The Reunion by Kayla Olson(87)

“If you don’t want to go for it, don’t go for it,” she says plainly, when I’m silent, plopping down next to me on the oversized purple sofa. “Just don’t let fear win, okay?”

I’m supposed to have a line here—a witty, non sequitur one-liner for comic relief—but I can’t get it out. Instead, I improvise, looking her straight in the eye, projecting the impression that she’s said all the right things, and now it’s up to me to follow through. In yet another improvised move, she suddenly wraps me in a tight hug, and we sit there on the sofa, side by side, like we’re in it together and always have been. She leans her head on mine; I close my eyes and hold, waiting for Bryan to call cut, imagining the camera pulling away slowly to leave us in a private moment.

I can’t believe we just filmed our very last scene together—it was the perfect way to go out. We’ve had our moments over the years, on screen and off, and not all of them pleasant.

This is the one I want to remember.

“Aaaaaaand cut!” Bryan says after an eternity. “Better than scripted, ladies—perfect. We’re sticking with it.” He hops out of his director’s chair, tucking his clipboard under his arm. “That’s a wrap, everyone! Be on the lookout for details about the cast party—we’ll do a private screening before the episode goes live on Fanline. In the meantime, get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

The lights go dark, but Sasha-Kate and I are still on the sofa, frozen. Her arms are no longer around me, but the two of us are like statues, living monuments to the end of an era that has all too abruptly fallen down on us.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” she finally says, as the crew gets straight to work breaking down the set. It feels like she’s talking about so much more than just this scene, or even these past two weeks of all of us being together again.

I take in the sight of our set, everyone in a rush to take it apart. Soon, it will be like we were never here.

“In a way, though, things are just beginning, right?” I say, thinking of the call I’m about to make to Mars on my way across the lot.

“For you,” she says simply. Tartly.

Just like that, she’s Sasha-Kate again: jealous, guarded, unpleasant.

Maybe I should have thought twice before making that comment—for her, this is the beginning of gossip fodder for an entire generation of bloggers.

For the first time, I catch a glimpse of what it might have been like for Sasha-Kate all these years, living in the shadow of her character, who often got overlooked—living in the shadow of my character. People have a hard time separating us from our characters, I know that.

Sometimes we have a hard time separating ourselves from them, too.

The soundstage is quiet now except for the hushed handful of people bustling around. Across the room, one of the production assistants clears his throat.

“Liv?” He adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses like he’s nervous to interrupt us. “We’ve got a cart here to take you across the lot for The Late Show whenever you’re ready.”

Not Liv and Sasha-Kate—just me. It’s one more reminder that I’ve always been at the center of the machine that is Girl, even all these years later.

“See you at the wrap party,” I say on my way out.

But Sasha-Kate’s back is turned, and for all the talk of beginnings, this is an end.





26




I hang up with Mars, stow my phone in my handbag.

It’s done.

I never envisioned myself walking away from the show, not truly, despite my reluctance to commit. A part of me hoped it wouldn’t go forward at all—but deep down, I could never quite imagine what it would feel like to actually say no.

Never, in any of the twenty years since all of this began, did I imagine myself standing outside the studio for The Late Show with Ben Bristol, pacing circles as the pavement practically evaporated under the late June sun, sweat beading at my temples, on a phone call with my agent, telling her I think the show should officially recenter itself on a brand-new girl. That I would make the occasional cameo because I know the fandom will want it, but I believe Honor’s story has gone as far as it needs to go.

I gave Mars the go-ahead on Vienna’s new project, and told her I’d like to move forward with the Emily Quinn film, too. It’ll be a much larger set than the ones I’ve worked on since Girl, and a different sort of role starring in a high-concept film with substantial action sequences—but the intensity and range I’ve always craved in a character is there in spades. It sounds like the perfect next step. The perfect challenge.

I take a deep breath, centering myself before making my way over to the studio door. A production assistant named Alyssa—chestnut hair in two long braids, thick clear frames rimming the lenses of her glasses, badge on a lanyard that gives her access to everywhere I’ll need to be—has been waiting patiently for me, earbuds in so it’s clear she’s not trying to eavesdrop on my call. I’ve kept my distance and my voice down anyway, though, just in case.

“All ready?” she says as I make my way over, slipping her earbuds out and letting the cord dangle around one of her overall straps.

“Thanks for waiting—are we okay on time?” I give her a warm smile as she lets me in, relishing the cold blast of air-conditioning as it hits my skin.