ANA
I loathe fittings. An inconvenient stance considering how often my job requires me to stand half-naked in a freezing trailer in the middle of nowhere. Usually as four overworked costume assistants wrestle me in and out of $500 blouses that will inevitably be nixed for "not reading like the character." Most of the time they’re just tedious. But today feels particularly brutal, thanks to someone who isn't even here.
The overeager Parsons grad tasked with undoing my zippers has taken quite an interest in the nonpresent subject. Amy — or Anna? Maybe Ashley? — seems determined to fill every silence with questions about Levi. Questions I frankly wouldn't even entertain if the entire point of our relationship wasn't to generate exactly this kind of voyeuristic intrigue among girls like dear, dear Ashley, who cling to DeuxMoi’s word as though it's The New Yorker.
"Did he really grow up on a farm?" I nod with a tight smile.
"When were those Publix pictures taken? The ones where he was helping that elderly woman load her groceries? Does it get tiresome dating someone so much less famous than you?"
My chest tightens. Somehow the room feels smaller with every question.
As charming as another actress might find Ashley's complete lack of professionalism, I’m irritated. And more irritated with myself for even feeling that way. Why do I care that this chatty, well-intentioned assistant is so interested in Levi's life? Why does her curiosity make me feel so protective?
There’s no room for that. Especially since I architected the situation for this exact outcome. From the moment we soft-launched, I essentially begged pop culture obsessives everywhere to turn all of their attention toward Levi and his lore if meant they'd let rumors about me sleeping with my co-star rest.
But having someone in my face pry for details about Levi — my Levi, who technically isn't mine but might as well be for all intents and purposes — is far more frustrating than I'd care to admit.
"...And I know there's talk that he uses steroids, but I can tell your man's build is homegrown, girl."
Kill me now.
A loud phone notification rescues me from the horror. One from Ally's favorite subject.
LEVI: Hi, sorry to bother. Do you have time to talk quickly? Wouldn't bother if it wasn't urgent.
I hate the way this makes my heart melt.
Most guys I'm involved with (the ones with whom my relationship isn't a carefully manufactured PR façade) act as though I have to tirelessly earn their time and attention. Like somehow the balance of the universe hinges on texts that go unanswered for hours and lingering glances at beautiful cocktail waitresses that make me feel small.
Never sweet Levi.
Maybe it’s due to the obvious imbalance, or the career boost that proximity to me offers. Or maybe it’s just genuine Midwest-bred goodheartedness (hard for me to believe), but Levi seems to ooze with gratitude to be in my presence every time we interact.
I call him partly to escape the dressing room hellscape and partly to hear that desperation over the phone.
"Hi!" I say as soon as he picks up. Too eager. "I was in a fitting, what's going on?"
Better. Delivered with the stern measuredness of a colleague you're in a purely business arrangement with.
"I'm so sorry to even bother you," he says, sounding genuinely regretful and a bit... shaky.
Now I'm actually concerned.
"It's just—there's something I need to discuss with you that I'd prefer to say in person."
I hear a door slam and some light swearing.
"Sorry. There's this photographer lingering outside my building. If you'd prefer to talk somewhere else, that's fine too."
I almost laugh.
Covert photographers aren't a non-issue, but a minor one in my eyes. I've come home to paparazzi plenty of times over the years. But Levi sounds uncharacteristically frazzled — the unwelcome guest surely isn't calming his nerves about this mysterious concern that can only be discussed in person.
"I was just wondering if you could come over."
It's officially past sunset (Ashley's small talk did nothing to help us stay on time). I have around three seconds to calculate how we got here and weigh the pros and cons of an off-the-record meetup with my fake boyfriend before the response delay starts raising concerns.
Why can't this wait until morning? Logic asks.
Wouldn't it be best to draw a clear, hard boundary early about how our non-public interactions should play out? My better judgment weighs in.
But then there's the part of me that reminds me how soft I feel every time he so much as glances my way, and recalls how my shoulders relax in his company and my thoughts do that funny thing where they finally stop racing.
There's famously no rulebook that outlines how late is too late to meet up with a fake boyfriend before lines are crossed, but maybe this is exactly the sort of line that’s meant to be blurred?
And I weirdly can’t shake the memory of his finger tickling the center of my palm as we held hands during a recent pap walk in downtown Nashville. Which is why, not even five minutes later, I’m frantically texting my manager Emily to coordinate travel arrangements and make up an excuse for why I have to leave the torturous fitting running egregiously over time.
And thus I find myself in the back of a black car racing through Nashville to see the man who seems happy to be enveloped in my life's chaos.
Estimated arrival: 8:53 p.m.
The driver plays "Bless the Telephone" as my mind flashes through every possible bomb he’s about to drop.
He's done with this ruse and is moving back to the farm.
He accidentally leaked the news to an undercover Pop Crave admin at a bar and wanted to tell me in person.
He's been longing for my touch and got swept up in a wave of passing confidence that gave him the courage to invite me into his space.
I'm quietly praying in the backseat of this Lincoln SUV that it's the latter.
As I try to keep my eyes off the driver's Waze map, the flashbacks get more intense.
The way Levi's palm felt on the small of my back that time he guided me through the Whole Foods produce aisle on our fake grocery run.
The full-body chills I got when he playfully rubbed my inner thigh on our fake dingy dive bar date.
It’s somewhat humiliating that this guy manages to make me feel like someone who's never been touched before.
By the time car pulls into the parking lot of his complex, I'm physically shaking with nerves. I let minutes pass just sitting in backseat, trying to gain my bearings and remind myself that I’m a literal movie star. I keep making awkward eye contact with the driver in the rearview mirror, who’s obviously wondering when I plan to get out, given how urgent Emily must’ve made this journey seem when she called him. I have to present the image of someone cool, calm and collected. Maybe I pretend to be on the phone as he opens the door? Too much. I’ll act like I’m responding to an urgent text. It’s 9:06 by the time I find the nerve to open the door.
LEVI
My entire body tenses the moment I hear her heels tapping down the hallway.
It gets worse when I hear the knock.
I've spent all day in corners of the internet I never knew existed. r/AnaBarlowSnark, primarily, to see if anything from today’s encounter pops up. To put it graciously, my faith in humanity has taken a beating.
I have no clue how someone can withstand such constant, ruthless critique. I've been pacing around my living for the past hour thanks to stress, and they’re not even talking about me. Not yet, anyways.
So many worries are compounding in my head. Surely one of the more scrupulous r/AnaBarlowSnark dwellers will figure us out soon enough. And before that happens, maybe the clip from today will leak and the career she’s worked tirelessly to build will face irrevocable damage. But chief among my concerns is that soon, she’ll sense my very real attraction and call this whole…whatever this is off completely.
And that's the risk I run with what I have to tell her.
A needlessly persistent” fan” of hers caught me at a grocery store this afternoon, her phone glued so squarely in front of her face that I could barely get a good look at her.
What I do remember is how crassly she asked questions about Ana.
How she lost "all that weight" last summer.
Whether she's still in contact with any exes, naming them one by one.
She even had the audacity to confront me with subreddit snark in person, and I briefly stepped out of character and told this lovely young woman something along the lines of...
Get the fuck out of my face.
I think I also called her a vulture, or something along the lines. No, it was definitely “vulture” because when I open my front door, Ana's playing what I assume is a now semi-viral video of the interaction.
Great. There goes any good will those photos of me helping the old lady pack her trunk might’ve earned me
I couldn't even explain the situation in gentle terms before she caught wind the outburst that I assume will sully her reputation — or at the very least her ego — for the next few weeks. But when I finally work up the courage to look at her face, she's giggling.
"I'm so, so sorry. She wouldn't leave me alone. I didn't mean to embarrass you at all, and—"
"Stop."
She pauses, then walks into my place as though she's done it a hundred times before. So assured.
"She was being crazy. The comments seem to recognize that."
She plops herself onto my low-grade couch, which I'm suddenly self-conscious about, even though we're both aware this place was rented and furnished by the studio.
"So what is it you rushed me here to tell me?"
I’m now ashamed of the dramatics I've spun over this situation. Calling her away from work. Having her come to my apartment because I'm scared that if I step outside again, another amateur paparazzo will catch me at a weak moment.
"It was that run-in. I wanted to tell you about it in person before you saw it online, but I guess — "
"Oh my God, you're unbelievable."
Ana gets up and walks to the kitchen — two steps over — to pour two glasses of water.
"I still can't tell if your whole earnest 'good person' thing is a well-constructed act that I'm somehow naive enough to fall for."
"I wouldn't describe myself as 'a good person,'" I say matter-of-factly. "Might I remind you that I yelled at a young girl on camera today?"
She gives me the strained half-smile she wears whenever she wants to laugh but is trying to maintain dominance and composure. I've become quite familiar with these microexpressions while staring at her face during our fake outings.
Our hands graze as she passes me my glass.
Then she makes a point of sitting so close our legs are touching.
"Good people love to say that."
How does the room feel hot and unbearably cold at the same time?
In front of me sits a beautiful, beloved movie star who also represent the scary deep end of the pool that I'm not quite ready to jump into.
She breaks an extended silence in a soft tone I haven’t heard before. "After all of this is over…will we still talk?"
She smiles and says cheekily:
"I'd really hate to lose something good."
Any composure I’d managed to muster up went out the window at that moment. I can’t even tell who leaned in first. Her lips meet mine, and everything settles. The nerves. Any narratives we're trying to control.
She whispers something I can barely make out. It sounds faintly like a "thank you" before wrapping her legs around me. I’m realizing that I've missed her so much. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since we last saw each other and yet not having her with me makes me feel out of sorts.
And while I've never experienced her this way, right now it feels like everything is falling back into place.
I lean back just enough to get a full look at her.
ANA
Part of me knew — actually, deeply wished — it would end up this way.
His hands move up and down my back while mine disappear into his hair, and we find the same rhythm. I know him. More importantly he knows me.
So many realizations arrive at once. Who knew I could be so introspective while taking my top off? But right here and now, in this Wayfair-furnished studio apartment, I'm recognizing I deserve good things and good people. People I don't pay. People who don't see me as a stepping stone. People who don't only know me as a concept or a product meant to be consumed.
Maybe even people who'll have an outburst at Publix in my defense.
He looks at me as though he'd like to do it every day for as long as he lives.
I let my shoulders relax.
