I submit my pitches the following morning. Before everything falls apart.

"You're so hot and together," Roz says from across our usual table at the Brew. She nudges my foot from under the table. "I can't wait to go to Spain with you in, what, two weeks?"

"Just under three," I say, tapping her foot in turn. "You ready?"

"Born ready," she says. "Ugh, I can't wait to take you around my favorite places in Málaga. We can go shit on Picasso at the Picasso Museum, that bastard, and then we can go cover our scandalous little shoulders and walk around the cathedral—they just resumed construction on it in April, so that'll be fun—and then we can go walk around Alcazaba, which is this dope-ass Moorish fortress with this truly surreal view of the city and the sea."

"I love the way you speak. You should be a writer."

She laughs, her head tilting to the side. She studies me with her playful honey chocolate eyes. "'Truly surreal view of the city and the sea?'"

"'Dope-ass Moorish fortress.'"

She laughs harder, her shoulders shaking as she cranes forward.

I glance at the counter. Nigel is behind the counter by himself. Normally on Sundays, Kirby is the one working. Guess he's too hungover.

"So," Roz says, circling a finger around her hazelnut latte (with added whipped cream), "once we finish these drinks, what do you want to do? And don't say work."

I roll my eyes. "I wasn't going to say work."

"Good," Roz says, "because if you had any more immediate work to do, I think my head was going to explode."

"Okay," I say, tapping my nails against my porcelain mug. Nigel doesn't make my matcha quite right, so we went the cappuccino route today. "Overdramatic much?"

Now it's her turn to roll her eyes. I smile softly in return.

"I was thinking," she says slowly, her index and middle fingers walking their way across the table, like a person, "that maybe you and I could do some shopping before Spain?"

I shrug noncommittally. "If you think we need to." I kind of assumed that everything I'd been wearing over the summer would be fine there. I mean, I know that no matter what I do, I'm going to look like an American. Roz speaks enough Spanish to get by, she says. I have, like, very shitty Duolingo Spanish that I learned to try and impress Gina, who spoke Spanish almost fluently. She had to teach herself, she said, because her parents were insistent that English be her first language to the point where they taught her basically nothing, but she ended up minoring in Spanish, worked her ass off, and came out a "highly fluent" speaker.

I thought learning it alongside her would be a nice gesture. But, I never used it. Not once. Never even told her I was doing it—I thought it was too corny or pathetic or something. I never figured out how to roll my r's. It was embarrassing.

"My treat," Roz says, smiling coyly as she lifts her latte. "I give excellent makeovers."

I lift my cappuccino in response. "Do you think I need one?"

She pouts. "No. But, let me dream?"

"Fine," I say, "I'll let you dream."

As soon as our drinks are finished, Roz drags me into town, darting between boutique after boutique. It always amazes me how few things are closed here on Sundays—in my town, it always felt like everyone shut down completely on Sundays, just about.

Everything we look at is significantly more expensive than anything I would buy for myself, even with a bit of padding in my bank account, but I know that there's no point in arguing that to Roz. She'd rather put her money towards buying clothing that's (at least, according to the internet) more ethical and sustainable, which I suppose is the dream. Also, I think she actually enjoys treating me like this. It's not like she's trying to buy me a Birkin bag or something. A few items of clothing won't hurt.

"A few items of clothing" quickly turns into "more clothes than I think I would wear, ever."

"Roz," I say, poking my head around the purple velvet curtain. High end fucking establishment, and their dressing rooms still use curtains instead of doors. There is no heaven. "Roz, you cannot buy me all these clothes."

She's sitting on an ottoman in the center of the room, drinking her second latte of the day. She frowns, holding the mug out just enough so that I can spot her signature dark cherry lipstick lining the rim. "If you don't try them on now, I'm just going to buy them and start slowly putting them in your closet, piece by piece. You'll be none the wiser."

"Roz." My frown sinks deeper. "Seriously. This is too much."

"Just try them," she urges, leaning back and dramatically recrossing her ankles. She's wearing these swishy grey trousers that flare out with her little kick, combined with black kitten heels and a black cotton T-shirt with a plunging V-neck. Her purse today might be new—a dark red crossbody bucket purse, one that compliments her lipstick without mimicking it too closely.

"You sound like my mother," I protest. "And no one wants to go shopping with their mother."

She gives an unimpressed eyebrow raise. "Marcella."

"Ew. My mother." I shake my head, hands still wrapped around the purple curtain. "I'm shopping with my mother."

"Let's not bring a sapphic Oedipal vibe to our relationship, please."

"I won't if you don't buy me these clothes."

She sits up straighter, pressing her coffee cup to her chest. "Marcie—"

"I don't even have the closet space!" I insist. "Seriously, it would be a waste."

"But I like dressing you up," she says, pouting mockingly. "My boobs are too big to have fun shopping. You're built like a model—everything looks amazing on you. I'm attempting to live vicariously, darling."

I feel the embarrassed heat in my face surge throughout my body, from my ears to my neck to my fingers. "That–that is unfair."

Her smile says everything. She knows she's won this. For the moment.

"Try them on?" she coos. "For me?"

"You're evil," I tell her, shutting the curtain and tugging on a pinkish-red floral print dress. The quarter sleeves look nice, but the dress seems to hang pathetically from my lack of hips. I slide the curtain over and gesture down at myself.

"Is this what you were looking for?"

"Hm...." She smiles softly. Her eyes roam up and down my body, and I know her well enough by now to catch glints of something not entirely dissimilar to hunger. "It's not bad."

"Okay?" It's not just heat now. I think my face is on fire. "Is this proof that not everything looks amazing on me?"

"What?" Her gaze settles on my face. "Darling, no. You just don't look comfortable in it."

"It's not really my vibe," I admit, however begrudgingly.

"Try the jeans on," she suggests. "You don't have to get anything."

I shut the curtain again, stripping out of the dress and carefully placing it back on its hanger. A few pairs of pants that are obviously high-quality but don't fit quite well enough to warrant spending that much on them, and I'm swapping out a pair of linen trousers (I don't have much of a butt to start with, but they somehow manage to make it look like an anti-butt) for a pair of mid-wash high rises.

"I've never seen Pretty Woman," I say as I zip them up and button them, "but I imagine that this is whatever the stupid Prayer, Sex, Eat Food lady felt like."

"Eat, Love, Pray?" Roz asks. "I fucking hate that movie."

"Oh no. Not my favorite movie of all time."

Her snort is muffled by the curtain, but I can still make it out.

The jeans fit well, and when I pair them with a dark green T-shirt (I refuse to look at the price tag), I realize I actually like them.

When I open the curtain, Roz's eyes go wide, mid-sip of her coffee. She sets the mug back down on her lap. "Wow. Those look ... really good. Respectfully, turn around? Respectfully."

With a shy smile, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and turn slightly so she can see what the back looks like. I look at her from over my shoulder, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say she'd gone a little bit slack jawed.

"I hate my period," she whispers. There's no one else in the dressing room—barely anyone in the whole damn store—but it feels conspiratorial nonetheless. "I desperately need to take you into that dressing room and have my way with you."

"Okay, horndog," I say, turning back around and tugging the jeans' waistband up a little bit higher over my hips. "I think these, for sure."

"Yes." Her voice sounds hoarse. Her gaze is completely fixated on my hips. "Yes. For sure."

"Okay, seriously, you are no better than a man," I say, shutting the curtain door. I'm in the middle of trying a third shirt out—the others were unflatteringly boxy—when I hear Roz answer a phone call out in the dressing room.

"Cat?"

I pause, half expecting another funeral announcement. Instead, Roz says, "She said what? Wow. Jesus. Fuck. Okay. No, no, I'll go home and watch it for myself, I think. Bye. Love you."

When I open the curtain to peer questioningly at her, she's in the middle of standing whilst simultaneously chugging her latte.

"Ottilie's an asshole" is the only explanation I'm given.

I mean, yeah. I could have told her that.

***

Even though she seems challant the whole ride home, Roz has the clip pulled up on her phone and ready to sync to YouTube on her TV the minute we're through her door. She was in such a rush, I didn't even get to stop to chat up James the Elevator Man (who's basically my best friend and pseudo-grandfather, so this is obviously a crime).

Roz and I sit on the couch. She tries to give me a slight smile. I squeeze her knee quick in return.

"So, Ottilie," the host, Callum, says with this uncanny smile and forehead that wrinkles with every microscopic shift of his brow. "You're currently finishing up filming on the book-to-movie adaptation of the best-selling novel, All Hail Mary."

"That I am," Ottilie says, her smile similarly uncanny, even if it's not as knee-jerkingly obvious.

"And you are Mary Callhoun. The famous revenge-obsessed college girl hell-bent on taking out her sister's murderers, one by one."

"Close," Ottilie says, still smiling. "I'd argue she's like some sort of justice-exacting force, in her sister's name"—the words feel jarringly familiar—"than simply revenge-obsessed. A justiciar, of sorts. But, yes. Yes, you'd be right. That's me!"

"Wow, a 'justice-exacting force.' Noted." He pretends to write it down, then looks up, smiling out at the audience like a dog expecting a treat for rolling over, even though no one asked it to. "So, you're stuck on set with a lot of feminine powerhouses. How has it been working on set with so many legendary women? Your director, for starters."

"Oh, Ada's amazing," Ottilie says. She's wearing a dark blue, fitted dress with a sweetheart neckline, quarter sleeves, and matching heels. Her blonde hair is pulled back in this elaborate French twist, and her neutral makeup and pinkish-nude lipstick give her this grounded yet enticing vibe.

God, I hate her face.

"She's, just, the best," she says, leaning in to laugh conspiratorially with Callum, who of course laughs alongside her—even though neither of them made a joke. "I mean, I'd watched Winter Wondering and On The Sunny Side of The Boulevard before I even knew this movie was happening, so I'm a bit of a long term fan of Ada's."

"She really is great," Callum says, leaning back slightly in his chair. He runs a quick hand through hair that, at his age, just has to be a transplant. "An absolute legend. You know, she was on this show about a year ago and listed you as a dream actress to work with?"

Ottilie's lips work into a wry, almost bashful smile. She looks out at the audience, and suddenly, they're the ones in on the joke. "I don't know if she'd say the same now"—she pauses to chuckle and looks back to Callum, who appears appropriately interested—"but it's really flattering to have someone so cool and amazing and respectable say that about me. Wow."

"Wouldn't say the same now?" Callum asks. "Have you been a bad girl on set, Ottilie?"

Ottilie's laugh is the same fake one I've heard time and time again. "Define 'bad girl,' Callum."

"Ohhhh," he says, pointing accusingly. "I–I think you know what I'm talkin' 'bout. Ha. Ha ha."

She pretends to itch the side of her nose and side eye the audience before breaking down and laughing again. "Okay, no, no, no." When she stops laughing, the crowd stops with her. Still, she raises her hands as if to silence the already silent crowd. "I don't think I'm a nightmare. I mean ... I hope."

More laughter.

She smiles wider. Somehow, shows even more bleached white teeth.

"Honestly, I just really care about this story," she says, turning back to Callum. "It came out when I was in high school, and I was already relating to Mary back then. This book has been with me through so much, so I feel like I have to do it justice."

"Of course," Callum says. I wonder how many times he's blinked in the last minute. "A justiciar for the justiciar."

"Wow, that was good—you just came up with that? Right now?"

"I did, I did, yet. No cue cards for Callum Kimmelman!" Someone behind the camera whoops loudly. Callum points aggressively, his eyes wide, his expression panicked, like he needed the reassurance and wasn't sure he'd get it. "YEAH! That guy gets it."

"Impressive. Maybe you should be in a movie, Cal."

He waves her off. "You people couldn't afford me." Again, not really funny—but the captive studio audience must be directed to find it so, because they laugh again, right on cue. "Now, what's it like working with the author of the book, Rosalind Lindbergh? Rumor has it that she's partnered with Mauro Suarez to write the script."

"I can neither confirm or deny," she says, winking. "No, no, no! They're both amazing writers. Very involved, always around to answer even the most asinine of arguments. Lovely people."

"Mauro's another familiar face to the Super Late Late Night Show," Callum says. "We love us some Mauro Suarez. But, what's it like to work with Rosalind? I mean, this is one of the most famous authors currently living, working with and relying on you to make a faithful adaptation of her super successful, global bestseller."

"I mean," Ottilie says, leaning in towards Callum, "what can I say? To teenage me, it's absolutely a dream come true. I've always looked up to her. And she's really nice."

She pauses. It's obvious it's a pause, a hesitation, whatever. Her eyes flick off to the side, and even though there's no hair to mess with or tuck, she seems to hide a phantom strand of hair behind her ear, and bites her lip.

I glance quickly at Roz. Her eyes are glued to the screen, her brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry," Callum says. "But, is there a 'but' here?"

"Oh, no. I really shouldn't say," Ottilie says, and my gut sinks. Because somehow, I know what's coming. And, it's not the end of the world, but it's fucked regardless. "Let's move on."

"No!" Callum whines, banging his fists on the desk. "Nooo, stop it, tell us, you have to tell us!"

The crowd shouts in agreement.

Ottilie gives this acquiescent little smile and this half-apologetic, half-flippant shrug.

"It's just awkward to talk about, put politely."

"You don't have to be polite," Callum urges. "This is the Super Late Late Night Show."

Ottilie sighs, slumping back in her seat, and looks out at the audience. The camera switches, zooming in on her conflicted expression as she studies the audience as they shout, beg, holler.

"Fine," she says, sighing, smiling, shaking her head. "It's, well. It's awkward, because she and I dated."

Callum and the audience gasp. For his part, Callum's gasp actually sounds real.

"And...."

"Oh no," he says. "Not 'and.'"

Roz reaches out and grabs my hand. Squeezes. I'm too nervous to even squeeze back.

"And.... Callum, this might be too harsh. I—no, I shouldn't."

"Ottilie. Nothing is too harsh for the Super Late Late Night Show."

"So you've said." Her smile is wry. My heart is beating so fast, I think it's just a solid hum. "Okay. Nothing's too harsh for the Super Late Late Night Show."

"Now you're getting it!"

"Okay. Honestly, Callum?"

"Honestly, Ottilie."

She takes a breath. I brace myself.

"It kind of feels like she's replaced me with her personal assistant."