Page 51 of The Favorite Sister

I’m in my tiny corner room at the Sunset Tower Hotel,House Huntersfailing to attenuate my anxiety, when my phone seizures on the nightstand. It’s my motion picture agent, not Gwen.

“Hi,” she says, then, “so.”

The Oscar-Nominated Female Director has to head to Chicago unexpectedly. She sends her deepest regrets. It means nothing, my agent assures me, and we will find a time for us to get together sometime soon. The good news is that I still have the reservation at Bestia if I’m up for going, just her and me. Or maybe Jesse and I want to go?Jesse. I glance up at the ceiling. She texted me earlier to let me know she had arrived, and we’d worked out that she is in the room directly above mine.I’ll refrain from doing my step aerobics then, she’d joked. The thought of harpooning her good mood with this news plunges me deeper into the mattress.

I thank my agent for the update and we hang up. I don’t risk asking if the cancellation is in any way connected to my conversation with the reporter fromThe Smoking Gun. Asking would be akin to flaunting symptoms of a flesh-eating plague, like if anyone were to hear me cough, I’d be brutally exiled from mankind’s last surviving community.

I hold the ceiling in contempt, knowing I need to get up and go upstairs and tell Jesse not to bother breaking out the good Dr. Martens, but upstairs feels far enough away to require a passport. I bargain with my eyelids—five minutes—as the sunset pinkens the smog on the 405.

I wake to a gaveling on the door. My room is dim and cool, perfect sleeping conditions really, and when I eventually creak to my feet, walking feels like a new skill. Jesse is on the other side of the door, looking like the model-dating member of a boy band in a blaze orange beanie, tight black jeans and a black leather jacket, black Converse sneakers and black socks. “Steph!” She laughs, admonishingly. “We’re going to be late.”

“Oh my God, Jesse.” I grope the wall for the light switch and flip it on. The bright burst feels like a million hot needles in my eyes. “I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.”

“Well... let’s go! Splash some water on your face and throw on those Jimmy Choos.” She claps her little hands:Chop-chop!“I’ll meet you downstairs.” She starts for the elevator.

“No, Jesse, no. Wait. The dinner is rescheduled.” I cannot bring myself to saycanceled, although that’s what it is.

Jesse stops and turns, looking forty-whatever again when she furrows her brow. “To when?”

“I’m not sure. She had to go to Chicago unexpectedly.”

Jesse exhales through her nose, a single hot puff, like a bull. She lolls her head in a slow arc, the physical embodiment of the words “of course.”Of courseshe canceled on you.Of coursethis was going to be a waste of my time. You’re Stephanie Simmons, not Brett Courtney. “Were you going to tell me?”

“I just found out.”

“But you were sleeping.”

“I mean, I found out an hour or so ago. I was going to tell you. I don’t remember falling asleep. I guess I’m more jet-lagged than—”

Jesse raises a hand, silencing me. “Is this your way of trying to stretch this storyline into another season?”

It’s not. “It’s not.”

“Because frankly, Steph, the abuse stuff is too depressing to warrant a two-story arc.”

I know. “I know.”

Jesse smashes the elevator button with the heel of her hand.

“We still have the reservation at Bestia if you want to go,” I try. “I actually do have something to talk to you about. Somethingnotdepressing.” It hurts to smile.

Jesse tugs off her beanie, spiking her short hair with her fingers. “No, well, I actually have work to do.”

“I think I’m pregnant,” I call out into the hall. The words feel like the bell lap of a race, like emptying the tank; theywindme.

Jesse checks the panel above the elevator, watching its protracted climb. “But you’re not sure.”

“I mean, I’m sotired.” I gesture at my disheveled appearance for proof. Sometimes, I think I’m too quick on my feet. I’ve gotten too good at this game.

Jesse regards me as though I am the last cupcake in the box, left on the counter in the office kitchen overnight. I’m sort of dried out, my buttercream swirl smooshed. But she has a sweet tooth and I’m still a cupcake. “Let me know when you’re sure.”

She takes the stairs.

I pass out in my clothes during aSeinfeldepisode and when I wake, Kathie Lee and Hoda are drinking wine and my cell is buzzing. I slide my thumb right to answer. “Gwen,” I croak.

“Did I wake you? I forgot it’s early out there.” There is a raised-eyebrows pause. “Well. Not that early. Want me to call back?”

“Don’t call me back,” I say, struggling to sit up in bed. “I’m freaking out.” My stomach is screaming and I remember I couldn’t stand the thought of dinner last night.