The Comeback(82)

“You forgot about me,” she says matter-of-factly, and I don’t lie to her and pretend that I didn’t.

She folds her arms across her chest. “I’ve been calling but you never answer. Where have you been?”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy. It’s nearly Christmas,” I say, even though I have no idea what that means for someone like me.

Esme narrows her eyes at me. “Are you coming home for it? Mom was asking.”

“Does she know you’re here?” I ask, caught off guard.

“She freaked out that I had a boyfriend in LA, so I had to tell her the truth.”

“How did she react?”

“She was fine. Whatever. Look, I need to talk to you about something,” she says, leaning forward. “I’ve been using the camera.”

She’s waiting for my reaction, her eyebrows raised, and it’s the most excited I’ve seen her.

“That’s great news! Are you feeling better about everything?” I ask, speaking loudly to cover up the fact that I’d forgotten to ask her before.

“Much better. But I’m using it in a different way from how we discussed,” Esme says innocently.

“What does that mean?” I ask warily.

“This girl from my school, August, is having a party for New Year’s up at her parents’ house in Ojai, and I’ve already been messaging Jesse to tell him that I want to hook up with him again. So, the day of the party, we’re going to set the camera up in August’s parents’ bedroom, and I’ll lure Jesse in once he’s drunk. I’ll get him naked, and then I’ll just leave him . . . I’m basically going to have footage of him naked, trying to get with me, that I can use to bargain with him to stop spreading the nude. The fake nude.”

“Hmm . . . I don’t know how . . . experienced you are. But logistically, he might think it’s a little strange if you’re making him strip completely naked while you keep all your clothes on,” I say as neutrally as possible.

“You clearly don’t remember sixteen-year-old guys,” Esme says, rolling her eyes. “It’s the only time they actually do anything you ask them to do.”

“Okay, sure. So Jesse is naked, you’re filming him, then you blackmail him with the footage,” I say, pausing for a moment. “And then we’re done. Right?”

“Wrong,” Esme says slowly. “Totally wrong. I was thinking about what you said about taking control of the story, and I’m going bigger. Much bigger. I’m going to make a movie about how social media has basically turned into another way for men to control women and their bodies, but that girls are the ones buying into it and perpetuating it ourselves, and then it’s going to be about everything that sucks about being a girl. So we’ll start with me and Jesse, and then we can interview Blake about her experience growing up trans in Anaheim, then we’ll move on to you.”

“Me?” I ask nervously.

“Yeah. We’ll use footage of you taking down Able at the awards show. It will be our Spartacus moment.”

“Okay, let me think about this,” I say, panicked and stalling for time. “Do you want a drink? I have La Croix or apple kombucha.”

“Hello? Earth to Grace? What is wrong with you today?”

“I’m just thinking it through,” I say, walking over to the sink and turning it on. “While I think it’s great that you’re so passionate about this, I just don’t know how realistic some of the logistics are going to be. Plus, you know I haven’t heard any more about the awards show, so I’m not really sure what’s happening with that.”

“Well, why don’t you ask?” Esme says, watching me from the sofa.

“I’m not in a position to chase right now,” I say.

There is another knock at the door. I walk over to it, grateful for the interruption until I realize who is standing on my porch. It’s Camila.

I open the door slowly, and I can feel my sister moving behind me.

“Wow, you’re brave coming back after what you pulled last time,” I say quietly, remembering her parting question the day of the shoot. When I turn around, Esme is hovering a few feet behind me, trying to hear what I’m saying. I wave at her to sit back down on the sofa, then I step out onto the porch, leaving the door open only a couple of inches.

“Can I come in?” Camila asks, but she doesn’t try to explain herself or say she’s sorry. I wonder if she’s remembering my comment about women apologizing too much.

I shake my head, and, to her credit, she doesn’t try to look past me into my house. Her expression is set like a linebacker at a championship game, and I figure that she must really need whatever she thinks I have to say.

“I’m here to ask you one final time if you have any statement to give on Able Yorke winning the lifetime achievement award at the Independent Film Awards in a little over two weeks,” she says slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. The sound of his name still has the power to wind me, but I try not to let it show.

“I already gave you the interview,” I say. “Didn’t you get what you wanted?”

“Did you?” Camila responds instantly.

I study her face, a quiet intensity written all over it, and I wonder how different the roads were that led us both here.