Page 6 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

Blake: Btw, you’re trending on Twitter. #DeepikaSharma. Don’t look.

I looked.

@HollywoodTea: Deepika Sharma really thought she could keep a man looking like THAT? Diya is serving face, meanwhile Deepika stays pressed LOL

@FilmSnobSince1999: Unpopular opinion: Deepika Sharma cant act. She just has one expression

@YashDiyaShipper: Yash and Diya are GOALS! Deepika needs to move on and stop being bitter!!! #YaDiya4Eva

If they had used any more exclamation marks, it would have been satisfactory. And what the fuck is Yadiya? Their stupid ship name?

I sighed and locked my phone, staring at my reflection in the dark screen.

Not American enough for Hollywood because I was too ethnic, too curvy, and too much. Not Indian enough for my family in Mumbai because I was too Americanized, too loud, and too selfish for not immediately forgiving my sister.

I didn’t belong anywhere.

My gaze drifted to the vintage teacups lining the shelves in my trailer. Fifty-three at last count. Each one a distinct pattern, a different story. I started collecting them in college, hunting through estate sales, thrift and antique shops for the most delicate, beautiful things nobody wanted anymore.

I understood that feeling intimately.

Outside, I could hear Rajesh shouting about tomorrow’s call time. Five in the morning. Another day of being adequate, another day of watching Yash get praised for breathing while I performed minor miracles and got a fucking pat on the head.

But here’s the thing they didn’t show you in the movies. You don’t get a dramatic montage when your life falls apart. You don’t get a soaring soundtrack or a wise mentor who tells you exactly what to do.

You get Lucky Charms for dinner and internet strangers dissecting your worth. You get a vintage convertible in your garage that you’re too terrified to drive because what if you crash it? What if you ruin one more beautiful thing?

You get up at four in the morning and you do it all again.

Because maybe if I was good enough, perfect enough, small enough, quiet enough...

No, I stopped that thought cold. I was done making myself smaller and done apologizing for taking up space.

I wanted a leading role. I wanted respect, and I wanted to walk into a room and have people remember my name. Spelled correctly.

I wanted to belong somewhere that wasn’t the footnote of someone else’s story.

I reached for my laptop instead. Someone had sent my agent a script last week. It was a lead role, finally. A romantic comedy about a woman who runs a wedding planning business and falls for her nemesis, the owner of a competing company.

Ha! If it was a book, I’d eat it up in a day.

The character was described as full-figured, confident, and unapologetically herself.

Lucky Charms forgotten, I opened the file and started reading.

My phone buzzed again, and my interest piqued when I saw a familiar name, making a grin curl up on my lips.

Gold Medalist Olympian Liam James Sleeping with Three Women?!

What an ass. I scrolled through the article only to make a face at his disgustingly handsome face photographed with recent models, gymnasts, and women in short dresses who, in my opinion, deserved better than the gray-eyed monster.

I was sure scientists would find a new type of sex disease just from his blood test.

Shaking my head, I turned my phone face down and focused on the script instead of the smolder from a certain gold medalist.

3

BEING AN ADULT WAS OVERRATED