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  I squeeze Sabrina’s hand. She mouths, “Don’t cry,” but when Jason’s eyes well with tears as he watches his bride approach, I can’t help it. I think about Will, taken much too soon. He won’t ever have a wedding or become somebody’s husband. There are so many things he’ll never get to do. I pull a Kleenex out of my purse and dab at my eyes.

  Out of the blue, I get an odd sensation that someone is staring at me. I glance to my right and chance a glance directly behind me, but everyone’s attention appears trained on the bride and groom. I look to my left, and there he is. White Teeth from Sarah’s party. Our eyes lock for a brief second.

  I turn my attention back to the ceremony as Jason and Sarah begin their vows. The officiate declares them man and wife. They clasp hands and triumphantly retreat down the aisle as strains of “Air on the G String” by Bach fills the air. It’s hard to forget a title like that. I know nothing about classical music, but when Sarah told me the title of their recessional song, we laughed hysterically for far too long like immature twelve-year old boys.

  The flustered wedding planner commandeers the mic, but drops it with a screeching thud before saying a word. She bends over awkwardly to retrieve it then announces that the guests are welcome to partake in cocktail hour. Afterwards, everyone will walk over to the adjacent building on the other side of the parking lot where the reception will be held. Sarah took a chance on the wedding planner because she wanted to help an up and coming small business and she offered a good price. Not that she needs to worry about costs anymore, but she can’t help it because she always has. She knew her wedding planner was new to the business but a few weeks in, she found out that this was literally her second wedding and her first with a similar location set up. It’s also the largest wedding she’s ever done.

  “That was so beautiful! Short and sweet,” I say to Sabrina as we dig our feet into the sand and make our way towards the cocktail area. “If I ever get married and get to have a wedding, I want it to be just like this.”

  “It’s beautiful and all, but it’s too much fuss for me. I’d much rather run off to Tahiti—or, no, The Maldives—and elope.”

  “Yeah, except your dad would disown you if he doesn’t get to watch you and Ben walk down the aisle. And what if your handsome groom wants a wedding?”

  “That’s fine,” she laughs. “As long as he’s already paid for our honeymoon, which is really the main event. Anyway, what man in their right mind willingly goes through all of this if he doesn’t have to?” she says, waving her hands around in a sweeping motion. “And I am not marrying Ben.”

  “Well, Jason seems to be enjoying all of this and I wouldn’t count Ben out just yet. How is Ben, by the way?”

  “He’s been helping me study for the law school admission test. I take it soon.”

  “What, you’re applying to Law School?”

  “Yes. And you’d know this if you hadn’t shut me out of your life for an entire month.”

  Sabrina, ever the hard ass, wasn’t quite ready to forgive me.

  “Anyway, I have to be realistic here. As much as my heart tells me to say screw it and go to Fashion Design School, I don’t know what my life looks like if it’s not parentally subsidized. Tuition to the school I want to go to is not cheap. I’m a spoiled brat and trust me, I hate myself for it—but I don’t know how I’d handle it if I had to oh, you know, pay rent instead of shop. I blame my father for my total lack of independence and he blames me, so I don’t know whose fault it is that I ended up this way.”

  “It’s a tough choice either way. I’m pretty sure I know what I’d do, but I’m not in your shoes,” I say.

  “My options are—Option A. law school and parental support. The only thing I’d hate worse than that is pulling my fingernails off one by one. Option B. fashion design school, which I’d love, but no parental support, which I would not love. Or there’s option C. I continue as is, drifting aimlessly through life until parental support ends and I’m out of options. He’s getting close to making an executive order.”

  “Just go to fashion design school! We can rent a low budget apartment in Los Angeles and eat ramen together. I’ll teach you how to be poor.”

  Sabrina shakes her head and laughs. “Oh, you are way too generous! Well...we’ll see what happens. I’ll do Agency Day no matter what though. It could still potentially buy me more time if I can convince him that it’s helping me on my path of discovery to law school.”

  A restaurant with no walls in the middle of the beach springs to life for cocktail hour. They must have spent a small fortune on flowers alone. Each white cloth covered table holds a fresh flower arrangement of pink peonies tied with silver ribbons in a thick glass vase on a bed of silver and turquoise confetti. I grab a glass of champagne from a suit and bow tie clad server as we walk towards the appetizer table.

  That’s where I see him again, pausing for a picture with the same petite woman wearing a clingy silver dress he was sitting next to during the ceremony. I steer Sabrina in the opposite direction.

  “Hey, I thought we were getting appetizers,” Sabrina protests.

  “They’re also serving them,” I say, grabbing her arm and leading her to a table at the very edge of the seating area. We sit just as a server comes around to offer us a selection of small bites to tide us over until the reception.

  “So, are you okay?” Sabrina asks. “I’m so sorry about Will. That is truly awful.”

  I nod my head slowly and smile. “I’m better.”

  “Sorry I’m being such a bitch about it, but we were really worried about you.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I shut down. It was easier to disappear.”

  I’m embarrassed to admit this to Sabrina but it needs to be said out loud, and it’s time I let my friend be my friend. I can’t keep it all inside forever.

  “I wished I was dead,” I say. “Dead like Will. I hated myself for not having the guts to commit suicide.”

  “Lexi, that’s awful. I hate that you didn’t feel like you could talk to me. I think you should consider therapy. It may help.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s happened before, and I’m mostly functional. I’ve had to be because the show must go on, you know? This time was different. I couldn’t get out of bed, but I also didn’t have a job to go to so I didn’t have to. I had these horrible thoughts, but I knew I wasn’t going to act on them. It never felt serious enough to ask for help, but I can’t afford it now anyway.”

  And that was another thing seriously weighing on my mind. I can barely afford rent. I’m living my parent’s life right now in a parallel universe.

  “I’m glad you’re doing better, and I’m so glad you’re going to Agency Day.”

  “Me too. Thanks to you.”

  “That’s what friends are for. And just so you know, it really pisses me off that you gave up on yourself.”

  “I know, and let’s just say I’m working on it.”

  “Good. You do that,” Sabrina replies with an exaggerated huff but punctuated with a reluctant smile.

  I take a small sip of champagne, settling back into my chair to enjoy the classical music playing over the loud speakers. I spot Brandy the blogger with her perfect waves blowing in the wind, clustered among the same circle of friends Tessa and I introduced ourselves to at Sarah’s house warming party.

  “You look great, by the way.”

  “I think I’m finally learning how to not eat my feelings,” I reply, proudly nibbling on a mini quiche.

  The wedding planner runs past our table, shrieking about missing baskets and baby wipes while her assistant tries to calm her down. Her hair has gone flat against her head and dark circles of sweat spread outward beneath her armpits.

  Michelle, Angela and their husbands walk towards us.

  “Mind if we sit?” Angela says gleefully with a megawatt smile on her face. She sits before we’ve answered, setting down a plate laden with appetizers in front of her.

  Michelle leans back awkwardly,
easing herself down upon a chair while holding onto her husband’s hand. Their husbands wave, then stand off to the side, engaged in their own conversation.

  “You remember Sabrina, right?” I say to Michelle.

  “Yes, I do. Hi! I just needed to sit down for a minute. We’re actually going to go soon,” she says, gesturing towards her husband. “My feet are killing me. Thank goodness I didn’t have to wear shoes because none of them fit. I feel gigantic. I don’t think I’ll make it through the reception. I was hoping to say goodbye to Sarah before we take off, but I don’t think it’s going to be possible.” Over two hundred people RSVP’d. Sarah’s wedding is huge.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll tell her that you weren’t feeling well and had to leave,” Angela says, disdainfully eyeing Michelle’s large belly and sweaty brow. “God, I don’t know how you do it,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Yeah. I don’t either,” Michelle says dismally.

  “So, are you a famous actress in Hollywood yet?” Angela asks.

  “No. Not yet,” I reply.

  “Well, you might consider that you got scammed. Modeling school in your twenties when real models are discovered as teenagers on the beaches of Brazil...”

  I cut her off. “Contrary to popular belief, those ‘modeling schools’ have a lot more to offer than just modeling classes and I didn’t sign up to become a model. But oddly enough, I’m starting to look like one. The diet and nutrition segment was very useful.”

  “Actually, you should look into it,” Sabrina pipes up, making eye contact with Angela’s heaping plate of food.

  The smug smile fades from her face and she eyes me indignantly.

  “Ready for more appetizers? Lexi is getting so model thin these days, we need to fatten her up.” Sabrina stands.

  “Yes. Starving,” I say right behind her, sucking in my stomach and throwing back my shoulders to emphasize my newfound slimness.

  “Feel better,” I say to Michelle. She’s not going back to work after she has the baby, so I wonder who Angela will choose to boss around next.

  “What is wrong with that girl?” I ask through clenched teeth as we walk in the general direction of the appetizer table.

  “She’s so unhappy with herself and the crappy marriage she connived her way into that she has to pretend is perfect. She puts others down to make herself feel better. I thought you said she was a chronic dieter?”

  “She is, but she never loses any weight.”

  The wedding planner announces that it’s time to transition over to the reception. We make our way towards a table set up with white baskets full of wet wipes with for your feet written in black script tied with a turquoise ribbon. Now we can wipe off our sandy feet before slipping on our shoes. I guess they found those missing baskets.

  I feel as though we’ve entered a portal to another world when we leave the beaming sun and consistent roar of the beachside cocktail hour for the air-conditioned hush of the reception. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the sudden absence of natural light. Grandiose chandeliers light the room from above, and string lights dangle delicately from thick wooden beams in the ceiling, transforming the ballroom into something out of a medieval fairytale. White willow branch bouquets adorned with lights surrounded by a thick ring of pink and turquoise flowers sit majestically in the center of each table. I’m dazzled by the spectacle of lights twinkling from every direction as we weave our way through the room towards our assigned table.

  After everyone is seated, Sarah and Jason make their grand entrance. We stand and clap as they make their way to the sweetheart table at the front of the room. After giving us ample time to eat our salads, an army of servers descends upon the ballroom, hefting large trays stacked with silver covered entrées above their heads.

  I finally get a chance to say hello to Sarah while she and Jason make their way around the room, greeting as many guests as they can. I haven’t seen her since her last day at Silver.

  “Everything is beautiful. We’re having a great time!”

  “I’m having fun too, but it’s a disaster! I’m so glad you can’t tell. We have to get together after the honeymoon to catch up. I miss you.”

  “Miss you too. And yes, there is plenty of catching up to do.” I have yet to share my latest misadventures with her, but I will, because she’s my friend.

  I eat my filet mignon and veggies before moving onto the chocolate cheesecake, thrilled that I don’t yearn for a second slice. I savor every decadent bite, but I’m satisfied with one. The DJ leads the jovial party guests through the traditional wedding day rituals, announcing toasts then first dances. When we’re invited onto the dance floor, Sabrina grabs my hand, pulling me along. A minute later, we’re breathless and giddy, dancing to a catchy song from a decade ago that everybody still remembers the words to. When the DJ switches over to a ballad, we start back to our table.

  I follow Sabrina, but stop short when I feel a tap on my bare shoulder. I turn around and there he is, flashing those pearly whites. His wide, royal blue, satin tie looks quite princely paired with a collarless, button up, white shirt, and a black suit jacket emphasizes his broad shoulders and narrow waist. There is something really joyous about his smile and I’m kind of in shock to see it directed at me. Maybe the tap was accidental. I look over my shoulder to see if I’ve made the embarrassing mistake of intercepting his communication with someone else.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  I open my mouth but nothing comes out. I glance around quickly, looking for his date, then I look over my shoulder for Sabrina, but she’s halfway across the room by now and doesn’t even realize I’m not behind her anymore.

  “Yes?”

  He leads the way back towards the polished hardwood square designated as the dance floor. We join the cluster of swaying bodies moving in time to the music.

  “I wanted to dance with you before I left.”

  He puts his arms around my waist, pulling me a little closer, so I put my arms around his neck. In the distance over his shoulder, I can barely make out Sabrina standing next to our table, craning her neck into the darkness, trying to figure out where I’ve disappeared to.

  I discreetly examine his perfectly shaped bowed lips and square jaw. Just as I remembered, the top of my head reaches the bottom of his chin, even with my three-inch heels. As he angles his face downward towards mine, my forehead brushes his cheek and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get close to another man without thinking about Will. The moment of grief eases. My eyes close and the corners of my mouth turn upward in a small smile of contentment. I breathe in his piney scent, daring to rest my head on his chest. The male, human touch is so soothing, I almost melt into a puddle right there at his feet. When his hand brushes a stray hair behind my ear and lingers on my cheek for a brief second, I feel safe and taken care of. Tuning out a pang of guilt, I melt further into his chest.

  “I’m Michael.”

  “I’m Alexis...Lexi,” I say, glancing up at him. Holding his gaze at such close range feels too intimate, so I stare into his chest.

  “I know,” he says softly as we continue to rock back and forth to the music.

  He knows? I’m lost in the moment when all too soon the song ends and the DJ’s voice stamps out the last strains before switching over to a fast, up-tempo beat. I reluctantly remove my arms from around his neck.

  “Thanks for the dance.”

  “Thank you,” he says, releasing his hands from my waist, looking deeply into my eyes. Mesmerized, I simply stare, then just as quickly as he appeared, he disappears into the crowded dance floor.

  Chapter 33

  “Are you nervous?” I ask Talya. She stares at me with large blue eyes dark with fear. Her long lashes peek out from beneath tousled bangs.

  “Yes. They usually want teenagers. I’m not a teenager anymore.”

  “Talya, you might be a little bit older but you have the look. They’ll love you,” I say, grabbing her hand. They will. She’s done everythin
g Melody told her to do from her simple high heeled pumps to classic skinny jeans and an off the shoulder, dolman sleeved, heather gray top emphasizing her long graceful neck. Her olive complexion is only made lovelier by her naturally flushed cheeks. If she doesn’t get an agent, I’ll go back to Silver Insurance and beg for my job back. That’s how certain I am that she was born to do this. She probably doesn’t even need to be here.

  We’re standing in the wide, garishly carpeted hallway outside Ballroom B of the Hilton Hotel bright and early Saturday morning. Agency Day is an all-day thing. Competition starts at 8:00 a.m., awards are at 5:00 p.m. and call back sheets go up at 5:30 p.m. The hallway is filled with Chloe Dillon students from all over Southern California, pacing, chatting and reading over lines. The ladies’ restroom is brimming with last minute make up checks and touch ups. Every single competitor has black books filled with precious photos; our calling cards to agents with which we hope to win them over. Kids thirteen and under were seen yesterday, and very shortly, the fourteen and ups will be ushered in to go before the judges. After sign in, we’re given numbers to pin to our shirts. I hope four hundred two is lucky. Why does that number sound familiar in some way?

  Mindy and Molly are here with their moms in tow, anxiously clucking about, patting invisible stray hairs into place and offering words of encouragement. The moms are definitely more nervous than they are. The girls look cool as cucumbers. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been performing in some capacity all of your life.

  Karen sits on the floor nearby with ear buds jammed in her ears, listening to music, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings while Callie sits quietly on a padded bench, eyes glued on the double doors of ballroom B. Her white blonde hair hangs loose around her shoulders and pale eyelashes darkened with mascara stand out against her white skin. I catch her eye, giving her a thumbs up, and she flashes me a weak smile in return. I’ve never seen her anything but super bouncy and energetic. It has to be the nerves. The moms hug their daughters before heading inside the ballroom to watch.