Chapter One It becomes clear as soon as the pretty blonde opens her mouth that she is not the one. The whole room knows it, with everyone shifting subtly in their seats and shooting one another knowing glances. But she keeps going, and so does her scene partner, although Jonathan does glare at me from across the room. Everyone is glaring at me, actually, if the tiny daggers I feel digging into my back are any indication. Eventually, the poor, sweet actress finishes her scene and leaves with a wave and a smile. The room lets out a collective breath when the door bangs shut behind her. "That was the last one for today." My best friend and now producing partner, Liz, pushes back her chair with a loud scrape. She stalks to one corner of the small room, pivots sharply, and then marches to the opposite side. Everyone waits for her to finish before speaking; that's the kind of power she commands. She comes to a halt in front of where I'm sitting, at the end of the table of exhausted and frustrated production team members. Her hands grip the edge of the plasticky wood, and she leans toward me with that look in her eye. "Emmy." "No." The word is an immediate reflex-I know what she wants before she even asks for it. She brings her eyes level with mine. "I'm a half second away from begging." "I can't do it." "She's not the only one about to beg," Kurt, our executive producer says, from his position at the other end of the table. "To be frank, Emmy, we're getting to the point where begging is going to morph into insisting." I swallow down another automatic no because Kurt sounds more serious than usual. And he's the one who controls the purse strings. "You guys know I can't. I'm not an actress; I'm a screenwriter." Jonathan Brentwood, our adored leading man and a college friend, joins Liz at the front of the table. "You could have fooled me, Em. When you read with me at my audition, your performance seemed pretty perfect." "I agree." Kurt rises, and his already imposing presence looms over me even further. "We've been stuck in these auditions for weeks, and we haven't seen anyone nearly as strong as you were. We're scheduled to start filming in two weeks. We don't have time for this anymore." Liz crosses her arms over her chest, but she doesn't appear to be worried about Kurt's declaration. "What are you saying, Kurt?" If I didn't know better, I'd almost say there was a hint of smug in her question. "You have twenty-four hours. Find me our Isobel, or I'm pulling the plug." He claps what is probably meant to be acomforting hand on my shoulder. "You know how much I care about you, Emmy. Your dad was like a brother to me, and I've watched you grow up, but I'm not about to put my name and my cash in jeopardy because you're holding on to some baggage from the past." He swings his bag over his shoulder and strides toward the door. "Let me know what you decide." The rest of the production team, along with Jonathan, scurry out of the room behind Kurt, leaving me alone with the woman who knows me better than almost anyone. "Pancakes?" Liz asks. "Pancakes," I agree. We arrive at Village Bakery a half hour later, ordering our food before finding seats in the back of the café. "I can't do it," I say the moment our coffees have been delivered. I know well enough by now not to deliver bad news to Liz before she has caffeine in her hands. "You know I can't. And you know I won't." "I understand that you think you can't. But I know with one hundred percent certainty that you can. And not only that, but you should." She tousles her white-blond pixie cut, which perfectly frames her pale, heart-shaped face, and turns her piercing blue eyes on me in what I know is a challenge. I blink first, turning my gaze to the brightly colored chairs, the art on the walls, and the bud vase sitting in the middle of the table. "I'm not an actor, Lizzie, you know this. I haven't been in front of the camera in more than fifteen years. And I prefer it that way." We accept our food from a server, two stacks of pancakes as big as my head. Liz doesn't say anything while she butters hers and pours on an avalanche of syrup. I know the stress must really be getting to her, because Liz is one of the most health-conscious people I know; she only calls for pancakes in the most dire of circumstances. She shovels in a huge bite, chewing slowly before she turns her puppy-dog eyes back on me. I hold up a hand in front of my face so I don't have to see her. "No. Do not even try that. I am immune to your begging." "Then why are you hiding?" I lower my hand, peering out cautiously, only to be hit with those big, baby blue buckets of sadness. "Liz. I can't. You know what happened last time." She puts down her fork and reaches across the table to take my hand in hers. "Last time you were just a kid, Em. Look at how far you've come, at this amazing career you've had. You won a goddamn Oscar last year, and you're going to let something that happened a million years ago keep you from doing what you love?" "That's the thing though: I don't love acting. At least not anymore. I'm a writer. And I'm perfectly happy doing what I'm good at and nothing more." I squeeze her hand before pulling mine away, lest the simple touch somehow reveal the fact that I'm lying. Not about being a writer. I do love it, and it does make me happy. Just maybe not totally and completely happy. "You might not love acting-although the way you jumped at the chance to read for Isobel in Jonathan's audition begs to differ-but you love this character." She shovels another bite into her mouth, but I don't fill the silence while she chews. "I know you do, Em, because I could hear it in your performance. And I know how much this movie means to you." I purse my lips to hold in my retort. She's not wrong. Isobel, the female main character in No Reservations, is one of my favorites I've written. When we found ourselves in need of a reader for auditions for the male lead, I did jump at the chance. But it was meant to be a one-time-only, special-occasion, never-happening-again performance. Even if it was the most fun I've had in a really long time. Unfortunately, I may have filled the role a little too well. Liz has been on me to play the part ever since, especially as we get closer and closer to our scheduled start date and seemingly further and further from finding our Isobel. I never would've pushed for my best friend to direct this project if I'd known how much whining and cajoling would ensue. I've been stalling, certain that the perfect actress would make her way to auditions. Meanwhile, I've had to tell Liz at least once a day that there is no way in hell she is casting me in my own movie. Safe to say, things are not going as planned. And the most annoying part is that I don't want Isobel in the hands of someone unqualified. Someone who doesn't get her, doesn't get my words. But I don't know if any of that is enough. Yes, I love this movie and this script and this character. But do I love her enough to forget about the past and try it all again? Liz can tell I'm wavering. I know she can because there's a hint of a smile pulling on her stupidly full lips. "You know you and Jonathan would be awesome together, and he'd be an incredibly supportive costar." I open my mouth to speak, but she holds up her hand. "Don't make any decisions right now. Take some time to think about it. But not too much time." Her hint of a smile fades. "You heard Kurt." "Do you think he was serious about the twenty-four hours?" The thought of losing our funding on this film is a knife to the heart. It took me a long time to fall back in love with writing about love, and if No Reservations doesn't even make it to the screen, I don't know how I'll push through to write another. "I think Kurt is always serious." She hits me with her most formidable stop-being-an-idiot look, one I've been on the receiving end of frequently during our many years of friendship. "So promise me you will seriously consider doing this. We need you." "Fine. I'll think about it," I grumble, happy to put a pin in this whole conversation. "But don't get your hopes up. I'm sure the right actress will come along just in the nick of time." The all-too-knowing smile she gives her pancakes makes me come close to hurling up my own. After we leave the café, I sit in my car for a solid ten minutes, unsure of what to do next. I probably would've sat for longer if some asshole hadn't started honking at me to give up my parking spot. If I'm being honest, I know there's only one person I really need to talk to about my dilemma. And I'm dreading it, not because I don't want to talk to her, but because I'm pretty sure I already know what she's going to say. Pulling into the driveway of my mom's house in the Hollywood Hills brings on its usual flux of competing emotions. Her house is adorable and perfect for her and the fresh start she desperately needed after my dad passed away four years ago. It's also an overpriced reminder that I'll never step foot in my childhood home again. And although I understand why she needed to leave-not just to escape the memories, but because the house was too much for her to care for on her own-it doesn't take away the sting of losing one of my last tangible connections to my father. My parents had the kind of relationship you don't often see in movies because it's what happens after the film ends, when the two people so perfectly suited for each other build a real life together. They had a classic showmance, one of the few that lasted well beyond the first movie they ever made as costars, one that landed them on every list of Hollywood's top power couples. It was easy to write epic love stories when I had my very own example to study. It's been a lot harder since my mom lost her partner and best friend. I would sit in my car for another ten minutes here, too, but I know she's already seen me pull up. If I don't climb out soon, she'll have no problem coming outside to find out why. So I trudge up the steep steps to her front porch and push open the door she's already unlocked for me. "I'm in the kitchen," she calls, as if I wouldn't have been able to easily locate her in the tiny two hundred square feet that comprise her living room, dining room, and kitchen. I kick off my shoes and sink onto the couch, swinging my feet up on the ottoman that doubles as a coffee table. "Coffee?" "No, I'm good. I just had one with Liz." She comes in a minute later, two mugs in her hands, passing one off to me before folding herself into the armchair across from me. "Why do you even ask if you're going to bring me one anyway?" "I thought writers subsisted solely on coffee." She flashes me a smile while trying to disguise her look-you know the one, the one moms level at you when they're trying to figure out what you're hiding. When I was a teenager, I hid secret crushes and an occasional bottle of alcohol. As an adult, I stick to hiding my emotions. Not that it ever works. I ignore her alien brain probing and focus on taking a long sip of coffee, which of course is prepared exactly how I like it. She clears her throat and raises her eyebrows in some kind of mom power move. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure?" "Can't a daughter just swing by and check on her mother for no specific reason?" I shift my body, angling myself slightly away from her just in case her brain probe is real. "Yes. But you obviously have a reason." She sets down her coffee on the side table next to her chair and clasps her hands together in her lap. "Why don't we skip the song and dance, and you just tell me what's going on?" Purely on instinct I open my mouth to argue with her, but then I think better of it. "Liz wants me to be in the movie." The lack of surprise on her face makes it clear that Liz has mentioned this to her already, which is honestly rude and should be illegal. My mom and Liz hit it off the moment they met on move-in day back during our freshman year of college and have had their own pseudo mother-daughter relationship ever since. "And?" "And I don't want to be in the movie." I study her face, watching for even the smallest of hidden messages in her reaction, but the woman is a three-time Best Actress Academy Award winner and gives away nothing. "So tell her no." "I did. Several times." "Then what's the problem?" I glare at her for being purposefully obtuse. Is this what it's like to have a child? Because no thank you. "The problem is she keeps pressuring me." "If you don't want to do it, then who cares? Liz is your best friend. If you don't want to be in the movie, she'll find someone else to be in the movie." She picks up her mug and watches me carefully over the rim as she sips. "What if she can't find someone else?" "You mean to tell me that in the entire city of Los Angeles, the entertainment capital of the world, esteemed director Liz Hudson can't find a single actress to be in her film? Back in my day, girls would've been lining up for the chance to audition." "It's our movie," I grumble. "And there are girls lining up to audition. They're just not exactly what we're looking for. And Kurt threatened to pull funding if we don't make a decision, like, today." Excerpted from Right on Cue by Falon Ballard All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
