Ms. Andrews.”
“Ms. Andrews, hi. It’s so nice to see you.”
“Taylor, good morning.”
“Welcome to Sister Dale.”
The way the production staff responded to her made it clear they’d been briefed on her new role. The tiny bit of hope that crossed their downturned faces jabbed at Taylor, because she honestly felt the ship was likely to sink regardless of what she did. The world was less interested in zany nuns when they could have outer space, serial killers, and political warfare with just a flick of the remote control. It was difficult enough to keep a family drama like Water relevant.
“Excuse me,” she asked a woman carrying a large rug on her shoulder. “Lyric Larkin’s office?”
At just the mention of the showrunner’s name, the woman’s face fell before she remembered herself. “Through there,” she grumbled and pointed at the building next door to the soundstage and continued on her way.
“Thank you for the help,” Taylor called after her. She followed the woman’s directions and walked to the building much like the one she worked in for Water. She sighed at the thought. Water, where she’d much rather be right now. With her staff. Shooting her show. Living her life, not someone else’s.
The writers’ office was noticeably quiet, lacking the normal chatter she was used to, where staff bounced ideas off each other, off her, or just shot the breeze. The environment here felt sterile, cold, and solitary.
She approached a young man at his cubicle who typed with a ferocity she had to admire. Okay, so maybe they were just working extra hard. “Can you direct me to Lyric’s office?”
Upon recognizing her, he stood and ran a hand through his curly locks. The kid couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. “Ms. Andrews, hello. I’m Seth, a story editor on the show.” Another brush of his hair.
She admired the way it sprang back into place each time, like those Superhero punching bags from her youth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Seth.”
“Likewise. I’ll take you to Ms. Larkin’s office.”
Ms. Larkin seemed formal, but maybe Seth was just on his best behavior for visitors. Once he delivered her to an emerald green door, he said a quick farewell and dashed back to his cubicle. Eager kid.
“Come in,” Lyric called from behind the door. Taylor cringed. The voice could best be described as singsongy Kardashian and hadn’t changed in years.
“Lyric, good to see you,” Taylor said upon entering.
“Taylor, thank God. I mean, thank God! It is so wonderful to lay eyes on you.” She made a high-pitched noise in celebration. “How long has it been?”
“About thirteen years and four months,” she answered evenly.
“Seems like yesterday you were wobbling around the halls of our high school, and now look at you. Fantastic! You lost the weight and then got all successful.”
“Just to clarify, I’m not successful because I lost weight. Those two things don’t exist on the same plane.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Lyric said, and shimmied her shoulders several times in punctuation. “I believe all things are cosmically connected, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for a response. But you know what? Lyric had changed, too. Her medium blond hair was now garishly bleached. She wore it straight and long and it looked like she’d gone extra hard on the ol’ Botox. Her lips didn’t move a whole lot when she spoke, and her eyebrows looked…hard, like Taylor could maybe bounce a quarter off them. She kind of wanted to try.
Deciding to skip the rest of the small talk, Taylor jumped right in. “The studio asked me to step in, as you know, to see what I can do to help with the show’s—”
“Shhhh,” Lyric said, and rushed to close the door behind Taylor. “No one knows we’re failing.”
Taylor glanced at the door and back to Lyric, squinting. “Don’t they, though? The ratings are public knowledge.”
“Do you think they look at them?” Lyric asked, horrified by the concept.
Taylor hooked a thumb. “The staff? Only if they want to…eat.”
That prompted Lyric to burst into tears, and not the delicate kind. This was a mascara sprinkler for the ages. Taylor vacillated between taking cover or taking action. Her mature side won out. “Oh. Oh. You’re crying. Well, okay,” Taylor said, taking her by the arms and steering her to the plump pink—yes, pink—couch next to a desk with a bright green chair. She would marinate on the bold color combination later. Lyric always had been a trendsetter. Maybe Taylor was just late to the pink and green party. “We can’t have you crying,” she said, attempting to sound soothing and rubbing her back for good measure. “You’re the big boss around here.”
“I’m not!” Lyric wailed. “The show’s about to be canceled and I have no clue what to do. Everyone hates me. The network! My father! My father’s mistress!”
Taylor forced herself to move past that last one. “Well, that’s why I’m here. To help. This is actually something I’m pretty good at.”
Lyric stared at her. “I had no idea you were smart back in high school.”
Taylor stared at the ceiling and chose not to push back with “because you never once attempted an actual conversation with me.” But Lyric was already shuffling in the highest of heels around her desk. Taylor looked on in intrigue as she began to assemble odd and crumpled sheets of paper. She then took out a tape dispenser and pulled out the longest piece of Scotch tape Taylor had ever seen. “These are the scripts for the rest of the season. They’re in pieces because I got angry, but we can—”
“Is it possible you could email them to me?” Taylor asked. “Might be simpler than re-taping.” She glanced around, wondering what the chances were that she was on the hidden camera show that shot regularly a few stages down.
“Email,” Lyric said and took a lengthy pause. “Yes, I can figure out how to do that.” She quickly went to work on her computer, humming what Taylor decided was the Honeycomb commercial from her youth. She tried it out. Honeycomb, big, yeah, yeah, yeah. No, not small, no, no, no. It fit. She hadn’t been wrong, but the fact that Lyric had it running on repeat certainly made it hard for Taylor to concentrate on any work of her own. She also now craved cereal.
“Done!” Lyric said nearly half an hour later. She seemed to have relaxed, and a ghost of a smile settled on her barely movable face.
“Great,” Taylor said, taking out her laptop. She downloaded the scripts as Lyric fixated on her phone. As she opened each file, she picked up on a startling trend. “Hey, Lyric?”
“Yes?” Her eyes still hadn’t left her phone.
“Every single one of these scripts says it was written by you. Is that a typo?” No answer. “Lyric, what’s so important on your phone?”
She held up one manicured finger, and after a long pause, “Hold on just a sec. Candy Crush.” Unbelievable. After nearly an entire minute of silence passed, Lyric raised her gaze with a victorious smile. “Not a typo, I write everything myself. I’m a hard worker.”
“Everything?”
“All of it. Every word. Penned by moi.” She wrote the cursive of the word in the air and dotted an imaginary “i.” It would have been cute, if the implication wasn’t so tragic.
Taylor took a moment, attempting to latch on. She was starting to detect her first problem. “Well, then what about your staff? I was told you have seven writers and even some freelancers lined up for episodes later this season.”
“That’s true. I do. The staff is out there. At their desks.” She pointed eagerly at the door as if she’d solved Taylor’s problem.
She thought back to Seth typing so earnestly. “This is what I don’t understand. If you’re writing everything, what are they doing?”
Lyric took a moment. “I honestly don’t know. I just figured they had things to do.”
That did it. Taylor opened the door and walked to the grouping of cubicles in the space adjacent. “Can I have everyone’s attention?”
A handful of surprised faces rose from the dividers like meerkats in an open field. These meerkats looked nervous. Taylor pointed at the guy at the back, the one with the beanie. “Can you tell me what you’re working on?”
He stared at her as if unsure whether to speak or run. “Oh, you mean me?”
She smiled to let him know she meant no harm. “Yes. You were all very busy when I walked in, so I was curious what it is you’re working on.”
“Right.” The guy nodded and exchanged glances with his coworkers. “We were. Busy.” Clearly, he was refusing to commit.
“But doing what?” She turned. “Seth, I might need your help here.”
He did the rake and bounce with his mountain of curls. “I am working on a screenplay.”
“Same,” said the bored-looking girl across from him.
“Spec script for Thicker Than Water, actually,” Beanie Guy told her. He leaned her direction. “I’d give anything to work on your show, Ms. Andrews.”
“Fascinating,” she said, taking it all in. Was this real life? She took a minute to decide. They went around the room, and the answers all carried the same depressing theme. These writers were being paid full-time salaries to either work on their own stuff or twiddle their thumbs. She didn’t blame them for their choice.
“You’ve all been very helpful.”
Ten minutes later, she sat in front of a very angry-looking Lyric.
“I don’t want them touching my scripts.”
“That’s what they’re here for. They were vetted and hired to help you. They’re professional writers.”
“They want me to fail!” She started to shake. “I can see it in the way they eye me when I walk past them.”
“Lyric, they absolutely don’t want you to fail. Those are expectant looks. They’re just waiting for you to give them something to work on, probably longing for it. As showrunner, it’s your job.”
Her hands were up and moving around her face like spiders. “I think we need to take a break. I need to speak to the network right away.” Code for running to Daddy. But Taylor had a job to do, and the quicker she did it, the quicker she got back to her own show. She left Lyric in her office and headed back out to the staff.
“Meet me in the writers’ room in two minutes,” she said, breezing past their desks. As she waited, they shuffled in one at a time. Some looked excited, ready for whatever it was Taylor had to say. Others looked like they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar and dreaded the forthcoming punishment. She glanced around the room, making eye contact with as many of them as possible before beginning. They needed to know that she cared, but also that she meant business. They had no time to waste.
“As most of you know, my stay on Sister Dale is temporary. However, you can expect changes, and you can expect them soon. Be ready to come at me with ideas starting later today in our story breaking session. Script assignments are forthcoming. I’m afraid you’ll have to say good-bye to your screenplays for a while. See you after lunch.”
To their credit, the writers looked relieved, and that was an excellent sign. After a trying morning, Taylor knew she needed to step away for lunch and give herself some breathing room. She set off across the lot for the Water Tower Café and waited patiently in line for her standard green salad with chicken.
“Hey, there,” a voice said behind her. She turned around to meet the eyes of Isabel Chase. Though she’d only been gone from Water half a day, it felt like a lifetime. She had to refrain from crushing Isabel, someone familiar, into a hug. She missed her show and the people who worked on it.
“Isabel, hi.” She grinned. “And how is your day going?”
“Oh, you know, just doing some script polishing, which seems to be my usual, and then the screening this afternoon.”
“Right. The screening.” She felt her smile falter. She’d be missing it and would have to watch the episode on her own time rather than with her staff, which was their tradition. The line shuffled forward and Taylor grabbed a tray.
“Kathleen updated us all on Sister Dale. You don’t have anything to worry about. She’s got everything under control. You have fun with those nuns. Send them on the run. Give them guns. Write them puns.”
Taylor raised an amused eyebrow. “You’re on a roll.”
“I need to be stopped.”
“You need to be dones,” Taylor said with a triumphant smile.
Isabel covered her face. “Oh, man. I thought I was bad.” They chuckled and moved forward in line.
“I know Kathleen will be just fine filling in. She’s always been levelheaded and practical.” Taylor met Isabel’s eyes. “You realize that with me doing double duty, there’s going to be more work for you coming down the pike.” She smiled at the woman in a chef’s apron. “I’ll take the salad with chicken.”
“Kathleen’s already talked with me about writing an episode.”
“Oh, yeah?” Taylor nodded. It made sense to pull in the rookie writer, now that she was out of pocket more. “That’s a big deal. An entire episode your first season out of the gate. That doesn’t happen too often.”
“I better put up or shut up, huh?” Isabel laughed. “I’ll take a cheeseburger all the way.”
There was something about the confident way Isabel just ordered her unhealthy lunch that Taylor had to admire. She held up her plastic salad bowl lamely. “You’re making me jealous.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a reason I don’t look like you.”
“You look fantastic.” She hadn’t even hesitated. While a hundred percent true, it probably would have been better to have laughed off Isabel’s comment.
“Thank you,” Isabel said, and met her stare evenly. Yep, those were tiny little fireworks going off in the air around them, right there in the middle of the damn lunch line. Isabel accepted the cheeseburger that looked like heaven on a plate. But now Taylor’s mind fixated on how fantastic Isabel did look. Her dark hair was tucked behind her right ear today and she wore the most interesting lace-up flats with her black jeans. She couldn’t have been that much younger than Taylor, but she came with a devil-may-care exterior that Taylor found infectious, and with a more vulnerable interior that made her human.
Taylor paid the cashier and glanced over her shoulder. “Let me know if you need any consults on that episode. I’m sure Kathleen has made herself available, but I should be by the office tomorrow.”
Isabel nodded. “You’re on. And, Taylor?”
“Yeah?”
“Nuns in buns. You got this.”
Taylor shook her head. “For all our sakes, let’s hope so.”
*****
Isabel wasn’t sure, but Taylor might have checked her out earlier that afternoon. Scratch that. She had, and it had been life altering. Isabel had knocked the thought aside until the very long workday had ended, but she pulled it back out again as she walked to her Honda Civic. She hadn’t been hallucinating. Taylor’s eyes had run down her body for the briefest of glances while they’d waited in line for lunch, causing a noticeable shiver to roll through her. Thinking about it now had the same effect. Shivers galore.
“’Night, Jesse,” she called to the gate guard through her rolled-down window. “Don’t hit up that cigar bar behind your wife’s back tonight.”
He waved her off. “I don’t know why I tell you my damn secrets.”
“Because I demand it in exchange for Hershey Bars with Almonds.” In the few weeks that she’d been working on the lot, she’d made a habit out of dropping him snacks. She adored the iconic gate, so she had to adore Jesse. They went together.
“That’s true,” he conceded. “I forgot about that part for a short minute. See you tomorrow, Ms. Chase.”
“Call me Izzy or I’m breaking up with you,” she yelled, as she turned right out of the studio and into traffic. If she weren’t so tired, she’d have pretended to be mega-important as she drove off the Paramount lot, one of her favorite fantasies.
But no, still just her, a very tired version longing for a microwavable bowl of ravioli and a Mike’s Hard Lemon. The drink made her think of her father back home in Keene. With the three-hour time difference, he’d likely just be getting home from work as well and would be popping a Mike’s the second he did. He worked hard running lines for the local cable company and spent his weekends fishing with his buddies. Isabel was his only child, and he’d raised her all on his own when her mom handed her over as a baby and never looked back. Their life together had been simple—peanut butter sandwiches in front of the TV, not a ton of conversation—but at the same time, that had been comfortable. She understood her dad, and he got her right back. Their home may not have been bubbling over with large displays of affection and laughter, but he was always there, a sturdy presence she could depend on.
“So, you’re going to La-La Land?” he’d said, when she’d told him about her job offer. He’d stood on one side of the kitchen counter and Isabel on the other. He still lived in her childhood home, all nine hundred square feet of it.
“That’s the plan.”
“You nervous?”
She nodded.
“Nah, don’t be. You’re gonna eat ’em all for breakfast.” He’d handed her a Mike’s and popped one for himself. They’d cheered silently, and his eyes briefly filled before he sucked up the emotion. Because this also meant she’d be leaving.
“I’m gonna be back to visit all the time, Pops.”
“Course you are,” he said, and began shuffling through the mail. “And you’ll be right there on the TV. Stuff you wrote.” He ran a hand across his full beard several times. “That part is cool. My daughter, writing for the big Holly Wood.”
She smiled, enjoying that he thought so. “We’ll have to coordinate on Christmas.”
“Well, you know my busy schedule.” He glanced at her and then back at the mail. They both knew he didn’t have one.
There wasn’t a ton about Keene that she outright missed, but her dad was one exception. She made a mental note to give the guy a call and make sure he was eating.
When she arrived home at Seven Shores that night, she found Gia sitting on the stairs, third step from the bottom. She wore cutoffs and a sweatshirt, her dark hair in a braid that fell down her right shoulder, enviable tan still firmly in place. She glanced up from the laptop that rested on her knees when she heard Isabel approach. “What’s up, Iz? You been out on the town tonight?”
Isabel sighed, as that would have been something. Having a life. “Not even close. Just wrapped up at work. Not easy being the new kid on the block. Lots of busywork.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So, what are you up to out here?” she asked.
Gia shook her head, and it was clear that whatever it was, it troubled her. “Part of my life I hate the most. PR. I’ve found that fresh air helps me concentrate, so I’m giving it a go outdoors.”
Isabel tilted her head, trying to understand. “What exactly are you giving a go?”
Gia gestured to her laptop. “I have a publicist, and she’s great for sponsorships, things like that. But she also sets up these interviews that I hate.” She gestured to her screen. “So tonight I have these questions I’m supposed to answer for this important surfer blog, and they need them by morning.” She shook her head. “It’s not what I do. I don’t explain things well, especially on paper.”
“It is what I do, though. Move over.” As tired as she was, Isabel took pity on her dejected-looking new friend and took a spot next to Gia on the stairs. “May I?”
Gia happily handed over the laptop. “Okay, but you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
Isabel waved her off. “Please, Surf Queen. Let me do my part. Question one. In the Maui Women’s Pro, you never really found your footing with only seven point rides in heats two and three.” She looked to Gia. “I have no clue what that means. Is that bad?”
“It’s not good.” Gia shrugged. “Sometimes you have off days.”
“It’s rude of them to point it out.”
Gia nodded emphatically. “Right? Doesn’t stop ’em, though.”
Isabel nodded and refocused on the laptop. “So, the question is, how do you shake off a disappointment like that and go on to steal gold in the Cascais Pro just two weeks later?” She looked to Gia, waiting for her answer.
“Oh, you want me to…right. Okay.” She thought a minute. “Well, you push it out of your mind and concentrate on the wave in front of you. Nothing else. If you allow all that noise into your head, you’ll miss your timing and the wave will own you instead of the other way around.”
Isabel went to typing, doing a tad bit of polishing for the written version. She turned the laptop to Gia for approval. “All right, surfer chick. Survey says?”
After scanning the few lines, she beamed up at Isabel. “You’re a genius, that’s what it says. The problem is when I write my answers rather than just saying them, I come off sounding like an uptight idiot.”
“Then speak the words first and tweak as needed. We can do this one together so you get the hang of it.”
Gia shook her head in awe. “You’re saving my life. I don’t know why I hadn’t considered that.”
“Because it’s not your job to. Hey, Hadley promised she’d take me to watch you surf this weekend. Are we still on?”
“Saturday is a practice day for me. I can surf and then we can chill.”
“I’m in on the chilling, though I sound lame saying it.”
Gia nodded. “You’ll get better.”
Isabel gestured to the laptop apologetically. “In the meantime, we have six more of these. You ready or do you need to do a few wind sprints to gear up?”
“I think I’m good.” Gia nodded for her to continue, and the two of them hammered out her interview. It turned out to be a lot of fun, and Isabel learned a great deal about surfing, a topic she knew next to nothing about previously. She decided to file Gia away as a great source for surfing research, should she ever need it.
“And now I just have to attach my bio and I’m set.”
Isabel held up one finger and set to typing. When she was finished, she dusted off her hands and handed the laptop back to Gia. “Wrote that for you, too.”
“Gia from upstairs is the queen of surfing. She surfs better than you walk and requests a lightsaber and tiara in recognition of said accomplishment.” Gia nodded several times at the screen as a grin spread slowly across her face. “Can I have this framed?”
“I’d be honored.” She stood. “And that’s my grand finale. Until tomorrow, Surf Queen.”
“Hey, Iz?”
“Yeah.”
“This would have taken me hours to get right. You saved my ass. You’re gonna slay this new job.”
“Either slay it or fuck it up.” She lifted her hands and let them drop. “I think it could go either way.”
Gia quirked her head. “I’m gonna stick with slay.”
“I’m lusting after my boss,” Isabel blurted. She blinked hard, shocked by the words that had flown from her lips. “Hardcore. And I also really like her as a person.”
Gia stared at her. “Well, damn. Okay.”
Isabel shook her head at her own lunacy and walked to her apartment door. “Ignore me. Everyone should. I should ignore myself.”
Gia didn’t seem fazed and, in fact, was smiling. “Well, does she lust back?”
Isabel paused and turned back. “No, not at all. Except for maybe a little. Unless it’s just my overactive imagination.”
Gia stood. “Maybe it’s not.”
“It had to be. I’m a pathetic loser,” she said matter-of-factly. “My role in life is clear, and I accept it with grace.”
“I don’t know Grace, so I think you should stick with the boss.”
Isabel pointed at her. “You’re a funny one.”
“My advice? Follow the lust. Always, always follow the lust. Work hard. Play hard.”
“Are you speaking Nike to me?”
Gia nodded sincerely. “Nike gets life, and I’m not gonna be embarrassed for thinking that.”
“Mmm-hmm. Learning more about you each day, new neighbor.”
Gia pointed at her as she headed up the stairs. “Don’t forget the beach this weekend. Forecast is right for killer swells.”
She smiled up at Gia through the railing. “I can’t wait. Swells will abound.”
“And bring sunscreen for that snow white northern skin.”
“I’m feeling judged,” Isabel called out.
“At least you’re owning it.”
“’Night, Surf Queen.”
“’Night, Iz.”
When she snuggled into bed that night, Isabel could no longer escape it. As she ruminated on her day, her week, her struggles with Scruffy, her attraction to Taylor, she was hit with a jolt of crippling imposter syndrome. While she hadn’t had another panic attack since arriving in LA, she consistently felt them looming, circling like vultures. The little voice in the back of her head seemed to gain more and more momentum as the days rolled forward.
It’s only a matter of time before they realize you have no idea what you’re doing. You’re out of your league, and soon everyone will know.
You’re not good enough.
You never will be.
Go home.
She blinked hard against the mental assault. Tears pooled and her heart felt like it might break out of her chest. Deep breaths, she reminded herself. She sucked in air, and as the ringing in her ears hit, the sense of dread descended over her like a straitjacket. She gripped the sheets and balled her fists and waited for the self-imposed prison to release her.