I nod. “I remember you telling me all this. That’s exactly how I feel.”
“I know,” she sighs. “But I never told you this: I had my chance. One chance. And I blew it. And that’s all. I never got another one. Not like that one.”
I look at Jenna wide-eyed. She’s never sounded like this before, and I can hear how naked she feels in her tone.
“What happened?”
She scans the coffee shop again to make sure she won’t be interrupted, then drops her eyes to the floor and starts talking, slowly.
“I met this producer. A big deal. The kind that never goes a day without speaking to at least one star or hot-shot director. He was nice to me, I guess he liked something about me. Anyway, he sends me a script to read, and it’s amazing. I fall in love with it right away. I think ‘if I can get a role in this, I know I can knock it out of the park.’ We meet up a couple of days later and he asks me what I think. I say it’s fantastic. That I’d kill someone to be in it. He says the part is mine,” Jenna pauses and looks at me before saying the next three words ominously, “with one condition.”
The way she says it makes me tense my muscles. “What condition?”
Jenna takes a while to gather herself. She fiddles with her fingers, scans the shop again, looks down at the floor, and shuffles her feet before saying, “He wanted me to go down on him.”
“Oh, Jenna…” It’s exactly the kind of stereotypical story that’s a dime a dozen in this town, but all the same it’s the worst thing you can imagine happening to someone like Jenna—someone hardworking, genuinely talented, and fierce. “What did you say?”
Jenna shrugs. “I said no. Straight away. Obviously.”
“So then what happened?” I ask, although I’m dreading the answer.
“He looked at me like I was a waitress who didn’t hear his order correctly. I’ll never forget the way his eyes looked. Not quite evil, not quite aggressive, just…pitying. Like I was the one who didn’t get it. He said, real slow so I’d understand this time, ‘the girl who sucks my dick is the girl who gets this part. You do want this part, don’t you?’ And then he unzipped.”
My mouth drops open.
“That’s when I ran out.”
“That’s crazy! I mean, I know it happens, but I had no idea that it happened to you.”
“That’s not the crazy part,” Jenna continues, smiling with black humor. “A girl did do what he wanted, and she did get the part. And you’ll never guess who it was.”
I can’t help my curiosity. “Who?”
“Julia Lorde.”
I gasp. “No! The girl who just got nominated for an Oscar?”
Jenna just shrugs. “It’s actually her second nomination. She deserves it. Everything she’s done has been great. She’s even engaged to that hot guy from the spy movies now. While I get to wake up at six every morning and spend eight hours a day pouring coffee just so I can perform a small role in an unknown play to a crowd of ten every weekend.
“Every time I see her now on TV, talking about how she’s living the dream, doing the thing she loves, or on the red carpet meeting thousands of people who appreciate her, acting alongside all the people I idolize – all I can think about is how it should be me, how it could so easily have been the other way around.”
“Come on Jenna,” I say, standing up and putting an arm around her. “You’re not really saying you would do anything differently, would you?”
“Honestly, I don’t even know anymore. I want to tell you to just follow your heart, stick to your guns, keep your art sacred, but all I know for sure is that chances like that can change your entire life, and that you only get one.”
I notice her eyes move to the door and widen.
“Although maybe you just got a second one.”
I turn around to see the unmistakable silhouette of Brando, so big and powerful that he makes the coffee shop look like a playpen. Jenna gives my arm a stroke and sidles off to the back room. As Brando draws near I notice something different in his hard-edged face – the persistent, knowing dimples aren’t there anymore. He looks almost embarrassed.
“I really hope you’re just here to buy coffee,” I say, trying to ignore how hair-pullingly handsome he is when he’s trying to be serious.
“I would be if I didn’t think you’d do something bad to it.”
I scowl at him. “I probably would.”
Brando laughs and I find myself smiling, despite not wanting to.
“Look,” Brando says. “You’re right. I got it all wrong. The song, the studio, you.”
“You did.” I fold my arms. He’s not off the hook. And God am I glad I never signed on the dotted line, otherwise I’d probably be legally obligated to have gone along with his original scheme.
Brando looks at me like a lost puppy and, as I ignore the inconvenient rush of heat between my legs, I wonder how many women have tried to take him home.