"Um. What the fuck," Roz says. "What. The. Fuck?" I put a comforting hand on her knee, but say nothing.

On-screen, Callum Kimmelman gawks out at the audience before quickly swiveling back to look at Ottilie. "Is she dating this assistant of hers?"

"Oh, I shouldn't say," Ottilie says. "I'm honestly not too sure."

I literally confirmed it for her not long ago. In the dinner line.

This bitch.

"Very interesting," Callum says. "So, you're all on set together—how is that for you?"

She shrugs. "Awkward? It's been a while since we broke up, but I haven't had any serious relationships in the meantime. She's—this is so horrible, I can't believe I'm saying this on TV—"

"Live TV!"

"Live TV." She laughs, fusses with the front of her hair. Makes this embarrassed little half-smile, like she's sorry for being so nervous. "God, I don't know, Callum. She's just not a woman you can get over."

The audience awwws sympathetically. I hate that, in my head, all I can picture is the cue cards guy from Shrek.

"Did you break up with her? Or did she do the heart-breaking?"

"I was younger," Ottilie says slowly, dropping her hair. "And it was the pandemic. I did the dumping—a huge mistake, honestly. Like, do you ever have something you wish you could go back in time and undo? I think this is one of those for me."

"Wow," Callum says. "It must be really hard working with her then."

Ottilie shrugs again. "It could be worse. We're still friendly, at least. Like, we can talk to each other. We'll bring each other little treats sometimes." We've brought her coffee a few times. She spilled said coffee on me one time. "She's so enjoyable to be around. So, I'm just happy to get to be around her again, honestly."

Another round of sympathetic awwws. My stomach twists. I'm bristling at this point. When has she given Roz a little treat?

"So, what's her assistant like? Does she look like you? Is she a true Ottilie Le Blanc replacement?"

Ottilie's laugh is sharp and sudden, like an ice pick to the chest. "No. No, we look way different." It feels like, No, Callum, she's not pretty. Not at all. "She's very awkward but in a sweet way, I suppose. I mean, they obviously get along, so who am I to judge?"

"Well, this is sad," Callum says. "Do you think if you told Rosalind how you felt, she'd take you back?"

Ottilie's smile is wistful. "Sorry.... I think I've said a little too much already."

"What a tease! Isn't she a tease, folks? But, okay. Let's move on to—"

Roz shuts off the TV.

"I can't watch anymore of that right now. What a bitch," she says. "I'm sorry."

"When was this?" I ask, my voice tight. I'm too stunned to move. "Last night?"

"Yeah," Roz says, and now, it's her giving my knee a squeeze. "A couple of the agents at Cat's agency talked to her about the interview. Apparently it's making waves on Twitter."

"The annoying right-wing letter app from hell?"

"The very same." She tucks a thick strand of hair behind her ear. "Look, hopefully, you should be okay. She doesn't mention your name, and I think anyone who actually knows us and knows you is—hopefully—chill enough to try and keep you out of everything."

My jaw tenses. I chew the inside of my cheek. "Sorry, what am I being kept out of?"

Roz massages the bridge of her nose. "In my first couple years of blowing up, sometimes photographers would come and harass me a little bit. It was never enough for me to feel like I can really call them 'paparazzi,' per se, but it was still people coming into my personal spaces and making shit harder than it had to be. My social circles didn't help either."

"Oh, wow." I mean, of course I remember what a big deal Roz was. When someone as beautiful as she is, is as immensely talented as she is, and was barely an adult to boot, it's hard not to pay attention. And she's so charismatic that people couldn't get enough of her. It was like watching a young classic author in real time—like Jane Austen or Truman Capote or something—and as she came out with critically acclaimed banger after critically acclaimed banger, it was hard not to be obsessed with her. And she was usually spotted at events with other famous people her age—big musical artists, former child actresses, so on and so forth—who attracted their own kind of attention.

Still, I had no idea that people—paparazzi—were harassing her.

"They broke into my dorm building at Columbia one time," she says, and I can't believe she's managing a smile, however slight. "That was kind of the last straw. The university stepped in and helped me out, and interest sort of petered out after a while. But, when I was dating Ottilie, we had to jump through a lot of annoying hoops to try and keep our relationship secret."

"Why keep it a secret?" I ask. "Attention, or...?"

"For me, the attention. For Ottilie, I think being out was a lot. I can't believe she just came out on live TV. And for such a bullshit, petty reason too."

We're both silent for a moment.

"I didn't know you had experience in dealing with the paparazzi," I say, nudging her, as if being playful and casual would help in this moment. I still feel sick to my stomach. I remember scrolling through Tumblr to find photos of Roz leaving parties with other famous young adults. I'd spend hours staring at them, never thinking about who was actually taking these photos. "Miss famous."

Her laugh is dry. Nothing about this conversation is fun, I know. It's depressing. My heart feelings like I've just run a triathlon. I might throw up.

She picks up my hand and tenderly presses her lips to my knuckles, eyes shut. "I just don't want you to have to worry about any of this."

She doesn't let go of my hand, and I don't move to take it from her. So, we sit there on her white couch, both awkwardly leaned forward, tilted in towards each other.

"I love you," I murmur.

She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine. "I love you too," she says. "Look, I don't think I'm going to go on set anymore."

"What?" I sit up straighter. This isn't the first time she's offered—but I still don't really understand it. "You seriously don't have to do that."

"I don't have to do anything. But—"

"You shouldn't have to feel like you have to, then. Roz, don't—"

"Stop," she says, holding a hand up. She squeezes her eyes shut for just a moment. "Just, stop. I don't think it's a good environment for us to be in. Ottilie is the worst, clearly, and I know she was stressing you out before. You shouldn't have to deal with having her in your space, honey."

"I can fucking deal with Ottilie," I say. "She's been a bitch the whole time. I'm fine. I don't want to be the reason you're not around to stop them from ruining your adaptation."

"Stop. They're not going to ruin anything. I wrote the script, Marcie—and, honestly? It's a good script. And Mauro and I had so many talks about our translation of the book to this format. He knows the story just as well as any of us. Ada knows, too. And I know we hate her, but even Ottilie knows the story. They don't want to ruin anything. Everyone on the set wants the movie to be good, okay?"

"But—"

"But, nothing." She drops her hand to her lap. Her brow wrinkles. "I love you. But, I've been in this industry for a lot longer than you have. I've been an executive producer for adaptations before. I've worked on screenwriting teams before. And I trust everyone on the team's capabilities. I don't give a damn whether I'm there or not to try and stop them from 'ruining' it. I don't want to keep you around in an environment with someone—with Gina, someones—who are nothing but a toxic presence for you."

I shift away from her slightly. "This isn't about me. I don't want you to feel like you need to make sacrifices to save me from something I don't need saving from."

"Lovely. It's not a sacrifice. Seriously."

"It would be," I insist. "Remember when Ottilie created that whole issue around killing Chris in the bathroom? You were the reason that got settled. Ada literally said that she was glad you were there."

"It's not the end of the world if something in the movie isn't exactly how it is in the book," Roz says, clear exasperation edging its way into her tone. "I've worked on so many adaptations over the years that I know this. I made my peace with that years ago. Multiple failed contracts ago. I trust everyone to not destroy my story. And filming is pretty much done anyways. We're wrapping up next week."

"Okay? Then just finish it off," I say. "See it through."

"Marcie—"

"You've wanted a movie adaptation for years. This is, what, your fourth time trying to get it through the door?" My chest is tight. "I don't want to be the thing that stops you from making it perfect."

"Marcie, you're not," she says, reaching out and placing her hand over mine. Her honeyed brown gaze is as alluring as ever, but there's a distinct shine to it right now. "You're not ruining this. I'm okay stepping back."

"But is it a healthy choice for you?" I ask her. "Is this a decision that, in five years, you'll be glad you made?"

"In five years, I'm going to be happy that I'm with you and that we're happy."

There's a part of me that just wants to get up and leave, because there's this inexplicable anger—one that's hot and simmering and volatile—boiling up beneath my skin. She's living people's dreams, and I don't want to see her squander them for my sake.

"If Ottilie is making you uncomfortable, that's one thing," I say. "But I don't think you should leave the set. It feels like you're letting her win, somehow."

"There's nothing to win, Marcie."

"Yes there is." I toss my hands up; I accidentally catch my hair in the process, and a few strands of auburn block my vision. I swipe them away from my face. "Roz. She's not a nice person. And it seems like she only tries to talk to you to undermine your vision. Like Ada said, it's as if she thinks she knows your book better than you do. She thinks she's some kind of authority on it. Or maybe she thinks she can impress you by out-knowledging you or something. I'm sure she only stopped constantly speaking up over everyone else because you're there."

"No," Roz says, "she stopped because I kindly asked her to stop."

My frown deepens. "When—"

"When you were sick," she says, adjusting her sitting position on the couch. Her hands are under her legs now, fingers angled in toward her inner-thighs. She's still looking at me, but there's something different about her expression. Something ... nervous.

The wine glasses in the sink.

"Was she over here?" I ask.

"For a drink—"

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't want you to freak out!"

Now I do stand, circling around the arm of the couch and standing halfway between the living room and the kitchen. "I'm not freaking out."

She stands too. "I know." Her voice is soft. Somehow, that simple fact makes me feel condescended to. "You're not." Even worse.

"Seriously," I say, taking a step back towards the island, "I'm not freaking out." Even though, yeah, I kind of am. My chest is tight. Oh my god, my chest is so fucking tight. It hurts. Am I breathing? Can I breathe?

Breathe, Marcie. Breathe.

I get one shallow inhale in. It feels ... insufficient.

"I just thought," she says, clearly hesitating as she comes to a full stop, "that it would upset you more if you knew. That it would do more harm than good."

That's basically the whole fucking reason I don't talk to Kirby anymore. And she knows that. "You know what this looks like," I say. "Don't you?"

"Of course. Marcie, yes. Of course." She's tugging at the roots of her hair. I don't know that I've ever seen her make a face like this—full of frown lines and worried forehead wrinkles. Somehow, it makes her seem older. Much older than I've ever perceived her to be. "I'm–I'm sorry. I didn't think that it would ever come up, that you'd ever find out. I thought it would create more issues."

"This is insane," I say. My chest is tight, is squeezing, is empty. It feels like my heart is slamming up against my ribcage. SLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAM. Over and fucking over again. Am I dizzy? Is the room spinning? I think I'm nauseous. Fuck. "You knew I was feeling insecure about Ottilie. I fucking told you." The night with the Pad Thai. "And you didn't take that opportunity to come clean?"

"I didn't want you to think that I was hiding anything about it! I—"

"So you hid more?"

"No! No, I just—nothing happened. Nothing happened! I just thought that bringing it up would make you feel more insecure."

I tuck my hair behind my ears, trying to keep my hands from shaking. "I don't know if that's fair. Like, was it insecurity, or was I just right?"

"Marcie, please." She finally takes a step forward. "Nothing happened. I just wanted to talk to her—to have a professional conversation with her."

I shake my head. "No. You don't have those conversations at your house, Roz." Right? That's not a stretch. That can't be a stretch. I don't know if I want to scream, if I want to vomit, or if I want to reach down into my throat and rip out my lungs by the trachea. "It would have been one thing if you guys went out for dinner, or even drinks. But you had her over, and you didn't tell me about it."

"I'm so sorry, Marcie. Nothing happened. I promise. I swear."

My gut twists. "I want to trust you." My voice breaks on want. My hands clutch at my shirt, scrunching the fabric in my fists. "But I've been burned before, and you know that. And I've really tried to not be insecure, Roz, but when you spent years casually dating every queer supermodel on the Upper East Side—when you've only dated these cool, successful, important people—it's so hard to not compare yourself to that."

"Marcie—"

"No, no. Stop. Please." I'm crying. I'm barely aware of it, but yeah, I am. Angrily, I swipe at my cheeks. "Because not only that, but we're around your gorgeous, perfect, stunning ex girlfriend who seems to hate me, and then you're spending time being weird and possessive whenever we're around Daisy, who you slept with, Roz. You. Not me."

She gapes. "I'm not weird about Daisy."

I throw my hands up in the air a second time. "Yes! Yes, you are! She and I have even talked about it. Like, how are you weird and rude and whatever around her, when she's actually nice to me, and then you expect us to just go around to the Book Burrow, with stupid fucking Willow behind the counter? Who has never been nice to me? Not once? Make that make sense."

"I'm sorry." She lowers her hands. "I–I tried to tell you that I'm not good at this. At the whole 'dating' thing."

Are you shitting me?

"Stop. Roz. Don't even right now. That's not an excuse." I take a shuddering breath. Breakup is the only word on my mind. She wants to break up. Even througho the blinding red waves of panic and betrayal surging through my head right now, I know I don't want that.

My next breath feels shallow, and my hands shake, but I manage to speak. "Look, I love you. I need you to know that. I–I love you so much. But, right now, I'm also angry. How did it not cross your mind that I would be more upset if I found out you had hidden the whole Ottilie thing from me? Especially after I told you I felt insecure around her?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." She's not crying, not yet at least. But she does seem sorry. The defeated slump of her shoulders, that sheen in her eyes.

"Kirby did this with Gina," I say, because I feel like it needs to be pointed out, "and our friendship of over ten fucking years hasn't recovered yet. You know how much that upset me. I really don't see why this was something you kept to yourself."

"I thought it was for the best," she insists. "I thought it would make you more upset, and I didn't want you to know that I told her to be nice to you, and—"

"Stop." I put both hands up. "She hasn't even been nice. She's been mean. In a largely passive-aggressive, occasionally regular-aggressive, highly mind-fucky way. I just haven't complained about most of it."

"But you are obviously uncomfortable around her," Roz says, wiping a single tear away from one of her eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought the talk did something. I should have taken you more seriously. I—"

"Stop. I need to go take a breather," I say, grabbing my bag from off the counter. "Sorry, I, just—no."

I go to the door and realize the elevator has to be queued. Which, just, fuck me. Fuck. Angrily, I swipe my tears away with the heel of my palm.

"Marcie," Roz says, taking a few steps towards me, "wait. I–I want to resolve this."

I turn to face her, grabbing the straps of my tote with both hands. "I do too." My voice cracks once again. "I love you. I really, really love you. But if I stay here, I think I'm going to start saying things I'll end up regretting, and I don't want us to have to do that."

Quietly, I turn and press the elevator button again. Like that would make it faster. At this point, I'm about to go to the emergency exit stairs.

There's a moment of silence. Then:

"If that's what you need," Roz concedes, taking a step back. "Will you come into work tomorrow? We could, um, we could go to the set, if you really want to. Or we could—"

"No. I'm not coming in tomorrow," I say. The elevator doors part, and I step in, turning and putting a hand up to stop the doors from closing behind me. "But, you should still go to the set. Keep Mauro company."

Somehow, for some reason, I think that Mauro would tell me if anything crazy went down. I have his contact info saved somewhere, from organizing meetings between the two of them, so I know he has my number as well.

I think I'm relying on my girlfriend's best friend's husband (also our weird coworker) to spy for me.

Wow.

"How many days do you want off?" she asks, propping open the other side of the doors with her hand, even though I'm sure it doesn't matter. "Take–take as many as you want. I'm ... yeah."

"I...." All I can think of right now is our talk when we went to that lake cabin. It feels like another fucking life, even though it was only a little over a month ago. Visiting my parents. We talked about visiting my parents. She offered me time off to see my parents.

"I'm going to go to Iowa," I say firmly. Like it's not a decision I just made right in this instant. "See my parents."

Roz pauses a moment, then nods. "Okay. Text me if you need anything, okay? Can–can I text you, or...."

"You can text me," I say, my hands clenching into determined fists. "I don't want this to be the end of anything. But I really need to process this on my own."

"Of course." This isn't the end of the world, I tell myself. Even if Roz's expression makes it seem like it might be. I'm not overreacting. "I love you, Marcie."

I pull my hand away from the doors. She follows suit, standing straighter. There's something pleading about her gaze, and as I hit the lobby button, I realize I didn't say it back.

"Sorry. I–I love you too," I tell her, right as the elevator doors shut.

I start crying on the descent down. I don't even smile at James at his regular post next to the elevator.

I even cry on the subway. And I hate crying on the subway.

All in all, a pretty shitty day.