She laughs but then taps me on the arm. “There’s nothing wrong with being a rhombus. I’m the one who should apologize. You were right. I wasn’t making time for you. I was avoiding you first, and it’s because I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed of what?”
Her eyes shift to her lap. “I haven’t been honest with you. I didn’t think you were happy, but the truth is, I was the one that was miserable. I was projecting my problems onto you and once I realized that, I had to come here and tell you. I thought I could just leave a note and then put the ball in your court, so to speak.”
She twists her hands in her lap, a move I’m familiar with. I put my hand over hers. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I wish we had talked sooner. I know you think my life is great, and our parents are proud, but nothing could be farther from the truth. I’m not as successful as you think. And our parents . . . Mom won’t even talk to me right now.”
Shock blows through me. “What? Why?”
“You know how critical they were when I started auditioning. ‘It’s not a real job.’ ” She says the last words in a dead-on impression of Mom, then rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, but you proved them wrong.”
“So we thought. Mom still wanted me to have a fallback plan, and she wasn’t wrong, and that’s why I applied to Stanford. But now, the truth is . . . I’m failing.”
I blink and sit back on the couch. “What?”
“I sort of stopped going to classes and didn’t tell anyone.”
I stare at her in stunned silence.
“I know!” she wails, covering her face with her hands. “I couldn’t face it. I didn’t want to do it. I hated every second of every class. It’s not what I want to do, and I only went because it was expected. Who gets accepted to Stanford and just, doesn’t go? Me, that’s who. And then when you were telling me about applying for the promotion at your work, I was upset and jealous and I feel like a failure.”
“You’re not a failure. You’re . . . famous.”
She snorts. “Except I’m never going to act again.”
“Why not?”
“Malcom broke up with me.”
“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry, Eloise, but what does Malcom breaking up with you have to do with finding acting jobs?”
She lifts a brow. “He slept with Amanda Robbins.”
“Isn’t she . . . ?”
“She plays my sister on the show.” She blows out a breath. “He had me written off. Then he spread stories about me acting erratically and that I’m a compulsive liar. It was a total smear campaign, so if I try tell the real story of how he cheated, he can push back by saying I’m a jealous liar.” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m not going back when filming starts again. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I failed school. I failed at acting. I have nothing left. And then I fought with you and it was mostly because I was trying to hide my own problems.”
I grab a tissue from the side table and hand it to her, scooting closer on the couch. “You haven’t failed. You can still try. You can find other acting jobs, no problem. You’re a great actress.”
She smiles weakly and takes the tissue, dabbing her eyes with it. “Thanks, but I don’t know. The industry is brutal. I might have burned bridges.”
“You only fail if you stop trying. You never know what’s out there. Next week there will be some other scandal and people will forget. Besides, Hollywood loves a good comeback story.”
She nods and we sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, both processing. My sister, who I’ve been avoiding for months, all because I was ashamed and comparing myself to her, has been doing the same thing.
Even people who seem perfect on the outside have their own burdens to bear. We were both masking our true feelings and perceived failures, only to seem better than we were, or stronger. But is it stronger to hide and deny scary truths? Or is this, the unmasking and revealing of our personal disasters . . . is this the definition of bravery?
Is it because our parents are always putting pressure on us to be strong and smart and perfect? Or can we even blame them, when we’re our own worst enemies?
All this time I’ve been trying to measure up to everyone else, when what I needed was to measure up to myself.
I blow out a breath. “I’ve been working at Blue Wave for four years and I’m still a junior associate. Most people are only junior associates for a year. I think I set some kind of record.” I smile grimly, and then sigh and shut my eyes. “I avoided going to LA to see you because I was scared. I didn’t want to disappoint you in front of your friends, make a fool of myself. After you moved out, I had no reason to keep trying. I let my anxiety get to the point where it limited my life. I’ve been lying to everyone, but not as much as I’ve been lying to myself. You were right about everything you said. And I got fired today, so there’s that. We can be failures together.”
She throws her arms around me, hugging me and shaking me in equal measure. “You’re not a failure.” She pushes me back, hands on my shoulders. “You can get a new, better job. I know it.”
I nod. “So basically, we were both jealous of each other, dealing with our own shame, and blaming each other for it.”
She laughs. “I guess that’s an accurate summary.”
We smile at each other for a few seconds and it’s like the weight of the Golden Gate Bridge has been lifted off my chest. “Let’s get some good food. And wine. Can you stay for a little bit?”
She grins. “I can stay
