Coming clean, p.1
Coming Clean, page 1
Coming Clean
Jen Trinh
Published by Jen Trinh, 2023.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
COMING CLEAN
First edition. May 1, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Jen Trinh.
ISBN: 979-8215241554
Written by Jen Trinh.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Afterword & Acknowledgments
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Further Reading: Crushing on You
Also By Jen Trinh
About the Author
To Becca, for the inspiration and endless support
Chapter 1
Di
Manifesting: is it still a thing? Is it kind of like crossing fingers and toes, or is it more like meditating, but instead of clearing your mind, you fill it with stuff you want?
I don’t know if manifesting works when the decision email’s already in your inbox, but I take a deep breath, sucking in all my hopes and dreams and clenching every hole before opening the email on my phone.
Dear Diana Ho,
Thank you for your interest in the RWB Emerging Designers Fund. We regret to inform you—
My hopes and dreams come rushing out, already suffocated, and I stop reading. I know the rest.
The gist of this email, like all the other ones? Thanks for wanting our free money, but we think you’re a bad investment. Maybe check out the closest pawn shop or California Lottery ticket stall? Toodles, and good luck on your fashion design career! You’ll need it.
I put my phone away and doom-gape at the sky, a vibrant haze of melted Starburst candies where someone up there doesn’t like cherry flavor. I’m allegedly taking a break from work this weekend, hanging out in the Hollywood Hills, pet sitting my best friend’s lionhead rabbit, but I don’t really think that it counts as a break. Time isn’t stopping, I’m not aging any less, and the bills haven’t stopped growing, so I guess this feels more like giving up for a weekend?
One doesn’t just take a break. And as for getting a break, especially a big break? At this rate, the only way I’ll get one of those is from a novelty Kit Kat bar.
Even my friend’s bunny, Attila, is working me. Chewing through my laptop charger, scratching my hands when I save her life, and pooping up a grassy hailstorm in protest. I know, right? She’s the best.
After making sure that Attila is still okay—not trying to electrocute herself? Cool—I gather my stash of snacks and goodies and drag one of Mischa’s balcony lounge chairs into a spot in the last rays of afternoon sun, looking out over the silver, shimmery city to the south. I lie down and plug my bluetooth earbuds into my ears to kick off an hour of forced relaxation, pressing play on the only album that’s right for this moment: Disintegration by The Cure. And I’m not getting up until my ass and this lounge chair are ready for a divorce.
Dear Diana Ho, Thank you for your interest in the RWB Emerging Designers Fund. We regret to inform you—
Usually, a weekend for myself is all I need to recover, but with the end of my lease approaching, this feels less like a power cycle and more like the reset button is stuck and the virus is replicating non-stop.
The only thing left to do is Force Quit.
Sighing, I focus on the music, letting The Cure’s dreamy, nostalgic sound wash over me. But it’s only when I reach the song “Closedown,” the third track of Disintegration, that the lyrics hit me. It’s Robert Smith’s song about approaching the age of 30, having not yet accomplished enough, of feeling washed up before you’d really had a chance.
Try being over 30 and having nothing, Robert.
If only I could fill my heart with love, he laments.
If only I had started earlier.
If only I had more time, money, skill, help...
Or even a little push, a little luck. That could go a long way.
Most of all, I need a sign, something to show me that this is the right path. That every ounce of effort from this past year—the long hours, side jobs, fights with my mom, and so on—has meant something.
So if the Universe is listening...or Satan, Grandma’s ghost, my fairy godmother, or maybe even Rumpelstiltskin, because gold thread sounds pretty sweet right now...please.
Show me.
Send me a sign.
But nothing moves, nothing changes.
Nothing.
Of course there’s nothing. My destiny is in my own hands.
And yet, we regret to inform you, my hands aren’t enough.
Oh well. Whatever. The world’s going to end in fifty years anyway.
I nestle into the lounge cushion, waiting for time and vodka to work their magic. The next song comes on, “Lovesong,” and I begin to drift into that place that—
“Hey!”
My eyes snap open, lasers set to kill, but they bounce off the shiny pecs of the hottest, beefiest Asian guy I’ve ever laid eyes on—abs for days, strong, clean-shaven jaw, and dark, piercing eyes. His chest and arms are thick, and he doesn’t seem to skip leg day, either, or neck day, or finger day, or any day at all. Standing on the neighboring balcony, he’s glistening wet and almost naked, dressed in only a pair of black swim trunks, the same color as his slicked back hair. With cheekbones and angles that could cut glass, he’s got the kind of sleek, sultry look that dares you to buy stuff, which is why I half expect a camera crew to be shooting an advertisement behind him. But as far as I can tell, it’s just the two of us out here.
Weird. Creepy old men, I understand. Guys like him don’t talk to me except to ask for Mischa’s number, and she’s not around. I may as well be invisible to his kind. Still, that doesn’t stop the sudden one-two punch of scorching lust and dampening bitterness, and it only sharpens my curiosity.
I pull out an earbud. “What?”
He gives me one of those slow, head-tilted smiles, like I’m a cute girl who’s asked for his number instead of a cranky woman who’s flung a flat What pie into his face.
And then he says the strangest thing.
“Hey there. Could I have some of your shrimp chips?”
I stare at him, assessing every possible intent behind his words.
I’m not sure what kind of sign I was looking for, but it wasn’t this.
Chapter 2
Darien
Though faithful to the original source material, the fine, intricate mysteries of The Agents of Icarus are overshadowed by the great, whopping mystery of why Lee was cast in the starring role.
My fingers curl around my phone, and it takes everything I have not to throw it out the window. Instead, I torture myself and keep reading, skipping ahead to the worst parts.
The bedroom scene is a masterclass in awkwardness, which comes as no surprise after a decade of starring in teen love stories and romantic comedies where sex is only implied. Sans de Santis to buoy him, Prince Charming inspires as much passion as a dry bowl of cornflakes—which you might recall were used in anti-masturbation campaigns.
Worst of all: He’s best known for his role as Prince Charming, but he’s still Victor “The Loser” Lu at heart.
Dozens of rom-coms, dramas, action films, and I still can’t shake the nerd association. This time, it’s not even fair. Things had sizzled between me and my costar, Oriana Pendle, during the chemistry read, but after I didn’t fall into bed with her like she’d suggested, I may as well have flirted with the Cocaine Bear. Where is the criticism of her role? Why is it my fault that we had no chemistry?
Tam watches me from the rearview mirror, impassive. “It’s not that bad, Darien.”
“They called me ‘hot, but wooden, except where it counts.’”
She tries to hide a wince, but fails. “That’s not so—”
“And ‘James Bond, but shaken and stirred until there’s only a watered-down mess,’” I read, before locking my phone and shoving it into my pocket.
“You know how these things go. Reviewers love hyperbole.” She turns right, and the car grumbles up the steep incline. “Why do you even read that site? It’s complete shit. The other reviews aren’t that bad.”
Right, they aren’t that bad. They’re worse. They’re serious editorials with actual clout, and they hate the movie, too.
Boring.
Clichéd.
As fun as a midnight filibuster.
“Don’t take it personally. The movie’s doing fine. It’s not your best, but it’s—”
“It’s my worst.” The box office numbers are great. Chalk that up to all the other A-listers attached to the project. But it feels like for every pat on the back from a critic, there are two slaps to the face.
“Your worst is behind you, okay? Trust me, this isn’t that bad.” Tam slows as she scans the houses for address numbers. “Are you sure you want to be alone this weekend? There’s that party that Don is throwing. Could be good to—”
“No, thanks. I need this.” And schmoozing in this state of mind sounds like wading into a piranha tank. All I want is time away from everyone, Tam, Eliza, my friends and family. Time away from myself and being Darien Fucking Lee. After two months of non-stop travel and endless interviews to promote Icarus, I’m ready to tear him off, toss him in the corner, and breathe.
Tam pulls up to a door that I assume leads to the rental her assistant has booked for me. As I gather my things, she turns around to face me. “Sammy says you haven’t gotten back to him about the most recent set of scripts yet.”
Not this again. Every conversation I have with my agent starts with, You won’t believe this project, it’s going to blow your mind. Sammy’s enthusiasm was infectious at first, but after pinning my hopes on each and every part, thinking it’ll finally give me whatever it is I need, I know better. The hole doesn’t fill. It only gets deeper.
“I don’t know, Tam, but I need a break. A long one.”
“Well, you’ve got a few weeks coming up that aren’t too busy. Why don’t you go through the scripts this weekend, get back to Sammy about the ones you’re interested in before you unplug?”
I wouldn’t call it “unplugging.” I’ve got an interview, a photo shoot, and prep for my next project, which includes working out twice a day. It won’t be back-to-back 14-hour days of shooting, but even a few weeks at quarter speed won’t be enough.
“This weekend’s for me. I doubt I’ll get to them until after Claire’s baby is born.”
“And when’s that again?”
“Soon.” I owe my sister a lifetime of debt, and at 36 weeks pregnant and on her own, she’s come to collect. “I’m good, Tam. Don’t worry.” I slide along the leather backseat and open the door, welcoming the rush of fresh air. “I’ll get to them soon, I promise.”
But after five years as my manager, she knows better than to believe me. “Get to them this week, please. And by the way, I told Cady to prep the place, so there should be the usual in the fridge.”
The usual. Great. Forty-five hundred calories of plain chicken and leaves. “Thanks for the ride.”
“See you.” With one last wave, she drives off and leaves me at the door to my hideout for the weekend.
* * *
Cady knows to book me a spot with a pool. It’s how I prefer to recharge: floating as the water laps away the stress and grime of the day.
But that only works when I’m alone.
For the thirtieth time, my eyes pan across to the adjacent rooftop balcony. A young woman with long black hair and dark clothing lies on a lounge chair, face turned up towards the sky, eyes closed. I’d seen her on the way into the pool, but from here, I doubted she’d recognize me if I kept my face turned away. Plus, every time I look over, she’s always in the same position, not shifting, hardly moving.
Very, very still.
But I can’t stop staring. Because on the table next to her sits what looks like a handle of liquor, and next to that, a distinctive red and white bag.
Shrimp chips.
Crispy, salty, umami chips, the same size as my fingers back when I was a kid.
I can taste their baked little bodies on my tongue.
The water bubbles as I slip back under, holding my breath again. Keep it together, man. It’s not a cheat day. You have a fitness plan to stick to.
But...shrimp chips. Seeing them was a shock to the system, like coming across an old, explosive flame. The one you could never resist, if only for a night.
God, that hit of dopamine from eating junk food. There’s nothing like it.
The calorie count is probably colossal. The salt and carbs will make me bloat. But I can cut harder tomorrow, right? Drink a lot of water, skip the almonds on the counter in exchange for a handful of shrimp chips now?
Just a handful. That’s it.
My lungs tighten, glitching out, and I flounder to the surface, gasping. I pull myself up out of the pool and approach the railing, my wet feet burning against the sun-soaked wooden deck. Our two balconies are separated by maybe a few feet, a single step for my long legs.
But I turn around, clutching my face. What am I doing? I’m supposed to be hiding. And asking some random chick for chips is ridiculous. I should just...
What? Go get some? Tam dropped me off. I don’t have a car, and I don’t want someone else to have to drive around, burning gas, searching for this specific brand of chips. And I don’t want to see anyone right now anyway. I don’t want to deal with being Darien Fucking Lee.
But if I want the chips, won’t I have to turn on the charm for her? What if she’s an obsessed fan or angry hater, or worse, an aspiring actor?
I should calm down, go chug a liter of water. It’s not a big deal. The craving will go away like it always does.
But another pang of nostalgia hits me, and I’m desperate for a taste of my childhood, of a time when things were simpler. When I could be myself, and no one cared what that meant.
Besides, when was the last time I’d had any chips, let alone shrimp chips?
If I ask, chances are she’ll recognize me, flip out, say yes, and after a brief interaction, we’ll go our separate ways. Fans have given me all kinds of things: designer goods, basketball tickets, restaurant reservations...
A bag of shrimp chips is nothing.
I take a deep, steadying breath and approach the balcony again. She appears to be Asian, with long lashes and red-painted lips, the only real color in her otherwise black ensemble. She’s on the thicker side, tall, dressed in what looks like a pair of many-pocketed utility pants and a strappy mesh halter top that reveals the outer edges of her breasts, her sides bare down to the curve of her waist.
Pretty, I guess, in her own way.
The important thing is, I’ve met thousands of girls like her before. I’ll be fine.
I put on a smile and give her a, “Hey,” in a loud, pleasant voice, like I’m greeting an old friend.
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t stir. Nothing.
My eyes catch on the vodka bottle. It’s more than half empty.
There’s no way that she drank all of that, right?
...right?
I give it one last try. “Hey!”
Her eyes snap open, and she turns her head to look at me. Alive.
But her eyes flash murder as she removes an earbud from one ear. “What?”
Her voice is deep and rich, like that one word was coated in thick, melted layers within her chest. And with her eyes open, she looks older than I thought. Closer to my age.
But I’m in for a penny, so I sweep my hands through my wet hair and give her my signature smile—the Lee Special. “Hey there. Could I have some of your shrimp chips?”
Her lips part, and her brows knit together in a Really? look. But I adjust my smile and nod towards the chips. Just imagine how it’ll feel when she says yes, when I’ve got a fistful of salty chips in my mouth.
Unnnnh.
My knees go weak, and I have to lean against the railing for support.
She turns and looks at the bag on the table, then back at me, frowning. “Why don’t you go get your own?”
“Oh. Well, I would, but...” I lean further over the railing and make sure to flex my pecs straight into her eyeballs. “I can’t go out right now.”
I have to fight to maintain the smile when she stares without even a hint of recognition, or appreciation. The pecs have failed me.
If I’d done this to literally any other person, they’d have come in their pants and I’d be halfway to shrimp-chip heaven already. But this girl doesn’t crack an inch. She tosses her hair behind a shoulder and says, “Is your mom home? Maybe she can get you some.”
I blink, and she blinks back just as slowly. I may be Asian, so maybe I don’t look 32, but it should be pretty obvious to her that I’m not a fucking kid.
“Uhhh...no? That’s not what I mean.” My grand vision of a shrimp chip mouth-orgy fades to black, replaced by the sudden reality of how dumb I must look to this vampire-wannabe. “You know what, never mind. I’ll figure something out.”
Maybe there’s oil in the house. Maybe I can shred the grilled chicken breast and salt and fry the strips until they’re crispy and close to chicken chips. Though if Cady did her job, she would’ve stashed those kitchen staples away. Nothing for Darien except the healthiest of foods.
