“Action,” the director shouts.

  “So how are things with Spencer?” Aurora asks.

  Instead of answering, I reach into my gown, look from side to side, and pour liquid from a flask into a plastic cup.

  “Josslyn,” Aurora says, “Don’t. We have thirteen hours left in our shift.”

  “I found Spencer in bed with a zombie,” I say.

  “Again?”

  “And right now, that same zombie is waiting for me in E-19. Bullet wound in her right breast.”

  “Do you want me to cover for you?” Aurora asks.

  “Oh no,” I say and take a long drink from my plastic cup. But instead of reciting my catchphrase as scripted, I decide to improvise. Using my imagined Juilliard training to be in the moment, I say, “I wouldn’t miss cutting this bitch for the world.”

  “Cut!” the director says. She turns away and throws up her hands.

  Aurora’s irritated. Muffled laughter leaks out from the crew.

  The director comes up behind me, leans down, and whispers: “We’ve discussed this, Olivia,” she says. “If you want this life, you’ve got to say your lines.”

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  Lunch break finds me searching for my trailer while casually pretending to be on a stroll. I round a corner and slam into gorgeous Miguel Bernardeau. His hair’s wet, like he just stepped out of the shower. But every other inch of him is firm.

  “Hey, Liv,” he says with a wink.

  “Hi, Miguel,” I say, surprised that I’m not more starstruck. I wonder if my calm around my real-life celebrity crush has anything to do with my being High Life happily married?

  By the time I finally spot my name next to a trailer door, I feel my eyelids closing. If I weren’t so tired from five hours of pretending to be an actor, I’d be thrilled: my own trailer! But right now I need to fall down on the softest private surface.

  I unlock the door, step in, and dead bolt it behind me.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp. “I’m home.”

  In this trailer I find almost everything from my Laurel Canyon bungalow—my childhood papasan chair, my lava lamp, the framed poster of Romeo and Juliet, the vase I “sculpted” back in high school, filled with a dozen of my favorite flower, the humble pink carnation. I sink into the papasan chair and inhale. It smells like home.

  I sit up, a flicker of hope within me. “Gram Parsons?” I say, but no jingling collar answers.

  My gaze falls on the only thing I wouldn’t have in my bungalow—framed photos of Jake and me. It’s strange that we don’t have any of these displayed in our house—only the carefully curated wedding picture in our library. The kind of photo an interior designer would approve of.

  The pictures here tell a different story. One is a photobooth strip of shots where I’m kissing different parts of Jake’s face. One is us on the ferry to Catalina Island—the camera catching my straw hat in the process of blowing off my head. Jake is failing to catch it, hand high in the air, and we’re laughing, my hair a disaster. Another photo has me straddling Jake’s shoulders in an infinity pool with a volcano in the distance. There’s one of us holding a koala, munching eucalyptus. In all of them we’re laughing. We look happy.

  I think of the moment in my journal, right before our first kiss, the moment when I’d gotten scared and almost turned away. But I hadn’t. Somehow, instead, in this life I took his hand and pulled him to me. And that instant led to these photos. This laughter. Memories I don’t have but Jake does.

  Memories that made him fall and stay in love with me. I wish I could talk to the me who spent the past ten years with him. I wish I could know whether she’s happy, whether she really loves him, too.

  Realizing these framed photos must only be a fraction, I take out my phone and open my Photos app. I scroll through an endless montage of our love. I can’t look at them closely, it’s too overwhelming to see my blissful face: a laughing selfie in the produce aisle at Bristol Farms, a million of us hanging at the house, napping, cooking, dancing, hosting parties, enjoying life.

  I swipe to the most recent picture.

  It’s the blurry pic I took last night of Yogi Rabbi Dan’s license plate.

  I text Ivy, because what are assistants for if not impossible assignments?

  Me: Say someone needed to track a guy down using a photo of his plates . . .

  Ivy: License or dinnerware?

  Me: Strictly vehicular.

  Ivy: California or out of state?

  Me: Oregon.

  Ivy: I’ll hook you up by week’s end.

  Me: Seriously?

  Ivy: My sister’s a PI, remember? She still owes us for bailing her out of jail.

  Me: Oh yeah . . . thank you!

  Ivy:

  I’ve just texted Ivy the photo when I get a text from Jake:

  Getting to Grauman’s by seven. Excited. See you there.

  Our plans for tonight are at Grauman’s? As in the Hollywood Blvd theater where every major movie premiere is held? I picture a brightly lit red carpet, a bland industry schmoozefest. I picture Jake in a tux, checking his watch, waiting for me—

  I won’t be there. Come seven tonight, I’ll be on the beach in Santa Monica, using a magical joint to get out of Dodge. But if I were going to a premiere with Jake . . . what would I wear?

  There’s a knock on my door. Before I can answer it, I hear what must be a key enter the lock.

  What the fuck. Ivy said I just had this lock changed. Who could possibly . . .

  I watch the dead bolt pop upright. My door swings open and . . .

  Aurora barges in, a straightened metal clothes hanger in her hand.

  She picked my lock.

  She sighs and collapses beside me in my papasan.

  “I know,” she says. “We need firmer boundaries. I’m working on it with Dr. Kenyon, thanks for the referral, by the way. But this is an emergency.”

  I stare.

  Are we friends?

  “Lily found out about Dustin and me, which is what I wanted, but I didn’t want it yet, you know? I haven’t had any time to prep my team and—don’t say it, I know what you’re thinking . . .”

  She’s still talking, luckily with no intention of pausing.

  I look at her, then the photos of Jake and me. I’m used to thinking of Jake and Aurora as a pair, a symbol of everything superior to me.

  I reach out slowly and put my hand on Aurora’s arm. I’d like her to stop talking, to leave me to my ongoing implosion.

  She looks down at her arm and draws in a deep breath. “Wow,” she says, closing her eyes and resting her head on my shoulder. “That’s really grounding. Thanks. So, you think I should go to Lily’s afterparty, wearing something I don’t mind getting ruined when she flings Bordeaux in my face?”

  “You read my mind,” I say.

  “You’re brilliant,” she says.

  “You mind if I leave at six tonight?” I say. I’d like to get to Santa Monica before sunset. I’d like to get home—to my real home—by bedtime.

  Aurora rises, nods, and blows me a kiss on her way out my trailer door.

  * * *

  • • • • • •

  At six I’m totally exhausted. I’ve spent hours insulting and operating on a gray prosthetic breast.

  I could rest up and hit the beach first thing tomorrow. I wonder if I could stay here and sleep in my trailer, the one familiar space I’ve found. Twilight’s falling and I bet no one would notice. Except Jake.

  What would Mom tell me to do?

  Call your mother, her voice finds me.

  I sigh and pull out my phone. I can’t use the excuse of the mayhem of being on set to put this off any longer. I open my web browser and start to type her name . . .

  Delete delete delete delete. My heart thunders, because there’s only one logical explanation for Mom not being listed in my phone. Something terrible happened in this world and Lorena’s dead.

  I don’t want to know that truth in any realm. I’d rather live with the uncertainty.

  I shove my phone back in my pocket and walk quickly toward my trailer. I pass a woman I recognize. She was at the wedding last night, doing the Griddy next to Jake and me on the dance floor.

  “Hey.”

  “Olivia, hi.” She smiles.

  “You were at the wedding.”

  She nods, points at herself. “Fenny.”

  “What do you do around here?”

  “I’m the head writer.”

  I wince. “I really should know that.”

  “That’s okay,” Fenny says. “Occupational hazard. Aurora calls me ‘Scribe’—”

  “Well, Fenny,” I say, “how do you know Masha?”

  “She’s in my book club.” Fenny tilts her head. “How do you know Masha?”

  My face must reveal that Fenny’s question feels like a stab, because she quickly says, “Oh wait, you used to be friends, right? Like in middle school? And your husbands are friends now?”

  My eyes fill with tears.

  “Dude, you okay?” Her concern is just genuine enough, and I’m just traumatized enough that I let it all pour out.

  “I’m having a hard day,” I say through a heaving sob. “I’m not sure what I’m doing. Or why—”

  Fenny laughs, looks around at the set. “Believe me, I know how you feel.”

  For a moment I wonder if this is a widespread problem, if no one’s actually from here? Maybe we’re all from other worlds. We wake up one day in this strange place with no visible escape, so we keep our heads down and try to blend in, flying by the seat of our unfamiliar pants?

  “I mean,” Fenny says, “I interned for Jez Butterworth! I dramaturged for Tom Stoppard! Now I’ve spent seven years in sweats on Skylark Lane, writing single entendres for a puerile doctor show.”

  “Ah,” I say, seeing Fenny’s complaint for what it is. “Good old art versus commerce.”

  “Everyone says how lucky I am, but I can’t help asking myself,” she pauses, before imitating David Byrne: “How did I get here?”

  “How do I work this?” I talk-sing, vibing with her.

  “This is not my beautiful house,” we say at the same time, breaking into laughter.

  “No one’s seen me here yet,” I confess.

  She nods, smiling like she’s trying to understand but doesn’t quite get it, and that’s alright. It makes sense that Fenny’s friends with Masha. She’s cool. Open.

  “Are you waiting for Philippe to take you home?” she asks.

  I was waiting for him, but now it hits me that Ivy would have instructed the driver to take me to Grauman’s, the premiere. And I learned the hard way this morning that Philippe’s not one to improvise on the road.

  “I’ve got a thing all the way out in Santa Monica. I was just going to”—I smirk at the irony—“call a Lyft.”

  “I just moved to Venice,” Fenny says, fishing her keys out of her bag. “It’s a teardown and a long story, but probably near where you’re headed. I could drop you on my way?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A half an hour and three construction-related detours later, Fenny and I have traveled less than a mile toward Santa Monica. Now my second sunset in the High Life is softening the sky, and I’m nowhere near smoking that joint and vanishing into a wormhole on the beach.

  “What the hell! No way,” Fenny says. “This detour’s taking me up to Hollywood and Highland?!”

  I cringe. Hollywood and Highland is synonymous with gridlock. It’s the Bermuda Triangle of LA tourist traps—the Walk of Fame, the Wax Museum, and worst of all . . . Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

  Where Jake is expecting me in less than twenty minutes.

  “Do you ever feel like the cosmos is fucking with you?” Fenny asks me as we settle into a lane hemmed on both sides by orange cones.

  “It’s more than a feeling.” I peer through the windshield at the standstill traffic, praying this detour will not take us directly past whichever red carpet my fake husband is on. I let my mind follow the worst-case scenario, glancing down at my jeans and leather bomber. I’m still in my clothes from set. Not dressed to be immortalized on Getty Images with Jake.

  At least my hair and makeup are done?

  No red carpets! If I need to duck down to the floorboard until we’ve passed Grauman’s, I will.

  Sirens sound behind us. All the cars in all directions with absolutely no place to go start honking. Fenny clutches her temples.

  “I should have let you get a Lyft,” she says apologetically. “I’m a little cursed these days.”

  “And I thought it was me,” I say, and she laughs. I’m about to propose we bust out Yogi Dan’s joint right here, and maybe I’ll lay bare to Fenny my whole, preposterous story—when the people in the Volvo in front of us get out of their car.

  And start walking toward the intersection.

  “This is the first sign of a zombie apocalypse,” Fenny says. “Believe me, I’ve done the research.”

  From behind us, more people emerge from their cars, passing us on foot. I can think of no good reason for this, save a zombie apocalypse, but it’s happening.

  I roll down my window, stick my head out, and hear the new single from Wet Leg being cranked somewhere up ahead.

  “That actually sounds kind of fun,” Fenny says, giving me a look, like should we?

  The alternative seems to be sitting here until we’re ninety-five. I don’t have that much time to get back to my real life. We unclick our seat belts and exit Fenny’s car.

  We’re a hundred feet and three dozen cars away from the busiest intersection in LA, and as we get closer, I see the problem. A food truck has flipped on its side in the middle of Hollywood and Highland. I rise on my toes to see what look like tacos . . . everywhere.

  Fenny whistles under her breath. More people pass us on foot. Everyone seems to be drawn to the scene, not by voyeurism, but by some force I can’t put my finger on. It’s a total clusterfuck, in a town famous for its road rage—and yet, somehow . . . the vibe is good.

  SUVs have their sunroofs open, with kids hanging out the tops and laughing. Two women wearing big straw hats dance past me like they’re in a Wet Leg video. A poodle with pink hair prances between cars, pausing for pets from the crowd.

  “Olivia,” Fenny says, taking my arm. “Isn’t that your husband?”

  I follow Fenny’s gaze up. To a palm tree on the corner where my fake husband is perched . . . twenty feet in the air. He’s not in a tux. He’s in jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. He’s talking into a megaphone, though I can’t yet hear his words.

  He’s not at a premiere. He’s—

  What is he doing?

  A stunt for his show?

  But I don’t see a camera crew anywhere. Just a few people holding up their phones. I tap one of them on the shoulder—a teenaged girl filming the scene from the hood of a black Tesla.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  She turns to me and blinks. “Oh my god, Zombie Hospital chick—your character is sus.”

  “Guilty,” I say. “What’s going on up there?”

  “It’s bonkers,” she says. “So this taco truck got T-boned. The driver’s fine, but the truck’s on its side. My brother went up there to try to get it upright again. And my mom—” She waves at a woman weaving toward us, both hands full of foil-wrapped tacos. “Ew, Mom! You stole tacos off the road?”

  “That man in the palm tree is selling them,” her mother says, defensively. “To help clear the street!”

  That man in the palm tree?

  “That’s Jake Glasswell,” I can’t help correcting her. “He’s not selling tacos, he’s—”

  “He’s the father!” a man in a nearby minivan calls out his open window. He, too, is unwrapping a taco he must have just purchased off the intersection.

  “Excuse me,” Fenny says, shooting me a quizzical look. “Did you say, ‘the father’?”

  “Apparently,” a lady in a Porsche leans forward to chime in, “there’s a woman in labor up there.” She points. “Right at the light on Highland. She’s having twins! And she can’t get to the hospital until they clear the road. So that guy”—she points at Jake, still in the tree, still speaking into his megaphone—“he’s the babies’ father—”

  “He’s not the babies’ father,” Fenny corrects the crowd of strangers. She points at me. “He’s her husband.”

  Now the crowd turns to look at me. Phone cameras swivel my way.

  “It’s Dr. Munro,” people whisper. “Zombie Hospital.”

  “Uh-oh,” the teenaged girl says to me. “Did you, like, know about his baby mama?”

  “No!” I say. “I mean, he’s not even my . . . not really—” I break off, feeling my cheeks go pink. This is not the time or the place for truth. So I say the thing that’s most obvious, most relevant. “He’s Jake Glasswell, okay? Look at him! This is just some stunt for his—”

  “Who’s Jake Glasswell?” the girl asks her mom, who shrugs.

  I’m about to sputter a laugh when I stop, a sinking feeling in my stomach. I push past these people and head straight for the man I swore this morning I would not return to tonight.

  “Olivia?” Fenny calls. “You okay?”

  “I’ll be right back!”

  It’s not Fenny the cosmos is fucking with.

  And suddenly, I can hear Jake, his smooth, warm voice amplified by the megaphone. It has a calming effect, even on me.

  “All right, folks, get ’em while they last,” he says, right as I reach the intersection and finally see the full situation for myself.