I examine the body standing in the doorway. I feel like I’ve met it before, but I don’t want to admit it to myself. “Sorry I’m late; I got lost,” it speaks. “The desk assistant told me to just—”

“Don’t apologize for being late,” I say, cutting the body off. Judging by the body’s reaction, my words sliced right through it.

“This is Cameron," Bridey says.

I frown. “A non-suspecting body, unsuspecting name—what are you?” I need more—I need evidence that my mind is tricking me, just playing with me and reminding how dangerous the real Olive Dooley is—that I can never be too careful, never let my guard down.

Cameron winces. I imagine her asking herself, “What am I?” She clears her throat. She knows the answer. She decides not to give it. “I’m a human.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Bridey cuts in. “This is my niece, Cameron. She’s the one who will be ghostwriting your memoir. She’s signed everything, knows the rules...she’s ready to move in now.”

“Move in?” I scoff. “How am I supposed to live my personal life with a journalist living with me?” This is too much, too close—Cameron may not remember me, but I know her, and that’s good enough to me. I pick my purse up off the floor. I can’t do this; I have to back out, I have to leave.  “This is not happening. I’m out—”

“You signed a contract. You can either buy yourself out, which you cannot afford without trading your current lifestyle, or you can fight this with lawyers.” When I do nothing more than give Bridey a sour look, she continues. “You have to give the people something, Olive. Three years, and you have nothing to show for it—unless you’ve been doing things in secret, which—”

“Is against the contract, got it the first million times.” I roll my eyes and stand; I’ve heard this stupid lecture every time I refused to let Bridey get her way. “Might as well get this over with then, yeah?"

We walk in silence to my car. She doesn't have one, and the contract insists we go everywhere together—house arrest as a punishment for not "putting myself out there", courtesy of Bridey. When we turn onto the main road, I pass Cameron my phone to input her address into my navigator app. The air conditioner and the sound the car makes as I drive fills the silence, acting as white noise until we arrive at Cameron’s apartment. She brings out two suitcases, carrying two at a time. A black cat runs out of the apartment, then slows on the sidewalk, and the chaos forces my divided attention from my phone. I open the door and step out. “Is that your cat?”

“Yeah,” Cameron says, leaning down to pick the cat up. “He’s staying with my sister, though, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Bridey hates cats. It’d have better luck at my place.”

“Bridey’s not my sister.” Cameron picks the cat up and takes it back inside the apartment, shutting the door behind her.

I pop the trunk. She puts the suitcases into the trunk one by one. She's stronger than me...and stronger than before.

“Oh, thanks—you didn’t have to do that!” I jump at Cameron’s voice—so excitable it was! So much time has passed since I have last been around someone with an excitable voice; I feel indifferent toward it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I’m not scared, but don’t say anything. Cameron sighs. “I know you don’t want to do this...it’s going to take us about a year, but after...I’ll be out of your hair and you won’t have to worry about me. I’m not...I really don’t know anything about you. I know you’re famous, I know you’re popular and on magazines, but I don’t pay any attention to that. I just know what Bridey told me."

Cameron places a laptop bag into the trunk and brushes her hands, those hands that looked so rough. I can’t get over it. They’re just hands, but my memory tells me they’re softer than I’d expect—why am I so fixated on them?

I slam the trunk and head back to the driver's seat. Cameron's back in the passenger seat. I start the car and stare straight ahead, but I don't go. I see her looking at me from my peripheral vision, waiting to go. Her lips move, but I don't hear her. "First thing to know about me, if you want to know anything about me: I hate Bridey." I look at her after I say the words, and her face is the same confused face I imagined her having at me starting the car and not moving.

"Oh," she says, and I don't know what to make of that.

We get on the road again, neither of us talking. I don’t have anything to talk to her about, and I don’t care if she has anything to say to me. I don’t care about her at all. She is just a person whose hair is way too short, whose dress code is not representative of the gender in which she appears, who keeps making me second-guess myself and my reactions. I tighten my hands on the steering wheel. There is a bit of a familiarity in her I can’t pinpoint, but I’m not sure I want to, either. I just want to get this bloody book over and done with so I can get back to living my life as is convenient for me.

I know I owe it to my fans, because I wouldn’t be where I am today without them, but when everyone depends on you and you alone to do something well and without error, it’s stressful—toxic. It’s not that I don’t want to be an actress anymore, it’s more that I am tired of being a person I’m just to please everyone around me and do the job. And now, I have a whole other person whose job is in my hands. I can’t win—if I’m not doing any projects, I just have to lay low, but if I have a project, I have several more people who depend on me to be the Olive Dooley they, and the rest of the world, want. And I resent them all for it—even the fans, but I know they won't be my fans any longer if they find out who I am on the inside.

I don’t know how to go back into hiding. My personal and professional lives are colliding in a way I’m not ready for, and I’m terrified it’s all going to blow up in my face.