Brett’s vanity was the one thing that put the freeze on my lust. I got out of bed and grabbed my robe. “Of course not,” I called on my way to the bathroom. “I think you’re very proportional.”

This was the downside to falling for an actor. Brett spent twice as much time fretting over his looks as I did.

I splashed water on my face and looked in the mirror. Three chin hairs had sprouted, seemingly overnight. My brows were getting bushy and the Goldstein mustache was threatening to reveal itself. Without being on camera, I was becoming feral.

I plucked out the nasty hairs then took out the Jolene.

“By the way, the house is shaping up, honey,” Brett called from the other room. “But don’t you think it’s time to add a little color here and there?”

I peeked my head out, covering my mouth with my hand so Brett wouldn’t see the paste on my mustache. “Don’t push it.”

Bleaching, plucking, peeing, pooping—these were things my boyfriend was averse to witnessing. If we ever had a baby, he’d be one of those old-fashioned dads handing out cigars in the waiting room rather than witnessing the miracle of his baby’s head crowning in a bloody vagina.

“You could be an interior designer for a living,” Brett said twenty minutes later when I emerged clean-faced. He picked up a script from the nightstand and began highlighting his lines for the next day’s work.

“I might have to be if Penny doesn’t find me a job.”

“See, I told you so.”

“You told me what?”

“You didn’t need to hire one of those fruity designers. You probably saved us a fortune.”

“Fruity? God, Brett, please don’t use that word.” What was the expression? You could take the boy out of Texas…

I went to the closet and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater.

“Where are you going?” Brett asked.

I didn’t know. I was feeling restless and rebellious; too much domestication, not enough fornication. And really, I couldn’t be expected to behave like a good little girl. It wasn’t as if I had kids or even a job. I needed to go dancing, get drunk, get felt up in a coat room, snort coke off someone’s lap! I would call Scotty. Or Katie!

I started looking for my phone book when I remembered it was a Sunday night. Scotty’d gotten hired as an agent’s assistant at William Morris and Katie was on a mini-series. Everyone had a reason to get up in the morning. Except me.

I put my robe back on. “I’m going downstairs.” I’d make myself a drink. Maybe watch a movie.

“Don’t forget to alarm the house,” Brett reminded me as I shut the bedroom door.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT ICU

EVENING

DAY 48