Gossip column headlines.
Thirsty TikToks and social media frenzies.
He has over eight million followers on Instagram. A clothing line. A gorgeous model on his arm in every paparazzi photo.
And, most notably, he has a hugely hyped television series debuting.
Today.
The six-episode show dropped this morning, and I’ve been distracting myself all day with a double shift at work. My phone has been on silent since my alarm went off this morning. I’m too chickenshit to read Misty’s texts or listen to the missed calls from Mom. Even looking Mr. Hamlin in the eye at the piano bar took valiant effort.
I’ve managed to avoid most of the marketing for the series, ignoring the social media ads that seem to be targeted directly at me and my bereaved heart. The trailer is just a short compilation of vague clips with little dialogue, andeven Lex’s interviews and talk show features have been ominous and unspecific, as if the narrative should remain a mystery until release.
But I’ve seen the title. It’s everywhere, branded in bright turquoise block letters, splashed across all platforms:Come What May.
It’s Lex’s story.
He penned the script, helped produce and direct the series, and then starred as himself in the leading role. Not even twenty-two years old, and he’s already been dubbed a multifaceted creative genius—Hollywood’s newest golden boy.
His parents must be so proud.
My face heats as I stare at the glob of soup solidifying before my eyes. “I guess we should get this over with,” I murmur, my words shaky. I glance up at Joplin. “No point in delaying the inevitable, huh?”
She forces a smile. “I’m sure it sucks.”
“Right. Because he’s a terrible actor and is absolutely grotesque-looking.”
Sighing, my sister stands from the table, her chair legs shrieking against the outdated tile. She yanks me up by my wrist until I’m wobbling beside her on trembling knees. “Come on. I’ll pour the tea. You grab the extra pillows from the bedroom. We’re going to make the most of this.”
Zombie me trudges through the apartment to grab some pillows before I plop down on the couch and unmute the streaming app. His title is front and center.
“Are you ready?” Joplin settles in next to me and pulls her legs up, her toes tickling my thigh.
“Yeah,” I choke out. “I’m ready.”
I press Play, and the opening scene unfolds: a little boy, auditioning his lines, the screen framed with an up-close image of his face. There is no music or soundtrack, just rustling in the background, shuffling feet, muddled voices, and a director giving cues.
“I always said I’d rather die for something than live for nothing,” the boy states, staring into the camera.
The frame slowly pans out, revealing who I presume to be Lex, voicing a well-rehearsed, effective monologue as a bustling studio comes into focus allaround him. He’s only eight or nine in the scene. And the visual is captivating, instantly engaging.
I inhale a breath and lean back into the couch.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
And maybe…I’ll finally get answers.
***
We stay up until four a.m. watching every episode. Back to back. No bathroom breaks, no snack runs, no intermissions. Nearly six hours whiz by in total silence, save for the show.
When the final credits roll, my reflection stares back at me on the black screen. Wide, stricken eyes. Tear-stained cheeks. Mouth hitched with confusion, shell shock, and disbelief. Joplin doesn’t say a word. She didn’t speak a word the entire time, and I know why, I know exactly why, because her expression mirrors mine in the glow of the television screen.
She reaches for my hand. Squeezes.
And I break.
I collapse against her shoulder with a wail as nearly four years of pent-up grief and fury crash over me like a tidal wave, battering me with slicing force.
