If Ottilie Le Blanc steps on my foot one more time, I'm going to learn how easy it is to pull out a handful of silky blonde hair.

It's my first day back from my sick break, and Roz and I got here early with coffees for Mauro, Ada, and Dr. Charm. Initially, I'd thought the fourth one was for Catalina, but she's busy with another client. This one—this coffee with two creams and two sugars, just like Roz takes hers—was for Ottilie.

When I'd handed her her cup and she'd accidentally stumbled back into me (stomping on my toes in her heels and splashing hot coffee on my jeans in the process) I'd winced, tenderly touched what felt like it could become a first degree burn, and told her it was alright. I mean, she apologized so profusely, I'd have looked like an asshole not to accept it. And besides, she's wearing heels on soggy grass—they're filming Mary's chilling date night with the second-in command of Rachel's killers. It would make sense for her to be unstable on her feet.

The second step was a bit much, however. She was walking past me, chatting fervently with Dr. Charm, and was insisting something was ridiculous. Her head was turned toward him, but when she stepped on the toes of my white sneakers, she glanced towards me. Her expression was empty for a moment, just like that night at the banquet—only for a second, of course; I blinked, and suddenly she was flashing me a tight, apologetic smile.

"So, so sorry, Emma," she says, which is so ridiculously far from my name that I almost scoff. She expects me to believe she doesn't know my name now when she knew it at Roz's banquet last winter? Sure.

"I'm sure she didn't mean to do it," Roz whispers to me from her chair. I finally got my high "big kid" chair, although mine doesn't have my name on the back like hers does. I didn't tell her about the name thing—it feels silly. "It's been rainy this week, and the ground is soft. It must be hard to walk on in heels."

I'm trying my best not to look pissed, but it's hard. I haven't seen Ottilie step on anyone else's feet, after all.

"Do you want me to talk to her about it?" Roz asks.

I try not to grimace. "No, no, that's okay. Don't talk to her." I pause. "On my account. You can—I mean, for other things—not me—yeah."

Just when I thought my day couldn't get any worse, disaster strikes.

Ada walks onto the set from the makeup caravan with messy hair, a slightly disheveled shirt, and what might be a fresh hickey near her collarbone. I can't tell if it's intentional and "fashion," or if she just had an intense make out session with someone. Dr. Charm looks away from her, his mouth in a tight line, and strikes up a conversation with Mauro. Ada heads straight for Roz.

Roz turns to me. "Could you go grab me a coffee and some kind of fruit from the craft cart?"

"Anything but a banana?"

"Anything but a banana."

Ada flashes me a quick smile when I pass her on my way to the craft cart. I return it, before realizing I'm wearing a mask today (just to be safe, although I tested negative a fifth time this morning). I almost stop in my tracks when I pass near her—COVID must have eradicated my sense of smell when I was around her the last couple times. Either that, or she's wearing a new, stronger perfume. It smells disturbingly familiar, but I have no idea where I'd recognize it from.

There's only one intern on shift today, probably because today is a slightly more intimate scene, so there are barely any actors on set. I know I won't be watching the live recording of today's murder. It'll just be essential personnel, like Ada, Dr. Charm, and an intimacy coordinator. And Roz and Mauro, of course.

I'll be off hiding somewhere. Reading, ideally. Writing, probably.

I'm in the middle of selecting the juiciest-looking granny smith for Roz (she likes apples more than whichever Fantastic Mr. Fox farmer made cider) (Boggis, Bunce, or Bean?) (Bean.) when someone sidles up alongside me and immediately sticks their arm in front of mine. A sharp, floral scent permeates through my mask, and I instinctively make space for Ada.

"Sorry, pardon my reach—"

I look over at the same time they do. And I think I can picture the color draining from my face, drop of blood by drop of blood.

It's not Ada.

Gina's expression goes from bewildered to confused to somewhat—somehow—accusatory. She takes a step back from the table, poising her hands on her hips.

"How did you get here?" she asks, her tone biting.

"How did you get here?" I ask, grabbing what I hope is the supreme granny smith and holding it awkwardly at my side.

"I'm Ada's personal assistant," she says, as if it should be obvious.

My lips part slightly. The mask, thankfully, obscures most of my dumbfounded expression. "Since when do you work for Ada Demir?"

"Since pretty much forever?" she says.

No.

"You've been working for Ada this whole time?"

"Yes?"

"But you told me you were working for a movie production company," I say. I feel spring-loaded.

The intern subtly glances between us, a mix of intrigued and bored.

"That's basically what this is," Gina says.

"I sent you a job listing for a movie production company," I say slowly. "You told me you got the job I sent you."

Her eyes dart around a moment, and then she shrugs. Her hair is straight today, like it is naturally, but she's dyed it more of a taupe-ish hazelnut. She's wearing a black long-sleeve and gingham pencil skirt, with the loafers I remember she spent weeks breaking in junior year of college.

Her boss is Ada. Gina was cheating on me with Ada Demir.

"Fuck's sake, Gina. Don't talk to me," I tell her, grabbing the coffee with two creams and two sugars I already grabbed for Roz from off the table.

As I'm walking away, Gina calls after me, "Believe me, I won't be!"

When I'm nearing our tent-covered seats, Roz peeks around Ada and gives me a quick yet discerning squint.

You okay? she mouths.

I nod back. Vaguely, I'm aware that I'm nodding vigorously, not quite unlike an anxious Muppet, but I can't stop. I sit down next to Roz as she finishes up her discussion with Ada—something about doing one exterior scene now before the intimate scene, because it's supposed to rain the next few days—who leaves us in our wobbly highchairs, probably off to micromanage something else.

Or to make out with Gina again.

"You look pissed," Roz mutters, gently knocking our knees together. "Is it Ottilie? Did she do something?"

"Fucking Gina," I say, choosing to ignore my voice crack.

She sits back. "Gina?"

"Ada's assistant." I force myself to inhale, gripping the bridge of my nose through my plain blue mask. "The one she's had for over a year now. The one that got COVID?"

Roz's shocked expression quickly twists into something like disgust. "What the fuck?"

I try to smile. I know it's a far cry from being accurate, but I don't even care. Like, I'm sorry, why do I have to put up with not one but two crazy exes here?

"You okay?" Roz asks gently. "We can leave if you want, Marcie."

"I—no. No, I'll be fine. This is a big shoot today. You can't miss it."

"Marcie," she says again, more firm this time. "We can leave if you want. Seriously."

"I'm fine."

"Really? Because you don't look fine. You look like you're going to light something on fire with your eyes."

I shake my head, even though I do feel a little like I'm going to be sick. "No," I insist. "Really. I'm fine."

Ten or so minutes pass, and then Ada walks out with Gina and Ottilie. Dr. Charm and the intimacy coordinator, whose name I didn't quite catch, follow close behind with the male actor for the scene, Finnegan O'Dowd. He's one of those actors who's done a few drama series on streaming services that are critical successes, but are ever so slightly just outside of the mainstream enough for most people to not know who he is. One of those actors who dates a famous "indie artist who opens for pop stars and appears on their albums and has won at least one Grammy so how indie are they really" women.

I always liked this scene in the book. Well, not liked, per se. More like admired. Respected, even. This is one of the most difficult murders for Mary, because she's beginning to wonder how much revenge Rachel herself would have asked for. Also, Finnegan's character, Connor, has been genuinely nice to Mary, and not only intervenes when Mary plays prey to one of Rachel's attackers, but confesses everything to Mary. And she nearly gets caught too—someone lodges a noise complaint with an RA, giving Connor the opportunity to quietly beg for his life. He tells her he'll come forward, he'll testify, he'll make it "right."

In the end, Mary doesn't buy it.

Ada and Dr. Charm sit their usual few feet ahead of us. I notice (perhaps smugly) that Gina is seated away from them, not at Ada's side.

Still. All I can picture right now is Gina's face the night of Roz's banquet. How I asked her who she'd been fucking before we broke up—a coworker? Her boss? How her brow furrowed and her eyes shone in the LED lighting when she turned to glare at me from over her shoulder. That look told me everything I needed to know: she was fucking her new boss.

Ada was that boss. I got cucked by fucking Ada Demir. The model-pretty, lesbian love child of Greta Gerwig and Sean Baker.

How did they meet? Considering that Ada doesn't work for a movie production company, like Gina said she got a job at, I'm assuming she either applied, or—more likely, considering Gina had no experience as a filmmaker or a personal assistant—Ada invited her to come work under her. Which begs the question: when did they meet? How did they meet? And exactly when the hell did Gina start cheating on me?

No wonder it seemed to strike a chord when I told her she slept her way up the ladder. Stop taking up the space of someone who wants it more than you do. You're not cut out for this, Gina. You're an accountant. Stop pretending you could ever possibly be anything more than that.

Was that too much? I'm not entirely sure. I think that was quite possibly the first time in my adult life where I said something to somebody with the desired intent of harming them. I'd like to think that that's not the kind of person I am—that I'm too nice for that—but honestly, I think I might have been too chicken before that night.

It's just frustrating. It feels like she had six years to barrage and pummel and bully me as much as she wanted. She was never overtly aggressive. Sickly sweet was more her style. But the little digs—all the things she said, the ones that she didn't care whether or not they hurt my feelings—built up to the point where it almost felt like there was no point in trying anymore. There was virtually no pleasing her.

Not that I didn't want to, of course. We just grew up differently. The things my parents instilled in me were different from the priorities Gina's parents gave her. And for a long time, I thought that that was okay. That neither of us minded that much. They weren't dealbreakers. We'd be fine.

When did it stop being okay? When did I roll over and die, and when did I decide to stop caring?

"Marcie?" Roz's hand is on my knee, a few inches below the light brown stain left from Ottilie's coffee spill. They take their coffee the same way, a little voice in my head shouts. Roz still remembers her order. "Darling, breathe."

I realize I'm clutching the armrests of the chair, and that my whole body is completely tensed up. I'm not entirely sure I've been breathing, or that I remember how to.

"Marcie." Roz's voice is a whisper. "Look at me, lovely. Are you okay?"

Someone shouts, "Quiet on set!" and I blink, then take a shallow breath.

"Let's go over to the craft table," Roz suggests, and I lead the way, numb.

She follows dutifully behind me, until we reach the craft cart and intern, and suddenly, her hand is on my lower back, and she's guiding me past the craft cart, across the rolling green of the college, and to the edge of the tree line that separates the dining hall from main campus.

"What's wrong?" she asks, taking my hand in her own. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm fine," I say, but my throat is hoarse from a mix of breathlessness and the lingering effects of being sick. Remember the wine glasses in the sink? What if one of those was Ottilie's? "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Marcella."

"No, no, I am, I'm–I'm okay." You were gone sick for so long. It was barely a week. Imagine all the one-on-one time Roz and Ottilie had together.

"Do you want to sit down?" she asks. "We can sit down."

I shake my head. I feel like my brain jiggles with each movement. It hurts. "The ground is wet." You never thought Gina would cheat on you, either. But why wouldn't she?

"Is it Gina?" Roz asks, rubbing a thumb over the back of my hand. "It's okay, you can tell me. You, just, you look like you're about to cry."

"I'm not going to cry." It comes out a little too sharp. "Sorry. Sorry, I'm just overwhelmed."

"By Gina?"

"By everything."

"You can tell me more, if you want." Her voice is soft. For a moment, I think she might try to pull me into her, try to give me a hug or a kiss or something, but I'm not entirely sure I want to be touched right now. Thankfully, she stays rooted to the spot, although she gives me a soft hand squeeze. And, honestly, that's okay. I like that.

"I'm just...." My voice trails off. I look around us. It's sunny out today, but there's a humidity that lingers in the air, one that betrays the truth of today's weather forecast: more storms tonight. The ground is still spongy after soaking up about a week's worth of on-and-off showers, and the grass is clearly loving it. It's such a vivid green, one that pairs well with the cerulean sky and the deep grey clouds slowly rolling in on the horizon from tens of miles away.

It's a beautiful day, on one of the most beautiful campuses in the state, and here I am, dragging my girlfriend away from her work just because I saw my ex-girlfriend.

You also got your feet stomped and coffee on your favorite jeans by her ex-girlfriend, I remind myself. That was not a super fun, super chill time.

"It's just a lot," I admit finally. "Sorry. Just, seeing Gina, and ... honestly, seeing Ottilie too."

"That's fair," Roz says, stroking the back of my hand once more. "Ottilie's seriously the worst, and I'm sure it's not easy seeing Gina with someone else."

"It's not even that." I sigh, swinging our hands back and forth a few times. "I just can't believe that I got left for Ada Fucking Demir. Because, of course I did."

"Do you wish she'd have stayed with you?"

"No," I say immediately. Roz's voice sounds measured, sure, but I don't want her to think for one second that I'd prefer Gina over her. Gina. "Roz, even if you and I weren't together—and I'm so, so happy that we are, you know that—I'd be going crazy with Gina. I was miserable. I felt like I was drowning. I was never enough, and too much all at once. Like ... like a really annoying dog."

I try not to wince. That writing degree is not coming in handy right now.

Roz's pitying smile and half-chuckle makes me want to groan and laugh and cry all at the same time. "You're cooler than a dog. You're a whole woman."

I try to laugh. I can't even force a chuckle. I think if I laugh, I'll cry. "See, you see my appeal."

Teasingly, she pulls my hand and tugs me into her. Her voice is soft. "I do."

We're standing pretty much face to face now. She looks up at me with those honey amber eyes, inquisitive and tender and assured all at once, and I find I no longer have to think about taking deep breaths or letting go of the tension in my chest.

"I love you," she says, and, god, I know she means it. She really, really does. "What can I do to make this better?"

I lean in and press a lingering kiss to her forehead, feeling her soft hair against my palm as I cradle the nape of her neck. "Nothing," I promise. "I'm all good."

She gives me a pointed look. "Don't bullshit me, Marcella."

"'Don't bullshit me, Marcella,'" I mimic in a high register, then laugh. It barely sounds forced. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. I just needed a second."

"Okay." She doesn't sound convinced. "I think we should maybe talk about this more later, though."

"Fine, fine," I say, stepping away from her and giving her hand a squeeze. "But let's get you back to work."

She groans. "Work. How I loathe work."

"I loathe work for you," I agree, "but we still have to go."

She sighs once, almost begrudgingly, and we walk back to the exterior set together, hand in hand.