Off-Script

Celia’s POV

The show was called The Weight of Sand. Not exactly a masterpiece of ingenuity considering it was a prequel to The Price of Salt. Still, the writers had patted themselves on the back for it, thinking they’d cracked the literary equivalent of a good pun. I hated the name, but maybe that was just me being prickly. Or honest.

When the show was announced, it was like blood in the water. Every actress in town—and probably a few out of town—was gunning for it. Carol had been a sensation and HBO had promised to throw their full weight behind the prequel. Bigger budget, bigger cast, bigger buzz. It was the kind of project that could launch a career or cement one, depending on where you stood.

I’d come out of the closet not long before, in an interview with Dazed. The journalist was a wiry guy with a nose ring. “So, Celia,” he’d asked, “what’s it like being America’s sweetheart and out?” And I’d laughed in a way that didn’t feel like mine and said something practiced about love and bravery and finally being myself. I thought it sounded brave, anyway, which was the point.

By then, I’d started seeing someone new—a singer-songwriter named Joan Marker. Her presence was inescapable, not in the over-saturated way of a viral gimmick, but in the quiet, insidious way something truly good embeds itself in the culture. Her face was plastered on curated Spotify playlists with names like Today’s Pop Hits and Indie Chillout, her voice slipping into the algorithms of every dorm room, coffee shop, and late-night walk. Her debut album, Ethereal, was exactly that—hazy and haunting, all shimmering synths and lyrics that felt like they were written at the edge of a dream.

Joan wasn’t just part of the zeitgeist; she was the zeitgeist, a figure who seemed to exist as proof of her own inevitability. Every detail of her rise felt so meticulously aligned, you’d think fate had storyboarded her career: a self-produced EP on Bandcamp, a surprise Tiny Desk concert that went viral, then a slow crescendo into full-blown stardom.

But it wasn’t just the music. Joan herself was an aesthetic, a curated mood that felt both effortless and unattainable. She dressed like she’d rolled out of a thrift store catalog and carried herself like she didn’t care if anyone was watching, which only made people watch harder. There was something ethereal about her, but also something sharp, deliberate—a knife wrapped in silk.

I swear, falling for her felt like a head-on collision – like my goddamn heart hit the pavement and left a crack in the concrete. It didn’t help that she was the kind of woman who looked like she’d been designed with sex in mind. She had long, golden hair, and green eyes. And her figure—god, let’s just say it defied logic. Her breasts were generous enough to skew the entire axis of a room. Too big? No. That concept didn’t exist in her universe. Her proportions were less a flaw and more a declaration, something that made you stop, stare, and forget whatever it was you’d been trying to remember.

We met in a gay club in Silver Lake, ironically enough. Joan caught my eye across the room. I knew who she was and she knew who I was. She was leaning against the bar, holding a glass of wine in a bar that really only served cocktails. Immediately, I liked her.

She came up to me and asked what I was drinking. I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely interested or just passing the time. Either way, I answered. By the time we left, I’d forgotten what I ordered and remembered only her—the way she smelled faintly of cedar and something floral, the rough edge of her laugh, the way she pulled me through the door like she knew exactly where we were going.

We ended up at her apartment in West Hollywood. She dropped her jacket on a chair and poured us another drink, even though we didn’t need it. Everything about her felt deliberate, like she’d honed her life down to the essentials: good wine, good music, and good sex. I spent the night in her bed. We had sex for four hours straight. She told me she loved me that night and I said it right back to her – no hesitation, no fear. 

After that, Joan and I were inseparable. We were busy with our careers but she always made time for me. And she wasn’t shy about it, either. She held my hand in public, called me her girlfriend in interviews, and posted pictures of us all over her social pages.

We moved in together after a few months, too fast for sense, too swept up to care. Was it smart? Of course not. But I was twenty-one, and smart didn’t seem like the point. Love did. Joan was everything I’d never known I wanted. I loved her with a kind of reckless abandon that felt more like instinct than choice, like my body had decided before my mind could catch up.

The apartment was big—too big for what we needed—but it had high ceilings and a view of the city that stretched on forever. She loved the light, the way it poured through the windows in the morning. I loved her sitting in it, guitar in her lap, her hair in a golden ponytail.

With our combined incomes, we had more than enough money, and didn’t think twice about spending it. A bottle of wine with dinner, new clothes delivered to the door, a weekend trip when we felt like it. None of it seemed like it mattered compared to what we had. I loved her more than anyone before. More than Eleanor, more than Irene. It felt solid – something I could hold in my hands, something that wouldn’t slip away if I just held on tight enough.

Somewhere along the way, I started leaning into Joan’s image, matching her. My wardrobe shifted—sleek black blazers, slim-cut trousers, combat boots. I cut my hair a little shorter, started wearing silver rings and necklaces. The roles I was being offered started to change, too. No more sweet ingénues or bubbly sidekicks. Now, I was being called in for the complicated women—the ones with hard edges.

Then, on a Wednesday night, my phone buzzed.  Joan was playing around on her guitar in my living room and I was sitting next to her, with my laptop out. Robert’s name flashed on the screen, and I picked up, expecting him to tell me about another audition.

“They want you for The Weight of Sand,” he said, and I almost dropped the phone.

“What?”

“Abby,” he clarified, as if I needed it. “You’re on the shortlist. Top three.”

My first thought was damn. Not because I wasn’t grateful—I was. But because I’d wanted Carol – everyone wanted Carol. I was prepared to bleach my hair to be Carol. 

Still, it was a big role. Huge, even. HBO was throwing money at it like it was the second coming of Euphoria. The scripts alone had been fought over, and the casting rumors had already made the rounds on every pop culture blog worth its bandwidth. Even as Abby, it would be big more for my career.

“Celia?” Robert’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” I said. “It’s...big.”

“Big?” Robert exhaled, the sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “It’s career-making. And don’t start sulking about Carol. You’re perfect for Abby, and we both know it.”

Joan was watching me now, her hands resting on the body of her guitar. I glanced at her, searching for something—encouragement, reassurance, a push. Her brow quirked slightly, an unspoken Well?

“Okay,” I said into the phone. “What’s next?”

“They’re sending the sides tonight,” Robert replied, the smile evident in his voice. “Be ready. You’ve got this, Celia.”

•••

I knew I had the job before I even stepped out of the studio. There was something in the air, a kind of unspoken agreement that hung over the room like smoke after a match had been struck. The casting directors stopped scribbling in their notebooks, their heads tilted just slightly. They exchanged glances they thought I wouldn’t notice. They circled my name on an invisible mental list.

It wasn’t just the performance. I knew that much. Abby’s hesitation, her longing—they weren’t foreign. They were mine. Wearing them felt natural – like slipping into a coat softened by use, shaped by someone else’s hands but fitting me just the same.

And maybe it mattered that I didn’t have to fake the kind of love she felt. I knew it. The way it could hold you up and tear you down in the same breath. I didn’t have to act for that. I just had to let it come out.

By the time they thanked me, I could tell I’d given them what they were waiting for. I left before I could overthink it, before I could convince myself I’d imagined it all.

•••

I got the call not an hour later. I had the part. Joan and I went to Musso & Frank for dinner to celebrate. It was her choice, not mine, but I didn’t argue. She liked the old-school feel of it, the way the waiters wore starched white jackets and everything smelled faintly of butter and wood polish. She said it felt like Hollywood the way it used to be, before TikTok and neon signs and influencers sipping overpriced cocktails at rooftop bars.

We sat in a booth near the back, away from the tourists. Joan ordered a martini, dry, with an olive. I stuck with wine—something red, because it felt right for the occasion.

“To Abby,” she said, raising her glass.

“To Abby,” I echoed, clinking my glass against hers.

The food came quickly. Steak for her, salmon for me. Joan talked about her day between bites—meetings with producers, a half-written song she wasn’t sure was any good, a photoshoot she’d agreed to for reasons she couldn’t quite remember. I talked about the short film I’d wrapped in January that was coming out – and how much I dreaded seeing the press about it. The whole night felt normal, if not a bit brighter, and then Joan dropped a bombshell. 

She set her fork down and her fingers tapped against the edge of her martini glass, once, twice, before she looked up at me.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. Her words were slow, like she was choosing each one. “We should get married.”

I froze, the glass of wine halfway to my lips. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, her smile widening. “Married. You and me.”

The table between us felt too small all of a sudden, the space too close. Married. Marriage. White dresses and vows. My face felt hot, my cheeks and neck flaming. 

“Joan,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “we’ve been together for, what, four months?”

“Five,” she corrected, and she reached into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a small velvet box. She flipped it open with a flick of her wrist like she’d been rehearsing it all day. “And I don’t care.”

Inside the box was a ring, simple and elegant, a single diamond set on a gold band. It was beautiful. 

“Life’s short,” she said, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the table. “And I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. So, why wait? Let’s do it.”

I stared at her, my heart pounding in my ears, in my throat. It was crazy. Absolutely insane. No one gets married after five months, not in real life. But then I looked at her, at the way her hands didn’t shake, at the way her eyes held mine like she was daring me to say no, and something in me shifted.

This was Joan. My Joan. The woman I’d fallen for. The woman who would never sideline me, never cheat on me. The woman who I’d been waiting for since I was a little girl.

“Okay,” I said, the word slipping out before I could stop it.

Joan blinked, like she hadn’t expected me to agree so quickly. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I said again, and then I laughed. “Yes, Joan. I’ll marry you.”

The smile that spread across her face was unlike anything I’d ever seen before, wild and unguarded and full of something I didn’t have a name for. She took my hand, and before I had time to think, the ring was on my finger, fitting like it had always been there. There was no grand gesture, no heads turning in the restaurant. It felt right that no one noticed, as if the moment was meant to be tucked away, small and ours – a seed pressed into the soil. Just me and my Joan. When she kissed my fingertips, I closed my eyes and smiled and tried to let all of it soak into me.

•••

I didn’t find out who’d be playing Carol until a week before the first table read. The casting process had been drawn out and everyone had their theories about why it was taking so long. Big names were being tossed around like poker chips—Kayla Rederick, Sara Chambers, Gianna Maldevi. Any one of them could’ve handled it. They had the star power, the track records. And Gianna, at least, was queer, which would’ve been something.

None of them got it. I didn’t know why, but by then I’d learned not to ask questions I wouldn’t get real answers to. I just showed up to set that day for costume fittings, ready to slip into Abby’s skin and start making her my own.

The hallway outside the wardrobe department smelled faintly of fresh paint and stale coffee – that distinct scent an old building gives off when it’s trying to pretend it’s new. I turned a corner, head down, flipping through my sides, and nearly ran straight into her.

Evelyn Hugo.

It had been over a year since our run-in at the photoshoot, but she was impossible to forget. Her name had only grown louder since then, stamped across gossip columns and movie posters alike. First, the Spanish-speaking soaps that turned heads for their boldness, then the leap to bigger-budget projects once she’d latched onto Don Adler—Hollywood’s resident asshole and rising golden boy.

She was dressed for the part already, though not Carol’s. She wore dark denim that looked painted on, a cropped white v-neck blouse, and red high-heels that gave her an extra three inches. Her hair was now blonde – and, ironically, nearly the same shade as Joan’s. Her mouth tilted into a half-smile, half-smirk when she saw me, and I wasn’t sure if she meant it as a greeting or something more sinister.

After what I’d said to her, I assumed it was the latter. 

“Evelyn,” I sputtered. 

“Well,” she said. Her voice was low for a woman, with just enough edge to make you lean in to catch the rest. “If it isn’t Abby herself.”

I blinked, my brain struggling to piece the scene together. “You’re playing Carol?” The words came out flat, and maybe a little sharper than I’d intended.

“That’s what they tell me.” Her smirk widened, and she leaned a shoulder against the wall, looking me over like she was sizing me up. “Surprised?”

I wasn’t just surprised—I was blindsided. Evelyn Hugo was a bombshell, a walking pinup brought to life. Evelyn Hugo was red lips, tight dresses, and curves poured into every frame like molten gold. Evelyn Hugo was not Carol Aird. Carol was restraint and elegance, the slow draw of a cigarette. Carol was Cate fucking Blanchett – not a bottle-blonde bimbo.

But if I’d let my shock show, it would’ve been the first mistake of many. Hollywood doesn’t forgive amateurs, and it doesn’t forget slights. I wasn’t new enough to fall for that trap. You learn quick that enemies in this town are like snakes in your bed—dangerous, yes, but also stupidly avoidable if you know how to play it right. I kept my expression even, neutral, the kind of polite calm that could pass for anything. Indifference. Approval. A blank slate no one could write on but me.

Evelyn stood there like she already knew what I was thinking, like she knew everyone would be thinking the same thing: Her? As Carol? She was too proud to flinch under the weight of it. Instead, she tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curving into a smirk, daring me—or anyone—to say it out loud.

“Well,” she said, her voice smooth as glass, “looks like we’ll be spending some time together.”

I nodded. “Seems that way. And, knowing that, I think I need to apologize to you. For how I treated you last time we met. I was…I was going through a rough patch. But it was unprofessional.”

Evelyn crossed her arms. Her dark eyes pinned me where I stood, unblinking, unkind but not cruel.

“You were a huge bitch,” she said plainly. Not an ounce of malice in her voice, just a fact laid out plain. 

I felt my face burn, my chest tighten. Flinching was the last thing I wanted to do, but there it was—an involuntary jerk, like I’d touched a live wire. I nodded, swallowing the sting, and managed a quiet, “Yeah. I was. I’m sorry.”

Evelyn didn’t move, didn’t even blink. “I don’t like you.” The way she said it – it sounded like she was commenting on the weather.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. There was something startling about her honesty, the way she refused to soften the blow. It wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t gentle either. She wasn’t giving me an inch to cling to.

“Fair enough,” I said finally. “But we’ll have to do some…some intimate scenes together.”

The word intimate felt sour in my mouth, sharp and embarrassing. I wanted to swallow it back, but there it was. God, I’m an idiot. 

Evelyn’s eyebrow arched high, one dark line of skepticism cutting across her face. “Yeah? So?”

“Well,” I stammered, struggling to find my footing, “it’s good to have chemistry. Just being... friendly can help.”

“Chemistry?” she interrupted, cutting me off like she’d grown bored halfway through my sentence. She tilted her head, her eyes dragging over me with the kind of deliberate slowness that made my skin crawl. “I can have chemistry with a two-by-four.”

Her gaze settled on my chest. I was wearing a button-up, the top buttons undone over a snug camisole that flattened what little there was to flatten. The contrast between us—me, lean and boyish, and her, all curves and command—felt suddenly unbearable. My skin burned under her scrutiny, and for a moment, I wanted the floor to crack open and swallow me whole.

“By the looks of things,” she said. “I think you’ll do just fine.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She turned on her heel and walked away.

•••

For a solid two days, I seriously considered walking away from the role. Turning it down felt reckless, dramatic, but it also felt safe. And God, how I wanted safe.

Two things kept me tethered to the project.

The first was practical. I’d already signed the papers, made promises I couldn’t just walk away from without dragging my name through mud seven layers deep. Legally, I was already in deep.

The second was Joan. She wanted me to do it. 

“You can’t run from this,” she said one night as we sat on the balcony, the city spread below us like a mosaic of light and shadow. I was on her lap, my head tucked against her shoulder. 

“You’re not afraid of Evelyn Hugo, are you?” she asked, glancing at me sideways.

I didn’t answer. She laughed because she didn’t need me to.

“Look,” she said. “You don’t have to like her. Hell, you don’t even have to tolerate her. But this role? It’s huge, baby. Nobody’s going to care if you and Evelyn don’t braid each other’s hair on set. They’ll care if you nail it. And you will nail it.”

Her certainty stung, mostly because I knew she was right. Joan had a gift for cutting through my bullshit, whether I wanted her to or not. 

Even so, I hesitated. Joan was leaving for a six-month world tour, a sprawling, glittering carousel of cities and stages and late-night encores. Tokyo, Paris, Berlin, São Paulo. I told myself I’d visit when I could, but I wasn’t naive. I knew how this business worked. My days would vanish into a relentless grind of production: scripts to memorize, accents to fine-tune, endless hours of blocking under lights so bright they’d bleach the shadows from my skin.

And in her absence, there would be Evelyn Hugo.

The thought turned my stomach. Evelyn was impossible—prickly, self-absorbed, and so sure of herself it was infuriating. She hated me. I could see it in her sideways glances, in the way her words clipped like she couldn’t be bothered to waste syllables on me. And I wasn’t blameless. I didn’t like her either, and I didn’t try to fake it. I’d never had a co-star I actively disliked, but Evelyn seemed determined to be the first.

With Joan at home, in my bed, I could steady myself. She was a buffer against my tendency to slip too far into my own head. But with her gone for half a year, I would be in trouble. I’d be left to wrestle my tendency to overthink until every decision felt monumental. And Evelyn would be there, always watching, always judging.

But Joan refused to let me walk away. When I tried to bring up my hesitation, she cut me off before I could finish the thought. It wasn’t dismissive—it was firm, unwavering. She told me to do the show.

She told me the story mattered, that I mattered. She promised she’d call, text, send pictures from every city she landed in. She’d make time for me, even on the road. Her certainty was maddening and reassuring all at once.

The morning she left, I watched her roll her suitcases to the door. Her entourage of agents and managers were waiting for her in the lobby. She hugged me and kissed me before stepping into the hallway, and when the elevator doors closed behind her, I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where she’d been.

And all I could think was that maybe Joan was wrong. Maybe Evelyn Hugo wasn’t just difficult. Maybe she was going to ruin everything.

•••

Evelyn’s POV

When a man hits you, are you supposed to walk out the door that same instant? The world loves to dole out that advice as if it’s as easy as turning off a light. But I grew up in a home where fists landed with regularity. My father hit my mother, and when he got tired of that, he hit me. Leaving wasn’t an option then, so when Don raised his hand to me, I stayed. Not because I didn’t know better, but because staying was a muscle I’d already trained.

Still, with every slap, shove, or vase he hurled in my direction, something in me calcified. Love, if that’s what I ever felt for him, began to wither like a flower left out in the sun too long. He wasn’t just hurting my body—he was stripping away the last pieces of who I thought I was.

The irony was, from the outside, my life couldn’t have looked better. I was richer than I’d ever imagined, more famous than I’d dreamed possible when I first stepped off that plane to LA. But loneliness has a way of finding you, no matter how high you climb.

My so-called friends were nothing more than props, fifty or so girls with perfectly sculpted faces and Instagram-ready lives. They wanted to be tagged in my stories, to vacation in Cabo and make sure the paps caught us sipping overpriced cocktails by the pool. Their smiles were as manufactured as their tits, and I think, deep down, I hated them for it. Or maybe I hated myself for letting them orbit me like that, pretending I didn’t see the transactional nature of it all.

Harry Cameron was the only real tether I had in a city that seemed built on surface tension. We spent nights in half-empty rooftop bars. He’d order mezcal, neat, and I’d tease him about his “grown man palate” while sipping something that glowed like neon and tasted like candy. By the time the city thinned out to just the Uber drivers and street sweepers, we’d be talking about things that didn’t have room under the bright lights—his boyfriend’s latest art exhibit, my spiraling doubts, the weight of stardom, both perceived and physical.

Harry was the only one who knew the truth about Don. He didn’t need the whole story to understand. The look in his eyes the first time I showed up with a barely concealed bruise said he already knew enough. He hated Don for it, hated him in that way only Harry could—quiet and razor-sharp, like his fury was something he could hold in his hands and aim. 

“You want me to talk to him?” he asked me one afternoon. We were in his office at Sunset Studios, tucked away in a glass box overlooking the hum of the lot. Lunch had become our ritual—sushi from that place he loved on Melrose, always too much wasabi on his side. The desk between us was cluttered with production schedules and scripts, the remnants of a life that ran on controlled chaos.

I paused mid-bite, the salmon roll halfway to my mouth, and looked at him. We’d been talking about an upcoming HBO series—a big-budget prestige piece that Harry swore would “redefine the genre.” His comment about Don landed like a stray bullet, sharp and completely off course.

“What?” I asked, though I’d heard him perfectly.

He leaned back in his chair. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, a faint streak of ink from his pen smudged on his forearm. “I said, do you want me to talk to him? To Don.”

I set the chopsticks down and swallowed hard. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

His eyes stayed on me, unblinking. “You know I could handle it,” he said eventually, the calm breaking just enough for the edge to show.

I looked away, out the window, where a PA was crossing the lot with an armful of coffee trays. “I don’t need you to handle it. I need you to leave it alone.”

Harry sighed, a deep, slow exhale, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Evelyn, he’s a coward. He’s not untouchable.”

“I’m not worried about Don being untouchable,” I said. “I’m worried about this getting out. About what happens when people start picking apart my life like vultures. This is my career we’re talking about, Harry. 

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked like he might argue. But then he nodded, the fight in him settling back into its corner. “Alright,” he said finally. “If that’s what you want.”

And so, nothing changed. I buried my OnlyFans account like a body, scrubbing it from the internet until even the ghosts of old links led nowhere. My team of agents, managers, and PR strategists circled me like a hive of worker bees, buzzing with plans to polish my image to a gleam. They booked me for photoshoots, interviews, red carpets—every spotlight they could find. Every day, my star rose another inch.

But behind the glossy veneer, my life was a house of cards, swaying every time Don walked through the door. When the cameras were off and the makeup wiped clean, I was just another woman learning how to brace for impact.

Until The Weight of Sand came along. Then everything started to change. 

•••

The role felt a little too artsy for my liking. And, if I’m being honest, it leaned a bit too queer for my comfort. But I wasn’t in a position to be picky. I needed the press. I needed something that would put my name in the right conversations.

More than anything, though, I needed a role where I wasn’t pigeonholed. I needed to be seen as a white woman. Not the Latina bombshell or the “exotic” side character Hollywood seemed intent on keeping me as. 

Carol didn’t speak with an accent. Carol was Midwestern, milk and honey, the kind of woman people imagined when they thought of America. Carol was white. And I needed Carol more than she needed me.

When I got the audition, I threw everything I had at it. I told myself to keep it subtle, to dial back the curves and pouty lips, but old habits die hard. I walked out of the room certain I’d overplayed it—too much heat for a character who was meant to simmer, not burn.

The next morning, my agent called. She told me the casting director had loved me and that I’d gotten the part. 

“You’ll be starring alongside Celia St. James,” she told me. I swear my jaw hit the floor.

“Celia St. James?”

She paused. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

A problem? No, not technically. I hadn’t seen Celia in person since that photoshoot where she’d been all polite smiles and thinly veiled condescension. That didn’t mean I hadn’t seen her everywhere else—gracing magazine covers, starring in critically acclaimed series, splashed across tabloids alongside her new fiancée, that singer Joan Marker.

I hated her the way I hated anyone who thought they were better than me. Celia had the kind of career I wanted, and she wore it with an air of entitlement, like it had been handed to her on a silver platter. Entitled, bitchy, and frankly, irritatingly good at what she did.

Still, I knew how to handle people. Celia St. James wasn’t some untouchable deity. She was just a redhead with a big attitude and a flat chest. I’d dealt with worse.

“Not at all,” I said smoothly, keeping my tone light. “When can I get the script?”

•••

The internet didn’t take kindly to me being cast as Carol. Surprisingly, my being Latina wasn’t the issue—if anything, a fair share of people seemed to like the idea. But what set Twitter ablaze, what sent the trolls clawing at their keyboards, was the fact that I wasn’t queer.

The outrage was brutal – articles dissecting the casting decision, calls for boycotts, strangers weighing in as though they knew me. Some posts were thoughtful, others cruel, and a few teetered on the edge of outright hostility. 

Why cast a straight actress for a lesbian role?

She’s dating Don fucking Adler and now she’s Carol? Are you kidding me?

She’s going to ruin this. At least we have Celia.

Celia. There was her name, again and again. She wasn’t even the lead, but you wouldn’t know it from the noise.

Vivant had already crowned her a “Lesbian Icon for the Ages”. Meanwhile, I was the bottle-blonde from some Spanish-language soap that people only brought up to joke about the bad dubbing. My casting was a decision to be dissected, a controversy to debate. Hers was celebrated as genius before a single frame had been shot.

Fuck her. 

The first time I saw her on set, I didn’t hesitate. I walked right up to her and reminded her exactly how she’d treated me, how smug and dismissive she’d been. I made sure she understood that I wasn’t intimidated, that whatever power she thought she had over me was imagined.

But even as the words left my mouth, something twisted inside me. Guilt, faint but undeniable. The Celia St. James standing in front of me wasn’t the same girl from that skincare shoot—the one who’d smiled like she already knew she was better than me.

This Celia was quieter. She seemed softer somehow, her confidence still there but tempered, less of a weapon. It threw me off balance, though I didn’t let it show. Whatever had changed her, I wasn’t ready to let go of the grudge just yet.

•••

The first day of prep felt like stepping into a machine, every piece carefully calibrated to turn me into Carol. The plot of the show revolved around Carol’s quiet yearning for her childhood friend Abby and the suffocating reality of her engagement to a man she didn’t love. To inhabit her, I had to strip parts of myself away.

The first thing to go was my hair.

I sat in a chair in the studio salon. The stylist—an older woman with sharp, deliberate hands—sectioned my hair and began cutting. With each snip, strands of my carefully maintained blonde waves fell to the floor. When she finished, my hair barely brushed my chin, sharp and modern, but with an air of mid-century restraint. 

I knew Don would hate it. There would be a slap, maybe a cruel remark about how I looked like a boy. But as I looked at my reflection, a small smile crept across my face. It wasn’t defiance, not exactly. It was something quieter, more private—the pleasure of doing something for myself, knowing he couldn’t take that moment away from me.

The table reads began the next day. The cast gathered in a soundproofed conference room. Scripts lay open on the long table, surrounded by an assortment of coffee cups and protein bar wrappers—little reminders of early mornings and long hours.

Celia was already there when I arrived, seated at the far end of the table. She wore a plain sweater, no makeup except for a bit of concealer under her eyes. She was Abby in an instant, her softness and quiet charm filling the space like expensive perfume.

I took my seat across from her. As the director welcomed us and began introductions, I couldn’t help but glance at Celia. She was completely focused, nodding along, smiling at jokes. It wasn’t the poised, carefully curated Celia St. James from the tabloids. It was something smaller, softer.

I think she might’ve been charming. If I didn’t still hate her. 

Hollywood’s cute little lesbian princess. 

I have to admit, Celia St. James is, and always has been, an amazing actress. She floored the whole cast at the first table read. Abbey wasn’t the kind of character that required fireworks. She was quiet, understated, but she carried the weight of the story in the way she looked at Carol, in the pauses between her words. And Celia captured it flawlessly.

By the time she finished her first scene, the room was silent, not out of politeness but because we were all caught in her gravity. My jealousy flared, mean and spiteful. 

That night, when I went home to Don, I let the usual routine play out—the shoving, the sharp words. I absorbed it all in silence, the way I always did. And later, in the dark of our bedroom, I climbed on top of him. His anger still lingered but I knew how to smooth it out, how to bend it into something I could use. I moved against him, seeking pleasure and release and escape. When I finally got it, I fell down on his chest, sweaty and spent, and went to sleep in his arms.