Dinner rolls in around six, some catering service providing a buffet-style variety of Middle Eastern foods. Roz goes up before me, grabbing herself a plate full of shredded cabbage, rice, and chicken. I stay chatting with Mauro while we wait for the line to die down. Filming the intimate scene with Finnegan and Ottilie ended an hour or so ago, and now, people are making their way back onto campus to shoot a football game scene.

My first impression of Mauro—based on what Roz had ranted about during the writing of the script—was that he was some weird, misogynistic Hollywood man with an over-inflated ego and an array of slightly different condescending smirks. The more I've been spending time around him, however, I'm beginning to realize that he's just ... pretty awkward.

He doesn't seem to have much of an idea of anything. Not in a completely childlike way—not incompetence or ineptitude, but distraction. It seems like he's always got a million ideas going on in his head at once. Case in point:

"I hope they have falafel. Your book is good," he says, fiddling with the previously rolled-up cuff of his button-up. He's kind of buff in an understated way, more lean muscle than anything. "I liked how Carl dies."

I look up from my laptop, pausing over yet another email requesting to interview Roz about her upcoming release. "Oh? Um, thank you."

He gives me two thumbs up. "Yes."

I wait a second, then smile and look back down at the email. They're asking for ten to fifteen minutes of Roz's time for a Zoom call to go up on their website and YouTube, which I think is pretty reasonable. She can probably make time for it, but I need to talk to her and figure out which days she'll be staying at the apartment to get work done. I mean, she still has one last section of edits to get into her editor, her final pass before ARCs go out, and she has a long list of publicity-related requests from a variety of publications and presses.

"You write really well," Mauro says. I'm so focused on bouncing between Roz's Google calendar and the growing spreadsheet of requests that it takes me a second to look back up.

"Thanks," I say, still hunched over the laptop. "That means a lot."

"Yes," he says again, sans thumbs this time. "It's very cinematic. I think it'll do well."

"Cinematic?" I ask instead of saying Thanks again.

"Yeah." He stops fiddling with his sleeve and drops his hands into his lap. "It's like you can see what's going on in your head, y'know? See it like a movie. I'm talking framing, exposure, color—all of it. The way you write lays everything out for the reader, almost like a script. But it feels natural. It flows. And it's not boring."

"Wow." I've been told that I had vivid writing before, with notes in college from professors and students during in-class critiques telling me that my writing felt like a movie. But I've never had someone describe it quite like this. "That's amazing praise, actually. Thank you."

"Yes." He clears his throat. "I think a TV series would be a better fit for it if you were ever to adapt it, but it's beautiful, honestly. I nearly cried when Carl died."

"Really?" I didn't think anyone would—Carl is a truly reprehensible person. Of course, everything is like a happy little comedy lit fic at the beginning. When Leona starts spending time with an ailing Carl, he's sweet and accommodating and tells benign little stories from his childhood in Sheffield. Like Daisy said, it's funny at first. They grow close, and Leona confides in him about her struggles, and he gives her solid advice. When her in-home hospice patient dies, Carl's grandson hires Leona to take care of his granddad. And that's when everything begins to change.

She'd known about Carl fighting in WWII—she'd thought he'd been a good guy of sorts; he was English—but she hadn't known quite how to react when he revealed that the "love of his life" in Belgium was actually a little girl. She wasn't his only victim, but she was the only one he "accidentally" murdered.

That scene had taken me months to write. I interviewed as many people as I could to try and get it right—lawyers, therapists, social workers, survivors. That chapter in particular felt like disassociating.

Still, when I wrote Carl's death, I'd cried just like Leona. But I didn't think anyone else would.

"It was fucking raw," Mauro says. "And it hurt, seeing Leona betray her morals, even though it simultaneously felt like the smallest sliver of justice. The whole thing is just horrible. No one is happy."

"Yeah," I say, slowly rubbing my palms together. "It's pretty upsetting, I guess."

He shakes his head. "It felt real. I liked it." He looks up over my shoulder. "The line has thinned down. You should grab something to eat before more extras come back."

I glance behind me and see that he's right. "Thanks. Are you—"

"No." He shakes his head. "I'm intermittent fasting."

"Oh." I blink. The only person I ever knew who fasted growing up was my very vocal, fifty-something history teacher. I guess I should have expected to find that in a Hollywood-adjacent space. I just didn't expect to find that with someone like Mauro. "Uh, sure."

I pass Roz on the way to the line. Her plate is full to the brim, which makes sense—they didn't cater lunch today, and we didn't leave to order our own. She winks as she passes me, and I smile back, my grin shielded by my mask.

It's only when I've entered the lengthy line and am in the middle of pointing to the fragrant golden rice that I even realize who is to my left.

Ottilie.

She's wearing a different outfit than earlier—her hair is messily braided over one shoulder, covered by a dark blue beanie, and she's wearing a chunky, oversized Carhartt jacket that looks (and probably is) vintage. With Timberlands and leggings, she's got this slightly dated, Tumblr-esque college girl look about her.

So, when I glance over and see her there and our eyes meet, yeah. Yeah, I do. I jump.

"Ottilie," I say, trying to recover some semblance of dignity. "Um. How are you?"

If she's surprised that I'm speaking to her, she doesn't show it. I mena, it's not as if we've never spoken before. She definitely violated an NDA with me at Roz's book-gala-thing at the end of last year.

"Not too bad," she says, and I earnestly cannot tell if her smile is genuine or not. All I can think back to is that split second at the gala where her expression fell completely, like her face was a slate wiped clean for a moment. It was off-putting then, and remains so now.

"You excited to shoot the football scene?" I ask, looking forward to the food and nodding yes to the woman dishing up chicken shawarma. She passes my plate along, and I watch as Ottilie nods yes to falafel, then shredded cabbage. I try to move down the line without looking directly at her anymore—it's too nerve wracking.

"It'll be good!" she says, her voice warm and honey-like and chirpy all at once. It can't be her real voice. I'm almost convinced. "It'll be fun to shoot over the next few nights. I loved Friday Night Lights when I was a kid, so I'm excited to have that kind of experience."

I nod slowly. "Yeah, that'll be really fun, I bet. For sure." Internally, I'm kicking myself for starting a conversation with her. Why did I start a conversation with her? Because I was caught staring?

This is my newest thirteenth reason, I swear.

"So you and Roz really are together, huh?" she asks. "How's that going?"

"Oh." I think my heart stops beating. I think this is what small rodents of prey feel like when cornered. "It's good! Yeah. Been, like, seven months now. It's ... yeah. It's great."

"Mm," Ottilie says, smiling and accepting her plate with two hands. I'm surprised when she waits for me to join her, but the next thing I know, we're walking away from the line together. "So she hasn't had any loyalty issues or anything?"

"Sorry?"

We stop in front of silverware, and I watch as she picks up two forks and two knives, nonchalantly handing me one of each. She looks at me with this expression that's a mix of pity and understanding, with a half smile that feels like we're sharing some kind of secret inside joke that I wasn't aware existed.

"You know," she says slowly, like I'm supposed to know what the fuck she's talking about. "I mean, it's Rosalind Lindbergh. Her reputation sort of proceeds her. She was completely loyal when we were together, physically, but it's hard to capture the attention of someone like that completely. And given how ... I'm trying to think of how to say this in a way that doesn't come across as sexist."

I stand there, staring at her, while she continues to smile at me. Like this is normal. Like any of this is normal.

Finally, she gives up, shrugging. "Well, you know what I mean. What eligible bachelorettes haven't shared a bed with Roz?"

I try not to let any sort of reaction register on my face—a knee jerk reaction, courtesy of the little twist in my gut that says she wants a reaction. "I don't know. Roz has been nothing but loyal to me," I tell her measuredly, reaffirming my grip on the sides of my paper plate. "Why—did she struggle with you?"

Ottilie laughs. "She didn't tell me you were so funny. No, she was perfect when we were together. She's the best girlfriend a woman could ask for"—she winks, and I feel myself smiling back at her, like I'm also in on the joke—"but I wasn't sure if that was still the case. Wandering eye syndrome and all that."

I decide not to tell her that wandering eye syndrome is the medical term for an eye misalignment, and instead nod, my lips pursed, like I'm actually considering what she's saying. "She really is the best girlfriend a woman could ask for. I honestly can't see myself ever making the mistake of breaking up with her."

"Well, thank god for that," Ottilie says, smiling and lightly resting a hand on my shoulder, shoving me slightly as if I've just said something hilarious. "You know what, Marcie? You're actually quite cute. I can see why she likes you."

"Thanks," I say, taking a step back. "Enjoy your dinner, Ottilie."

Her smile is the definition of sickly sweet. "You too, doll."

I sit back down next to Mauro in my chair. Roz is a few feet away, pacing in a circle with her phone pressed to her cheek. I'm about to ask him if he knows who she's on a call with when he says, "I think I hate her."

I look over at him, and he's staring across the green, to where Ottilie chats with Dr. Charm. He looks perpetually stressed, and now is honestly no exception. "Ottilie?" I ask.

"Mm," he says. "Yeah. She's so...."

"Icky?" I guess.

"Off-putting," he says. "She's so nice, but she's absolutely terrifying. There's something wrong with her. I don't know what it is, but ... I really, really don't like it."

I'm honestly surprised he doesn't like her. I mean, I suppose it makes sense, considering his personal ties to Roz and the working experience on set thus far, but it almost feels affirming to hear someone on a similar rung of the ladder as Ottilie speaking against her.

"What was she talking to you about, anyways?" he asks, tapping his hands seemingly arhythmically against his knees. "She looked like she was about to eat your face off for a moment there."

"Oh, nothing, nothing," I say, mindlessly attempting to mix my chicken in with my other toppings. "Just wanted to ask about me and Roz."

Mauro shakes his head. "She gives me the heebie-jeebies."

"Same here, honestly." I'm about to ask him if he knows much about Roz and Ottilie's breakup when the scent of cocoa perfume hits my nostrils. Arms wrap around my shoulders.

"Hey," Roz says, pressing a quick kiss against my cheek. I try not to smile too wide. "How's it going?"

"Great," I say, grabbing her hands. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Mauro's lovely wife." She sighs, sinking against me instead of stepping back. "I have a bunch of ARCs to sign for Spain."

"Oh," I say, "no?"

"No, no, it's good." She sighs again, sinking further. "But I need to have my edits finished up by Friday morning so my editor can have the weekend with them, and then I have to go to their headquarters to sign all the stock, plus whatever else they have for me to do, and then they'll be shipping it all over to Málaga for the conference."

"When do you guys leave again?" Mauro asks. "August, right?"

"August," Roz confirms. "August first."

"Exciting," he says in a way that makes it sound distinctly unexciting.

"Mmhmm." Roz presses another kiss against my cheek, firmer this time. "I looove you," she coos as I laugh, trying to wriggle out of her grasp.

"I love you too," I say. "Oh my god, stop, you're going to stain my face with cherry red lip prints."

"You'd be so lucky," she says, pulling away. "Okay, time to go find where the hell I put my dinner."

Something behind her draws my vision to it, completely subconsciously, but as soon as I realize what I'm looking at, I feel a slight shudder.

From across the green, Ottilie is staring at us, a dainty, almost triumphant little half-smile etched across her features.