Venice
You sleep deep but wake up early. When Baela wanders out of the bathroom in a fuzzy purple robe and a gale of steam, she finds you dressed in your grey work uniform and sprinkling a packet of flower food you got from the Rite Aid down the street into the vase of sunflowers. You are smiling to yourself; you can’t seem to stop.
“Heyyyyy!” Baela says, slow and salacious, hoping for interesting stories. You very rarely have any to share. “How’d the Maroon 5 shoot go? Not so bad, right?”
“It was good.” You rearrange the sunflowers, pruning any leaves that have begun to wilt. Daylight streams in through the windows; outside you can see power lines, palm trees, a shopping center featuring—among other things—a Starbucks, World Star Vape, and Carl’s Jr.
“Did you meet Adam Levine?”
“Briefly and uneventfully. But he seemed nice!”
“And you survived the bathtub thing, I see.” Her tone implies that you were ridiculous to ever fear you wouldn’t, childish, ignorant, histrionic.
“Well…I actually didn’t have to do it.”
“What?” She reaches into the refrigerator and removes a plastic bowl full of raspberries, sets it down on the kitchen counter, eats absentmindedly as she stares at you. “Really? Why not?”
You shrug, a little shy but desperately wanting to tell somebody, because that will make it real. Blood burns in your face. “Aegon saved me.”
Baela’s eyes narrow and her brow crinkles. You find yourself—as you often do—casually in awe of the smoothness of her skin, the perfect arches of her eyebrows, her expressiveness that is never inelegant. She chews her raspberries very slowly. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, so…I didn’t have to film that scene. But I did the rest of them and it went fine.”
Baela’s gaze drops to your shoes and travels northbound, examining you with skepticism and dread, as if she is afraid to ask. “Did something else happen?”
You can feel yourself glowing, flushing, beaming helplessly. “Kind of.”
Her jaw drops open; there’s berry juice on her teeth like blood. “How? Where?!”
“We went back to his office after the shoot. I mean, he drove us back to his office. But I wanted to go too.”
“And you did…what, exactly? How many bases?”
“Um…all of them?”
“All of them?!”
“Twice.”
Baela looks horrified. “Oh my God, you really fucked a married guy.”
“No, remember, he’s not married. He’s just engaged.”
“It’s the same thing!” Baela exclaims, and she has completely forgotten about her raspberries. “You’re a cheater, how does that make you feel?”
You shake your head; she doesn’t understand. “I know it sounds bad, but when I’m with Aegon…he’s just so…he’s so protective and he’s smart and he’s brave and he actually believes in me, he’s the only person who doesn’t think I’m hopeless and delusional, and he’s always trying to help me, and there’s something about when we’re together that just feels…magical!”
“Of course it’s magical!” Baela bursts out, and now Jace is peeking blearily out of her bedroom, his dark curls in disarray. “He’s a fuckboy, that’s what they do! He gives you some otherworldly encapsulated experience that leaves you dickmatized but it’s not real, because then he goes home and he does the same thing with his soon-to-be-wife, and then the next day he’s probably hooking up with some other impressionable starstruck client, and you’re standing here thinking you have something special with him when he’s already onto the next girl!”
You can’t imagine that being true, and yet you wonder without wanting to: why did he have condoms in his desk drawer? “I don’t think he’s happy with Becca.”
Baela groans as if she’s in physical pain. “I knew this would happen! I knew somebody was going to take advantage of you. You’re too idealistic, you’re too naïve.”
“I started it,” you object feebly.
“You think you seduced him? You think you were calling the shots with a middle-aged man whose family is Hollywood royalty?”
You look down at your shoes, uninspired white Skechers for work, ashamed. “I guess not.”
Baela huffs a sardonic sigh and scarfs down the last of the raspberries, chewing them aggressively. “You know, people talk shit about Jace—”
“Who talks shit about Jace?” Jace asks from the doorway of her bedroom.
“—They say he’s a hobosexual and lazy and jobless and whatever, but that man is loyal, he doesn’t even look at other women, and I wouldn’t trade him for anybody. Because apparently it’s extremely fucking rare to find someone who won’t get naked for the first stranger who promises to make all their wildest dreams come true.”
You are collapsing in on yourself, a wilting flower, a crushed spider, and you remember years ago finding the emails between your father and that hospital intern, and you marvel at how easy it is to fixate on one star and lose sight of the constellation. Jace slinks back into Baela’s bedroom and closes the door. “Yeah, you’re right, Baela,” you say softly. “I was wrong. I don’t know why I did that.”
Now Baela frowns at you with a nauseating combination of judgment and pity. “Look, are you sure you wouldn’t be happier back home on the horse farm? This place…you’re too nice for it, you know? You’re too trusting. You’re going to keep getting hurt.” You don’t have what it takes.
You steel yourself. “I’m staying here.”
“Okay, and are you going to find a new agent? Maybe somebody who isn’t trying to sleep with you, or at the very least isn’t in a committed relationship while doing it?”
You are thunderstruck by the question; you haven’t even considered this. “No one else wants me.”
Baela tosses the empty plastic bowl into the kitchen sink—it rattles harshly there—and casts you a hard glare as she stalks towards her bedroom in her purple bathrobe. “I am so disappointed in you.”
You turn to watch her leave, crestfallen and deserted. “Are we still going to see the fireworks later when I get done at Cold Stone?”
Baela stops and turns around, and now her face is all pity, like you’re too pathetic to stay mad at, like you aren’t cognizant enough to be held responsible. “Yeah. We’re still going to see the fireworks.”
“Yay!” you reply, a strained little squeak.
“Jace can stay here when I’m in Paris, right?” Baela asks. “He swears he’ll vacuum and take the garbage out and stuff. And you know he won’t fill up the sink with dirty dishes, he basically only eats takeout.”
“Yeah, of course, no problem! He can stay.”
“Thanks.” Baela gives you a small smile—a charitable you’re a dumbass but we’re still friends sort of gesture—and disappears into her bedroom. Then you go find your phone and purse so you won’t be late for work.
All afternoon as you are bent low scraping scoops of ice cream out of the freezer and mashing in mix-ins on the chilled countertop, each time the glass door opens and the string of bells jangle you look up to see if it’s Aegon, because maybe he’s found you another job or maybe he just misses you, and he’s daydreaming of you now in the sweltering sunshine that rains down golden and cloudless. But your only customers are strangers: flocks of influencers in yoga pants who pick at Like It-sized sorbets, flustered mothers trying to relay their lisping children’s orders, giggling couples on dates who you love watching, the way their eyes are alight and their fingers forever ache to intertwine.
At dusk, you and Baela and Jace are lounging on a blanket at the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook, your breathing still labored from the hike and guzzling cans of La Croix that Baela packed, awful as always but not so bad when you feel like you’re dying of thirst. As you wait for the fireworks to start, you take a few selfies with the distant incandescent mirage of Downtown to the northeast, towards Chinatown and Elysian Park, towards Apple Valley, Minnesota if you drove far enough.
You post the most flattering selfie to your Instagram story with a caption of patriotic emojis: an American flag, the Statue of Liberty, a bald eagle, an exploding pink firework. In the row of circles at the top of your screen, you observe that Aegon—a.k.a. superstargaryen—has also posted a story today. In the two minutes you spend debating whether to watch it, he has seen yours, liked it, and replied: Miss America 2025.
“What are you grinning about?” Baela asks from where she is sitting in Jace’s lap, his arms around her waist, and you can’t tell her because you don’t want to make her mad again.
“Just something my sister sent me.” You click on Aegon’s story; he is standing beside a massive grill covered with hotdogs and hamburger patties, wielding a pair of tongs, and wearing his aviator sunglasses and a green apron with seemingly nothing underneath. You like it and reply: I have literally never wanted a hotdog so bad in my life.
Aegon reacts with a laughing emoji and types: Come and get it. But of course you can’t, because Becca is probably there too.
“You better post the picture we took together,” Baela tells you. “We looked cute as fuck!”
“What about me?” Jace asks playfully, nuzzling the side of her face. “Was I cute as fuck too?”
“You were okay,” Baela says, and they both laugh.
“It’s a really good photo,” you agree. And it proves that you have friends to do activities with, that you aren’t quite as pathetic and alone in Los Angeles as your parents and Clara and Tripp and Mason might think. You post it as a story: you and Baela smiling together, Jace in the background brandishing a peace sign. You add a bunch of red, white, and blue hearts for decoration. Aegon watches your new story within a few minutes, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even like it. You frown down at your screen, confused.
“Oh look, it’s starting, it’s starting!” Baela says excitedly, and now there are booming explosions in the darkening sky and threads of shimmering remnants descending like falling stars.
~~~~~~~~~~
You are early for your appointment because you want to see Aegon again, and you don’t even try to tell yourself it’s for any other reason. It’s Tuesday, July 8th, and there are still charred firework wrappers and singed sparklers strewn on the sidewalk. You find a parking spot a ways down the street from Aegon’s half-duplex and trot to the front door. You are wearing your tan TOMS wedges, a top the color of dark fertile earth, a green maxi skirt, and swampy verdant eyeshadow to match: matte brown Rewind and sparkly emerald Damaged, both by Urban Decay.
Behind the reception desk, Brandon is squinting at the computer screen and scrawling notes in his planner with his flower pen. “Hey girl!” he greets you, and although he is preoccupied he still gets a bottle of Perrier out of the minifridge and sets it on the edge of the desk.
“Thanks!” you say as you take it. “I’m really sorry about what happened last week with the address thing. I hope you weren’t too freaked out. I didn’t want to ruin your holiday.”
Brandon laughs and waves a hand dismissively. “It’s totally cool, I wasn’t worried at all. Aegon must be hella stressed lately because he’s always mixing things up and forgetting appointments, then he yells at me but feels bad about it afterwards and pays me overtime. Well worth it! I think it’s the wedding. Becca’s constantly showing up asking for his opinion about cakes and decorations and whatever and it’s just a lot.”
You smile politely; it takes some effort. “Yeah, weddings are nerve-racking. My sister Clara is planning hers right now.”
“Oh for cute! Are you going to be her maid of honor?”
“Actually, I don’t know. I hope not. Sounds like a ton of work.”
“You’d be marvelous at it,” Brandon assures you, then snatches up the phone when it rings. “Targaryen Talent Agency, this is Brandon, how can I help you?” You say goodbye and continue to Aegon’s office.
Inside, he is wearing the same green Nike Killshots he had on the day you first met and has them propped up on his desk as he plays his Nintendo 64. Mario is traversing a narrow stone pathway surrounded by a sea of blood-red lava. Aegon’s tank top is the color of the pine trees back in Minnesota; the unbuttoned short-sleeve Oxford shirt he’s thrown overtop is white and wrinkled. The room has been tidied up, all signs of your transgression erased: debris swept off the scratched wood floor, his desk once again littered with folders and papers and Juicy Fruit gum wrappers, new frames for the photographs, Honeycrisp apples filling up a bowl that is blue china instead of plain bone-colored ceramic.
“Hey,” Aegon says, glancing at you but still clicking buttons and swiveling the joystick on his transluscent orange controller.
“Hi!” You are grinning as you sit down in the chair in front of his desk. “Your office is back to normal.”
“Yeah, I have cleaning people that come in a few days a week.”
“Are you winning?” you ask, meaning the game. Mario veers off the precarious walkway and into the lava, screams and tries to leap to safety, sails over a stone island, hits the lava again and dies.
Aegon chuckles; he sounds tired. His bruised knuckles, five days gone, have sickened to a ghastly green and plumes of opaque violet. “I guess not.” He turns off the Nintendo 64. “How was your 4th of July?”
“It was awesome! I hung out with my roommate.”
Aegon gives you a disapproving look like he doesn’t quite believe you. You can’t fathom why. “I might have another job for you.”
“Really? Great!” But despite the good news, you’re beginning to feel like you’re sinking. You keep waiting for Aegon to acknowledge what happened here, what you both did, what you were to each other even if only for a few hours under the cover of darkness.
“There’s a casting call for a very minor part in a new Mavel movie. I’m sure that’s not exactly your dream role, and it’s not really what I see you doing either, but you said you’d take anything and it’s an opportunity to get you in front of some big-name people. So I booked you a spot.”
“I accept.” Is he going to pretend it never happened?
“I’m keeping an eye on the indie projects that make it to pre-production. I can imagine you shining in a niche little thriller, maybe a romantic drama…you do angry really well, you know. Which is strange, because you’re never angry in real life. But that’s what makes you an actress. You become other kinds of people.”
Does he think it was a mistake? Does he think it didn’t matter? “Okay,” you hear yourself say uncertainly.
Aegon studies you, his Nike Killshots still resting lazily on his desk. His blonde hair is slicked back from his face; his eyes are a remote somber blue like the ocean through an airplane window. “You alright, sunshine?”
“Yeah, I just…um…I mean…” You glance uneasily around the small plain office, scuffed wooden floorboards and cracked paint on mint green walls and glaring daylight that pours in through the windows that face the east. “What happened Thursday night…was that a one-time thing, or…?”
Slowly, Aegon smiles, and there’s something about his voice that strikes you as smug, maybe taunting, maybe even cruel. “It was that good for you, huh?”
You are suddenly reminded of every doubt, every warning, every belittling comment you thought you had convinced yourself not to absorb: from Mom, Dad, Clara, Tripp, Mason, Baela, Jace, agents and directors and surgeons. You thump your cold glass bottle of Perrier onto Aegon’s desk, clutch your purse, and bolt for the door. “Sorry, I have to go.”
Aegon is stunned. He scrambles to his feet. “What—?”
“Sorry, bye. Please don’t follow me.” You don’t want him to see you crying. You’re already humiliated enough.
You run awkwardly in your wedges through the lobby—Brandon watches you from behind his desk, baffled—and burst out into the hot late-morning sunlight. You almost tumble down the concrete steps but regain your balance, then flee towards your Honda. Window air conditioning units whir, dogs bark, car engines rev, a radio in an open garage is blaring Domino by Jessie J. Now your phone is ringing.
You yank it out of your purse and, through the tears that blur your vision, see that the name on the screen is Aegon’s. “Hello?” you answer stupidly, as if you don’t know who it is.
Aegon’s voice is equal parts defensive and resigned. “Do you want a new agent?”
“No,” you sob.
“Then come back here.”
“I just…I just feel like I really messed up, I mean I’ve never cheated on or with anybody and I can’t believe I did that, and now you’re pretending it never even happened, and it feels weird, it feels wrong, and I ruined everything, and maybe people were right when they said I couldn’t handle being out here—”
“Come back to my office,” Aegon says calmly. “And we will talk about it. Okay?”
“Okay,” you whimper, and turn around.
You clop into the lobby and give Brandon an embarrassed wave. He nods, puzzled. Then you return to Aegon’s office and take your place in your chair, slumped, red-eyed, ashamed.
Aegon sits down too, places his elbows on his desk, laces his fingers together and presses them against his lips as he gazes at you, his large blue eyes glossy and pained. After a while, he says quietly: “This is exactly what I didn’t want. For you to be hurt, for you to be sad.”
So you won’t start crying again, you distract yourself by rotating the green glass bottle you left on Aegon’s desk, slippery with condensation. “I don’t even like Perrier.”
“Then why do you drink one every time you’re here?”
“I thought it would be the easiest thing for Brandon to get me.”
Aegon shakes his head; and for a long time he just watches you. Then an idea strikes him. “Do you want to go to the beach?”
~~~~~~~~~~
He takes the 110 south to the 10, then the 10 west towards the coast, then Venice Boulevard until you hit the canals. Aegon parks his Sebring in a tight spot on the street; he has to cut it half a dozen times to squeeze between a BMW X5 and a Volkswagen Tiguan. When he rests his bruised hand on the back of your seat so he can twist around and look behind him, you feel a disorienting sort of loss. Is he never going to touch me again? Then you both get out and walk towards the towering palm trees and beckoning open blue that peeks out from between hotels and surf shops, the genesis of the Pacific Ocean that continues uninterrupted for over five thousand miles to the shores of Japan.
On the way here, Aegon stopped at an In-N-Out Burger. You said you didn’t want anything when he asked—you have no appetite whatsoever—but at the drive-thru window he ordered two cheeseburger combos: Cherry Cokes, grilled onions on the burgers, Animal-Style fries. He paid in cash, because he is full of deceit, or at least that is what you told yourself. And so now you are carrying the Cherry Cokes, condensation sweating out of the cardboard cups as midday heat radiates up from the sidewalk and teenagers on bicycles and skateboards weave around you. You pop into one of the surf shops and Aegon waits outside, bemused, until you emerge with a blue can of Coppertone Sport tucked under your arm.
When Aegon finds a spot he likes on the beach and sits cross-legged in loose warm sand, you set down the Cherry Cokes—ice jingling in the dripping cups—and spray yourself with the Coppertone Sport until all of your exposed skin is glistening with SPF 50. Then you try to pass the can to Aegon.
“I’m good,” he says, opening the paper In-N-Out Burger bag to distribute the contents.
“Do you want to get skin cancer? Are you trying to look like Clint Eastwood when you’re forty?”
He gives you an irritated smirk but takes the sunscreen and halfheartedly mists himself with it. Then he flings the can aside and passes you your burger and fries when you sit down beside him. Aegon takes large, sloppy bites of his burger, grease dribbling down his fingers; you can only manage queasy nibbles at your own. In the waves, surfers are paddling far out and then riding swells back in, skittering to a stop in shallow water or being dragged under by the gleaming sapphire currents. California gulls squawk overhead and dive greedily when Aegon throws them some of his fries. To the north is a jetty of stones to mark the territorial boundary between the surfers and the swimmers; to the south is a long wooden pier for fishing. A group of people are playing volleyball nearby. From their boombox drifts a Red Hot Chili Peppers song; you feel like you’re being haunted by them.
“It’s the edge of the world and all of Western civilization,
The sun may rise in the East, at least it settled in a final location
It’s understood that Hollywood sells Californication…”
“It’s not your fault,” Aegon says. “I’m the one who’s engaged, I’m a decade older than you, I’m sort of your boss. It was my responsibility to put the brakes on, and I didn’t because…” He gestures helplessly. “Because I really like you. And I didn’t want to stop. But you’re not to blame for it and you shouldn’t feel guilty and you didn’t do anything wrong. I did.”
You stare out into the waves, glittering with sharp lacerations of sunlight. “So you wish you’d stopped it.”
Aegon sighs and slurps his Cherry Coke, ice clinking around in the cardboard cup, red and white and reminding you of those zodiac calendars at Chinese restaurants. “I guess. I don’t know.”
“You don’t feel guilty?”
“It wasn’t the first time. I’m sure it’ll happen again at some point. It doesn’t change what I have with Becca.”
You turn to him, revolted. “You just cheat constantly? That’s how you live?”
“Not constantly,” Aegon says, annoyed. “Not even that often. Maybe once or twice a year. I bump into someone at a party or a club, or on a film set, or on a plane…you know. Things happen. But it doesn’t go any further than that and it’s never serious.”
“Never serious,” you echo morosely.
“Never long-term,” Aegon amends.
“Marry me, girl, be my fairy to the world, be my very own constellation,
A teenage bride with a baby inside getting high on information,
And buy me a star on the boulevard, it’s Californication…”
Aegon taps the mostly-untouched burger in your hand. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You said you’d listen to me. I’m telling you to eat.”
His logic is sound. You make more of an effort, washing each bite down with Cherry Coke that you usually never drink, empty calories, fleeting forbidden sweetness.
Aegon is watching you closely, the creases around his eyes deep and thoughtful. “Could you tell me…like, specifically…what exactly you’re upset about?”
“I guess I thought it meant something.”
“I’m not pretending it didn’t. I just said I really like you.”
“But you’re still getting married in September.”
“You honestly believe I’d rip up the life I’ve have planned out for years for someone I met a month ago?”
“I don’t understand how you can have feelings for me and be marrying somebody else. That doesn’t make any sense. When I’m really into someone, I don’t want other people.”
“That’s adorable,” Aegon says, like you’re an idiot. After a moment he adds, rather combatively: “And if you’re such a one-dude kind of girl, who was that guy in your Instagram story?”
You have no idea what he’s talking about. “What guy?”
“The guy on the 4th of July. Young gym bro curly hair guy.”
It takes you a few seconds to realize who he means. “Jace?”
“That’s his name? Jace? That’s not even a real name. That’s like James or Jason, but make it the trailer park remix.”
“I think his parents have money,” you say absently, fascinated by Aegon’s reaction, trying to decide if you want to divulge that Jace is in no way available or romantically interested in you.
“That’s not the point.”
“He’s a friend.”
Aegon rolls his eyes and shoves a handful of Animal-Style fries into his mouth, sopping with melted yellow cheese and grilled onions and secret-recipe spread that tastes suspiciously like Thousand Island salad dressing. “Right.”
“Where are you going after you get married?”
“Becca’s family is in Houston.”
“What’s there for you?”
He laughs, a curt little cackle. “Segway tours, rodeos. The Space Center.”
“What about your family? What about Aemond and the others?”
“If they want to see me, they can catch a flight.”
“If you’re so hellbent on leaving Los Angeles, then what’s the point of this? Just ditch me now. Just give me to some other agent and we can both move on.”
“Sure,” Aegon says, like he is being deliberately stoic. “But I need more time to find someone I trust enough.”
“You can’t think of a single person who isn’t going to try to make me get naked or leap off a building?”
“No, I can, but I need someone who actually believes in you too. And you haven’t done much work out here yet. So it would be better if I had more to show them.”
“Can’t you just forge me another resume?”
Aegon looks at you, a challenge, a dare. “Do you really want to never see me again?”
The truth is humiliatingly simple. “No.”
“Then why are you arguing?”
You toss a few fries to the seagulls; they wrestle over them when they fall to the ground, kicking up golden sand and pecking murderously at each other. “Do you love Becca?”
Aegon scoffs. “Oh, come on.”
“What?”
“It’s a stupid question.”
“It’s an extremely relevant question.”
“Are you twelve years old?” Aegon says, then slurps forcefully on his Cherry Coke. “Life is more complicated than that.”
“More complicated than marrying people you’re actually in love with…?”
Aegon gazes blankly out over the Pacific Ocean for a while, the breeze in his hair and the Coppertone Sport shimmering on his face, and then at last he turns to you. “Okay, listen,” Aegon begins. “About a year ago, Becca got pregnant.”
You’re so startled you accidentally knock over your Cherry Coke, scrabbling for the cup as dark reddish liquid spills into the sand. “You have a baby?!”
He watches you, severe, grim, maybe a little afraid of what you’ll think. “No.”
Then you remember. “You don’t want kids,” you say softly.
“Right. And I didn’t then either. So I told her I’d have absolutely nothing to do with it if she kept the baby, and that my preference was for her to terminate. And that’s what she did.”
You are speechless, you are horrified, you are staring at him and struggling to imagine it.
“I’m not convinced it was unintentional,” Aegon is saying; you are only half-hearing him. Your skull is full of rumbling waves and the shrieks of seagulls. “Becca told me that she moved out here to be an actress and a model, but I never saw her really pursuing that. Once we met, she jumped right into being the perfect caretaker, and some people are like that. They need someone to need them. She was great at it, it was all she wanted to do, looking after me and the house and the Targaryen family Hollywood bullshit that I can’t stand. And eventually Becca started dropping hints about getting married, and I ignored them. I think…maybe she thought having a baby would speed up the timeline. But now she knows how serious I am about not having children. And I’m a lot more careful.”
“So…you’re marrying Becca…out of guilt?”
“No,” Aegon says, exasperated that you don’t understand. “I’m marrying her because I’m who she wants, and she would do anything for me. And being with me is a sacrifice, right? So the least I can do is give her the official title. It works for both of us. It’s good for both of us.”
You still can’t comprehend it. It seems so incongruous with who you know him to be: protective, warm, unconventionally noble. “You pressured Becca into getting an abortion?”
“It was her choice,” Aegon says weakly, knowing that he’d put an insurmountable weight on the scale.
“That’s a horrible thing to do.”
“I know,” Aegon snaps. “What do you want me to say? That I’m a fucking terrible person, that I’m a curse to everyone who cares about me? Sure, fine, okay, you got it. But to my knowledge I’m the only person in your corner, so let me help you for as long as I can.”
You shake your head; none of it makes sense. All of it is awful. They were right. I don’t belong here. “Why do you care about what happens to me?”
“Because you’re kind, and you’re gentle, and you’re real, and you want this for the right reasons, and I’m not going to let anybody beat that out of you.”
You swallow noisily. “I feel really guilty.”
“I’m sorry,” Aegon says, and he seems to mean it.
“I don’t think it’s fair to let Becca go through with the wedding without knowing that we just hooked up in your office.”
Aegon raises his eyebrows and shrugs uneasily. “Look, I’m not going to tell you what to do, but Becca wouldn’t want to know.”
“Why? Do you have some kind of arrangement?” Like my parents do. “She doesn’t concern herself with your cheating as long as she doesn’t have to see the evidence?”
“I mean, has she ever used those exact words? No. But I think that’s pretty close to how she feels.”
You nibble on a fry. Your eyes are downcast, your words hushed. With one index finger, you draw stars in the sand. “That’s so sad.”
Aegon sighs, defeated. “Do you want to ride with me to the Marvel audition or do you want to drive yourself? It’s on Friday.”
“I don’t want you there at all.”
“Well, I’m going to be there. But I can try to stay out of your way.”
You’re sulking. “Why do you have to go?”
“In case something happens, obviously,” Aegon flares. “In case a director or an actor is a creep, in case they want you to do a dangerous stunt, it case they try to tell you to get surgery, in case they lie to you about the terms, in case a million other things go wrong. No one is going to listen to you, but because I’m a Targaryen they’ll listen to me.”
“You’re my hero,” you say sarcastically; it comes out more miserable than mean. You’ve never been good at cruelty. It’s not a language you speak.
“I’m the best you’ve got,” Aegon pitches back, and you sit with him in heavy silence under the sizzling afternoon sun for a long time, neither of you speaking, neither of you moving to leave.
An hour later, back in Elysian Park, Aegon parks his Sebring curbside and says Brandon will text you the address for the Marvel audition. You thank him briskly and impersonally. Aegon jogs up the concrete steps and into his half-duplex; you begin walking down the sidewalk towards where you parked your 2003 Honda Accord this morning. You are most of the way there when you see her approaching: long dark hair, wide-leg jeans, bridal white crop top, carrying a massive bakery box. Becca is beaming and humming to herself, but when she spots you she jolts to a halt.
“Hi, Becca!” you say very cheerfully, overcompensating.
“Hey,” she replies flatly, then goes to pass you, heading towards Aegon’s office.
“Wait, sorry, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Reluctantly, Becca stops and peers at you, agitated, guarded, unwelcoming. “What? I’m busy. I have wedding cake samples for Aegon to taste.”
“Oh neat, that’s so fun!”
She glares at you, waiting.
“Okay,” you start. “Um….well…I just wanted to…um…Becca, there’s something I feel like I need to confess to you, and I want to profusely apologize because even though it wasn’t planned, I still knew better and I should never have—”
“You people,” Becca hisses, and you gape at her, bewildered.
“Sorry, what?”
“Always trying to break us up,” she seethes hatefully, defiantly. “Always trying to tear us apart. You think you matter enough to jeopardize what Aegon and I have? He comes home to me, always, and no one can change that. You think I don’t know loving a man like that means having to share him with the world? I know it. But you should know you’ll never get to keep him.”
“No, Becca, that’s not—”
“And if he was going to leave me, he has better options than you.”
Her hands are full, but she lowers a shoulder and shoves you hard with it, and you go stumbling backwards, your feet twisting out of your wedges. Pain bolts up through your left ankle and you yelp as you collapse onto the front lawn of a small yellow house. When you look up at Becca, staggered and appalled, she is sashaying swiftly up the sidewalk and is already halfway to Aegon’s office. You grab your wedges and limp to your Honda on bare feet, the concrete beneath them searing under the arid southwest sun.
The apartment is empty, Baela getting drinks with her L.A. friends before jetting off to Paris next week, Jace at one of his infrequent PhD classes. You grab an ice pack from the freezer and shuffle clumsily to your room, flop down onto your bed, apply the ice pack to your throbbing, swollen ankle.
“This day fucking sucks,” you mutter to nobody. Then you turn on your laptop and open Spotify in one tab. You recall seeing a lot of Alanis Morissette in Aegon’s playlist, and you find one of the few songs of hers you already know because it’s your mom’s favorite: You Learn.
As you listen, mulling over Aegon and his mazelike contradictions, it occurs to you that maybe losing his father at such a young age did something to him, scarred him, traumatized him, made him terrified of letting people get too close. Perhaps that is a baseless assumption. Perhaps you are desperate to make excuses for him, to believe that there’s still hope for the two of you.
How old did Aegon say he was when his dad died? In college? That could mess someone up.
Wikipedia once told you that Viserys Targaryen passed away at his Malibu home after a long illness. Was it bad? It had to be, right? A disease that was torturously slow and horrific for the whole family. An experience that wounded Aegon somewhere deep and immutable.
You Google: Viserys Targaryen cancer. There are no relevant results. You try again.
Viserys Targaryen Alzheimer’s
Viserys Targaryen ALS
Viserys Targaryen multiple sclerosis
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
You roll over and stare up at your bedroom ceiling, listening to Alanis Morissette’s serrated mezzo-soprano twang, and whatever is required to be taken seriously as an artist—to make people see you, to make people listen, to earn the privilege of not spending forty years impersonating someone who never feels the siren call of other lives—she has it.
Maybe there’s no profound explanation for why Aegon is marrying Becca. Maybe he really is a fuckboy like Baela said.
Maybe he just doesn’t like you enough.