Page 8 of In What World

Priscilla

When Marlowe doesn’t respond right away, I look up at Erik, suddenly very aware of the fact that I’ve spent the last five minutes tunneled into my phone, and he’s spent the same amount of time watching me.

“Sorry about that.” I hand him back the device. “I won’t take your job again.”

“You’re allowed to reply to your own messages,” he says. The best part is, he’s genuinely granting me the permission to do so.

“No, no. There is only one Cilla Cove now, and it’syou,” I assure him.

Erik goes back to his reading position, making no effort to disguise the fact that he’s reviewing my emails with Marlowe. “Is she your ex or something?” he asks.

This gets a genuine belly laugh out of me. “Not at all. Just someone I went to high school with.”

Erik says nothing.

“If she replies again, you can answer her,” I tell him. “Use all the kissy faces and red hearts you want. She’llloveit.”

—

Marlowe does notreply again. Teenage Marlowe never would’ve let me have the final word, and teenage Priscilla would’ve gone to the ends of the earth to try to get it anyway, so this should be a victory for the adult version of me who has very little time or effort to lend to the affairs of my high school drama department. But Marlowe’s silence has started to feel like another one of her clever games she’s designed to make me feel small, and I can admit I find it frustrating that she’sstilldoing this kind of stuff. Aren’t we both so beyond this?

I stare out the open window across from my bed. It’s a lovely night in Los Angeles—seventy degrees at ten thirty p.m. in December. A gentle breeze blows my curtains toward me, punctuating the perfection.

It’s probably raining in Iowa. Or snowing. Maybe both, the streets covered in that dreaded sludge that seems designed solely to send cars spinning into guardrails.

I’m happy about a lot of things, but most of all, I’m happy I don’t live in Iowa anymore.

Hey Marlowe,

So sorry to bug again! I was wondering if you were planning to organize any kind of retirement party for Dallas? I’d love to participate and pay for any expenses. I’m sure we could get a lot of alumni together for this.

Also, please excuse me for not asking earlier, but how are you doing? I was glad to see you finally got some glasses.

Priscilla

I press send, then continue staring out my window the same way I used to do on bus rides as a kid, my eyes slipping in and out of focus so my mind could wander beyond my physical self.

This Golden Globes nomination was a surprise to everyone. We campaigned for it, of course. Every single actor campaigns. No one stumbles into a nomination, as much as they want you to believe that’s the case. It was my team’s idea to push my work in the last season, since final seasons of beloved TV shows tend to do well in the awards arena. But the fact that it actually happened is the part no one really expected. Least of all me.

I haven’t booked anything new since we wrapped the final season ofHeartbeatslast year, which has put me in a very undesirable position in this town. I’m not working. I’m not “relevant,” as Erik so succinctly put it. It’s been hard, but it’s also been familiar, because I find it much easier to accept constant silence than to be showered in unexpected acclaim.

Now that the nomination has happened, all these big-time directors are calling my agent, asking me to read for major projects. Brands want to do partnerships with me. Other actors who’ve long since forgotten my number are sending me texts like we’ve never skipped a beat. Nothing has ever moved the needle the way this nomination has, and I feel naked under the spotlight of possibility now shining on me.

Possibility is dangerous and slippery. One minute I’m spiraling, in my bed with the covers over my head, believing it’s alla lie and I’ll never work again, then waking up the next morning and convincing myself of the opposite, that everything great is about to crest over the horizon and I’ve finally reached the destination I’ve been clawing toward for nearly two decades.

Even though I’ve lived in Los Angeles since right after graduating high school, I’ve somehow gotten worse at adjusting to the whiplash. It must be because I’m hitting my mid-thirties. I don’t bounce back the way I used to. It’s always been the case that you can have the best day of your life here fresh on the heels of the biggest rejection you’ve ever faced, and then the following day, neither thing matters anymore. It’s like living on a metaphorical fault line. When the actual earthquakes hit, they feel like vindication, proof that even the ground in this town can’t handle the weight of all the constant instability. I used to thrive on that unpredictability. But the older I get, the less it appeals to me, and the more I believe I’m not the type of person who is meant to be taken this seriously as an actor anyway. Being taken seriously is for ambitious young people like Erik or seasoned veterans who’ve always had that level of respect. I am neither.

My phone vibrates atop my chest.

Cilla,

You might be surprised to learn that Dallas doesn’t want a retirement party. I know I was. But he is very serious about it. I wouldn’t suggest secretly organizing one, unless you want him to despise you.

I do have glasses now, yes. I think I liked the world more when I didn’t know how many things a person could tell you through their facial expressions. It’s kind of a nightmare.

Congratulations on your nomination, by the way. Don’t think I said that earlier.

Marlowe