A hollow slam wakes me up early the next morning. Apparently, the bathroom door jams in its frame in the summer. Ben mentioned something about heat and swollen wood. He said to push down on the handle before drawing it toward you. Somehow, though, Sofìa still hasn’t figured out the trick, because she struggles with the door during every early-morning bathroom run. She’s the smartest of us three. She works for some big firm as a metadata analyst, whatever that means. But the simple mechanics of her own bathroom door elude her. I check my phone: five thirty. I close my eyes and try to fall back to sleep, but it doesn’t come.
These days, all my dreams are about my father. They aren’t memories, necessarily. Only images. Before Sofìa woke me up, I was somewhere familiar. In the passenger seat of our old Ford SUV, next to Dad as he drove us up into Washington, only vaguely aware that my mother was in the backseat behind us. I was transfixed by my father’s steady breathing—loud, short exhales that seemed to propel the car forward—and by these white foamy dots that peppered the asphalt in front of us, which the wheels were kicking up with muffled pops against the underside of the car. I asked my father what they were. In my dream, he considers the question. Finally, he points a finger over the wheel, just as we strike another one, and says, Toads.
Normally, my dreams about Dad give me a sense of safety. A feeling that there’s someone in control. But this morning all I can focus on is his clipped breathing. Like he had been running, and his pursuer was closing in on him fast. After his death, when the police asked Mom and me to accompany them to the station, we had both approached the Ford on the passenger side. Neither one of us had ever had to drive before, not when Dad was there with us.
The toilet gurgles and Sofìa yanks the door open. Through the haze of her curly hair, her eyes widen in surprise. “Sorry for waking you up,” she whispers. I lift my arms in a What can you do? gesture. She perches on my legs and groans. “God, it’s like sitting on kindling. Scoot.”
Nauseous from last night’s tequila and the humidity choking the air, I shift farther into the ratty sofa cushions, allowing her enough space to lie down next to me. She curls herself into a ball, nestling her back against my side, and I find I’m taking deep breaths like my father, like I’ve been sprinting, too. She smells like a damp forest.
“I think he liked me,” I tell her.
She flips herself clumsily over on the couch to face me. “I knew he would,” she says at full volume, the words practically echoing in the tiny apartment. “I’ll ask Ben.” She waves a tired hand in the air, as though to say, Later, when he wakes up. Lowering her voice, she says, “I love it when I’m right.” She closes her eyes with a satisfied sigh.
The rush of air tickling my cheek brings back a memory from last night, and it makes me flinch. At the end of the night, when Anthony walked me back to the apartment, I had stood up on my toes to give his cheek a quick peck, and he had brought his lips to mine. We had both drunk more than we should have. I was so exhausted, I was bleary-eyed. But for more than a couple of beats, longer than it should have, our goodbye turned into a kiss. Had this really happened?
I start to confess everything to Sofìa—though maybe I won’t tell her everything, not the solid pressure of his hands low on my waist, or the groan that seemed to have emanated from his throat rather than his mouth—but stop when I realize she’s falling back to sleep. One hand, tightened into a fist like a sleeping infant’s, lands on my chest. My heart aches at the intimacy of this touch. I don’t really have friends. Or I don’t make them easily. Back home, even though I’ve lived in our small town my entire life and I went to school with the same thirty faces since kindergarten, I hadn’t really spent time with anyone except Tucker. Tucker and my father. They were the only ones I knew how to talk to. I’m not sure what it is with me. Since I was little, I only had one friend at a time. Maybe that’s all I wanted, or maybe that’s all I could handle. I went from best friend to best friend. Sofìa was the last one, in my junior year of high school. Eventually, after a couple of years, they all outgrew me. It would begin with us not seeing each other as much. They’d tell me stories about what they did with other people. They’d invite me to spend time with those friends, but not all the time, so the gulf between us kept growing. In eighth grade, I summoned all my courage and asked Susie April Yamamoto, who had outgrown me that summer, what her secret was to making so many friends. Just the way she’d looked at me had been the answer—Don’t ask that question, that’s a start—but then she’d considered it, and said, “Most people think you’re nice. But that’s all they know about you.” Susie and I didn’t hang out much after that.
I must have fallen back asleep, too, because the next thing I know, a hand is jostling my shoulder. I open crusty eyes to find Ben’s face looming over mine. Sofìa mutters and buries her head in my chest. Ben pulls her up to sitting like a rag doll. “Seven forty, babe,” he tells her. “Time to get up and bring home the bacon.”
They share a wet kiss—it’s too early for that, isn’t it?—and then Sofìa staggers back to the bathroom like a drunken sailor. Ben turns to me. His voice is cheerful. It’s too early for that, too. “Good morning! Do I need to pull you out of bed, too?”
“No, don’t,” I tell him, repeating myself a few more times for good measure. Satisfied that I’m awake, he disappears into the tiny kitchen, while I rub the sleep from my eyes and check my phone. The dog-walker app, Walking Miss Daisy, has a few hits already. If you have nothing to do during the day, don’t have to pay for housing, and can stomach picking up after a team of dogs, it pays well enough.
I’m really checking to see if I’ve gotten any texts from Anthony. We exchanged numbers, just before that unfortunate kiss, in the shadows inside Ben and Sofìa’s lobby. I tell myself not to expect anything. He won’t be awake yet. Nevertheless, I’m disappointed. I had hoped he’d send something quick, maybe in the middle of the night. Some proof that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about me. Rather than moping around, though, I force myself to be the brave one and send him something now myself. In the end, all I come up with is Thanks for last night. By the way, what’s my character’s name? It feels almost like I’m trying to trick him into hiring me. I hate how drinking does that. How the next morning everything feels like a gigantic mistake. I hesitate, but I press send anyway. He did say I was perfect. Nevertheless, I drop the phone on top of my blanket like it’s a bomb.
Ben and Sofìa and I have refined our morning routine into a well-oiled machine, out of necessity. I can’t be in the apartment during the day, because Ben’s either writing or recording music in here. So while Sofìa performs a mysterious ritual in the bathroom—every day it sounds completely different and yet she always emerges looking exactly the same—Ben prepares breakfast, and I schedule my dog-walking shifts. Then Sofìa disappears to the office and I make myself scarce until evening.
On my first morning here, I hadn’t known what to do. Ben offered me a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal while Sofìa asked what I had planned for my day. My answer was stuttering and inane. Look for an audition? Apply for a day job? The next day, Sofìa told me, “Don’t worry about those auditions. We’ll introduce you to Anthony.”
Ben clarified, “Anthony Marino,” with as much gravitas as Sean Connery saying “Bond. James Bond.” And they both stared at me expectantly.
This was the beginning of my lie. It was better this way, for them to think that I didn’t know who Anthony Marino was, that I had never even heard of Reverence, or that they were close friends with him. They were so happy to tell me all about him. To brag about working with him. It was easy enough to play along.
“He’s brilliant,” Ben told me. “He hid cameras all over his family’s house. Microphones everywhere. I would hide in closets sometimes with my sound mixer, you know. It was—”
Sofia interrupted him with a concise summary: “It’s one of those really artsy films. I can barely understand it.” She flashed Ben an embarrassed smile. “But it is beautiful.”
“It’s like reality TV,” Ben explained. “It’s scripted to some extent, but it’s real. There’s a theme, but no one knows how it’s going to end. Anthony’s a master at creating a construct, then turning it into drama.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said.
“Not just interesting,” Ben corrected me. “Compelling. You get to know the actors. Everyone wants more.”
It was self-preservation, I think, that caused me to lie. Introducing me to Anthony Marino so I could be one of his subjects became a gift they could bestow upon me, as opposed to a favor I had demanded from them. Not that it had started out this way. When I left for New York, my only thought had been to get out of California. Reconnecting with Sofia hadn’t occurred to me until I got here. She offered me a point of safety. And then, like she was reading my mind, she offered me a new purpose. Something to run toward, as opposed to what I was running away from. I’m glad I lied. More than glad—I’m grateful.
Now Sofia hurries from the bathroom to the kitchen, racing through her breakfast. She and Ben stand side by side at the kitchen counter to eat, both riveted to their phones. They seem impossibly simple. As though it’s entirely natural they found each other and decided to love each other. I wonder how they did it. But I’ve never asked. You don’t question why a tree has decided to grow in one specific spot.
Usually I hurry to time my exit with Sofìa’s. Today, though, I linger. I take my time in the shower. I idle at the mirror. I perfect my makeup in slow, deliberate strokes. Trying to spend as much time as possible away from my phone. I’m sure Anthony hasn’t answered yet, but there’s a chance he has, and I don’t want to spoil the magic by confirming otherwise. And even though he apparently hasn’t yet, maybe he’ll contact Ben before me. By the time I’m done in the bathroom, Sofìa’s rushing into the bedroom to accessorize her work outfit. I nibble at the cool, congealed oatmeal next to Ben at the kitchen counter, while he politely waits for me to finish before cleaning up.
In a few short strides, Sofìa crosses the apartment, asking if I’m ready to go. I hold up my cup—now filled with unappetizing lukewarm coffee—and beg off. Unconcerned, she bestows Ben with another kiss. Turning to me, she wobbles on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek with a smack, and tells me she’ll see me tonight. I find myself wondering whether she’s happy or not I showed back up in her life after she thought she’d moved on from me. Sometimes old friends feel like mistakes, the same way you feel when you’ve had too much to drink. She creates a racket at the door, searching for the right pair of shoes underneath a pile of handbags and cleaning supplies, dropping her keys no fewer than three times in the process, then straightens up with a loud “Oh!” Sending an apologetic grimace to me, she asks Ben, “What have you heard from Anthony? About Betty?”
Ben dips his head, hesitating. And my heart drops. Anthony texted him already. He’s decided, in the light of day, he wants an actress with actual experience. He wants someone who’s more confident. Charming. That’s why Ben looks so awkward. Because he has to be the one to break the news to me. I didn’t get the part. I was right after all—last night was too good to be true. Maybe it had all been a lie. A cruel joke. And to complete my humiliation, Sofìa—successful, smart Sofìa—is here watching.
I’m opening my mouth to tell Ben not to say anything, it’s okay, I understand, when he finally speaks. “No decision yet,” he says. Giving my shoulder a kind squeeze, he adds, “But I’m sure there’ll be reason to celebrate tonight.”
“I’ll pick up something on my way home,” Sofìa says, winking at Ben as she unlocks the door. “A bottle of champagne maybe?”
Distantly, I can hear Ben’s reply—something about champagne hangovers—but I’m not really listening. My relief is too overwhelming. I’m being melodramatic. Insecure. Anthony offered me the role last night, didn’t he? Why can’t I just relax?
“The great Anthony Marino,” Sofìa intones, pulling me back to the present. She rolls her eyes, as though she isn’t completely starstruck by him, however long she’s known him. To me, she says, “I wasn’t even sure I was going to be a part of this, until a week ago. I’m lucky I could get the time off from work.”
“Anthony mentioned you were going to be up at the cabin,” I say, trying to keep my insecurity from sounding like an accusation. “But he didn’t say what you were going to be doing. Are you acting in the movie, too?”
She steps out into the hallway, shaking her head. “Don’t worry,” she tells me. “I’m not going to steal your spotlight. I’m like a glorified extra.” Before I can react, she disappears out the door.
“Don’t quit your day job!” Ben shouts after her. I imagine I hear a muffled laugh through the door, but it could be someone shouting outside on the street. With a sigh, Ben turns to me, his beard glistening with Sofìa’s saliva, and says, “You might as well get going. It’ll be hours before he’s up. And Sofìa’s right. It might be weeks before he makes up his mind.” He returns to the sink, watching me out of the corner of his eye while he finishes with the dishes. “Those puppies must be ready to piss by now.”
I’m taking a last gulp of cold coffee when my phone vibrates on the table—only about five feet away—and even though my heart skips a beat, I don’t want to jump to get it.
“Don’t worry,” Ben says. “I’m sure he liked you. He would have sent you home after fifteen minutes if he hadn’t.” He sounds defeated. I want to tell him about the kiss, but I’m not sure if it’s to reassure him or to preen myself, like a peacock. Ben reaches for my abandoned bowl and cleans it meticulously. “You are just his type,” he mutters. “Tall, thin, and lost.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound appropriately casual. But I’m actually seething. Tall, thin, and lost. What a kind assessment. “He’s not the kind of guy to give a girl a part because he likes her, is he? That’s not what you’re suggesting, right?”
“What are you asking?” Ben says, even though he knows exactly what I’m asking. And it occurs to me how hypocritical my anger is anyway, because that’s what my supposed audition devolved into in the end, right? A date. A kind of awkward first date. And I hadn’t exactly bridled at the turn of events. It’s pretty much what I’d ended up wanting, too, as confusing as my emotions were. “This is a serious film,” Ben tells me. “Anthony’s a respected director. He’s not going to fuck it up for a lay.”
“What does he want from me, then?” I ask.
Ben’s posture stiffens, but he doesn’t respond. I hand him my coffee cup, and he runs it under the tap, automatically.
“As an actress,” I persist. “What’s this film about?” I had asked Anthony the same question last night, and he’d deflected. He’d said this wasn’t something I should worry about. You’re perfect for this role, he’d told me. Which was a nice thing to hear—I hadn’t known how to respond to such a declaration, so that was the end of that discussion—but I have no idea really what might be expected of me here. I could use a little hint from Ben. The only solid bit of information Anthony shared with me was its location. His family’s summer cabin, though he didn’t even tell me where it is. A real remote place, he’d said, on the water. Made for this story, though I still have no idea what it is. “I should probably know what I’m signing up for,” I say, “don’t you think?”
Over by the couch, my phone vibrates again, and then another two times in quick succession. Only this time, my heart doesn’t leap into my throat and I don’t have visions of hearing from Anthony. Texts coming in this fast can have only one source. I haven’t returned my mother’s calls from last night. Even though we spoke two days ago—a conversation that had quickly devolved into an interrogation about my living situation: She and Sofìa’s mother are part of the same yoga group, she’d warned me, so I should be sure to be a good guest—she’s probably furious.
Not worried. Mom is a mother who’s exasperated by her own maternal instinct. Even if I went legitimately missing, I doubt she’d file a missing-person report. She’d be the one suffering the injustice, because of the stress I was causing her. When I was nine, in the emergency room with a cast set on the elbow I’d dislocated on a neighbor’s trampoline—I had leapt onto it from their second-story balcony—Mom had kept hissing at me to stop announcing how I’d gotten hurt, because I was making her sound like a terrible mother. No, she’s not worried for me. She simply doesn’t like to be ignored, especially by her ungrateful daughter.
Ben’s hairy hands turn pink under the hot water. His gut grazes the edge of the sink, so the front of his T-shirt is now damp with casualty suds and spray. He’s surprisingly delicate for his size. He’s stocky and wide, but it took a while to see it, because of the way he moves. I’ve only watched him mess around with his guitar a couple of times, but he plays with his entire body, not just his fingers. Sofìa said he’d make a lot more money sound mixing—whatever that means—full-time, but he refuses to give up on his own musical aspirations. He dries the dishes and replaces them so lightly, they hardly click.
“Ben?” I say. “You don’t think I should know something about this film? It doesn’t even feel like I’m being cast for it, you know what I mean? It feels like I’m being—I don’t know—judged. Like a beauty contest.”
He wanders into the living room and gathers my blankets and sheets from the couch. “It’s nothing like that,” he says. “Anthony will tell you what you need to know. When you need to know it.” He waves me away when I offer to take the sheets from him. “He has his own way of doing things.” It takes him only a few seconds to pile all of my worldly possessions—an overnight bag filled with clothes and one book—on top of my musty sheets in the far corner of the room. “Your phone,” he says, when it starts buzzing again.
I glance at the screen—Mom—then shove the phone into my pocket and put my shoes on. Grabbing my small purse out of Sofìa’s mess, I pause at the door. I’m still thinking about the film. Does Ben have a script I can look at? He must have something. This isn’t just Anthony’s decision. I’ve got to make up my mind, too, whether or not I actually want to do this. Finally, I ask Ben, “What’s it called? The movie, I mean.”
Ben’s phone lights up, and he is momentarily distracted, reading a text. His thumbs fly across the smudged screen. “Fear.”
I open the door. The coffee and oatmeal have turned into lava in my stomach. Fear? I thought Anthony said this wasn’t going to be a horror movie.
I’m halfway out the door when Ben stops me with a gruff bark. “Betty?” He scratches his thick beard, and he looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to shut you down. It’s just Anthony, you know? He isn’t very traditional, but he’s brilliant. He knows what he wants from all of us. If he didn’t give you any details yet himself, I’m sure that isn’t an accident. You know what I mean?”
“It’s okay,” I say. I smooth my T-shirt down my stomach, leaving a trail of sweat where it touches my skin. It’s so much hotter here in New York than I ever imagined. “I understand.” But I don’t. Ben clearly knows what Anthony’s got planned, so why can’t he tell me anything? He sounds so nervous. Like he’s worried about what he might let slip. I’m starting to feel used. In a way, at least. Like Anthony has some less-than-honorable reason for wanting to cast me, and Ben is on his side, helping him. At least I’ve got Sofìa. I’ll talk to her. She’ll tell me the truth. So long as she knows anything.
Without another word, I let the door close behind me. As I round down the seemingly endless staircase to the lobby, already late for my first puppy pickup, my phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen, furious with my mother for being so goddamn persistent. I ran away from home. All the way to New York. As far away as I could possibly get. And still I can’t escape her. If not now, I never will. This time, though—miraculously—it’s a text from Anthony.
Are you free this afternoon? 5pm?
And then, beneath it, answering my previous text, echoing Ben’s words from just seconds ago:
Don’t worry. I’ll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it.