The Reunion by Kayla Olson(3)
I let out a long exhale, relieved to be back in preapproved-question territory. “I’ve read the script, Jade, and I think it’s safe to say it will have been worth the wait.”
“Were you surprised by anything in the script?” she asks. “Or have you always known what would’ve happened next? I’ve got to admit, I screamed when the series finale cut to black in the middle of your last line!”
“Honestly, I didn’t know for sure.”
People have never believed my answer to this question, but it’s the truth. If I had known how many times people would ask—Did Honor stay with Duke in California or take her dream job in New York?—I would have begged the writers to give a more conclusive ending.
“I obviously had my own theories after playing Honor for so many years,” I go on. “I felt such a strong connection with her and had this gut feeling about the choice she would’ve made. I’m happy to report that my gut feeling was spot-on.”
“I love that,” Jade says, looking absolutely sincere. “Is what I’m hearing true—that we might get even more than just one new episode? Is Girl getting a reboot?”
Calm, Liv, calm, I coach myself. This is extremely confidential news, and it’s not a sure thing yet. If the numbers from streaming and the reunion special are high enough, we’ll almost certainly get the green light, but it would be completely irresponsible—not to mention a breach of my contract—to tell her so.
I’m also still not entirely sure I want to go back to such a sprawling set full-time; it’s not a coincidence I’ve taken only a handful of roles since we wrapped fourteen years ago, all of them on small, intimate indie films. It’s definitely not for lack of opportunities.
“As of this morning, all six seasons are streaming on Fanline for everyone to enjoy,” I say, turning my charm factor up to distract from my nonanswer. “If you love them, let the producers know you want more by spreading the word on social media!”
Jade runs with my lead and closes out the interview by telling them where to find me in various corners of the internet—because a few million followers are only a fraction of what I could have, according to my publicist. I should share more of myself, be more relatable instead of a beautiful, mysterious recluse, as she once referred to me.
To some extent, she’s right. That’s why I hired Attica in the first place, to help me find balance—left to myself, I’d be off the grid entirely (maybe not the electric one, but most certainly the Snapaday one).
“Well, get ready, Liv!” Jade says, eyes bright. “I think it’s safe to say you’re going to have an entirely new generation of fans.”
The very thought of being in the spotlight again fills me with butterflies… and also a few reluctant moths that aren’t sure they’re ready to fly out of the shadows. I want it, and I don’t. I want it more than I don’t, though, so I’m doing the brave thing: putting myself back out there a little at a time—but only what I want to give.
* * *
Back in my dressing room, I take a moment just for me—it might be the last of its kind, at least for the next few weeks.
Girl on the Verge was the most-watched teen series for six years straight, beloved by critics and fans and even a few university professors who’ve devoted entire courses to dissecting the things our writers did right. Even though we’ve been off the air for a while, the general consensus is that Girl on the Verge remains a timeless hit and will hold up—which means I should probably prepare myself for a decent amount of attention in the days to come. Months or years if the reboot happens.
I slip my phone out of my handbag. Missed messages fill the screen: there are nearly half a dozen short texts from my mother (who’s still fiercely supportive of me even though she’s traded Hollywood for the Outer Banks of North Carolina), three notifications from Bre, at least ten one-off texts from various people from the fringes of my life, and one from… Ransom? His name on my screen is such a surprise I nearly choke on my coffee.
It’s been a while.
I swipe it open on instinct.
do you have any idea how many kittens are in my mentions this morning? i’m drowning over here!
According to the time stamps on our text history, it’s been over a year since I last heard from him—a brief congrats for the award nominations, then dead silence after I sent an ecstatic GIF back in reply. Before that, we texted sporadically here and there, mostly on birthdays and whenever one of us had a premiere making waves.
It’s hard to believe we were once inseparable, even harder to believe he was my safe place and I was his. Before the end of our last season, anyway, when everything came crashing down.
Despite it all, I feel an undeniable thrill at the sight of his name at the top of my screen; his words are rock candy at the bottom of my stomach, jagged but sparkling, a sweet aftertaste that leaves me feeling a little fizzy inside.
My body is a traitor.
There are worse ways to drown! I write back. You’re welcome.
I tap out of the window and into my thread with Bre. CALL ME ASAP, her most recent message says, on the heels of two others sent just before and just after my interview—You’ll be amazing! one says, and the other simply says, Killed it, Liv!
Once I’m all tucked in to the back seat of the shiny black Mercedes I arrived in, sunglasses firmly in place, I call her back.