Purposefully Accidental

Chapter Fifty-two

I always love going to these Hollywood events.

Obviously, yes, it's very star-studded. It's hard to keep a straight face when you're sharing the red carpet with the biggest Hollywood A-listers. But it makes me wonder about the alternate-me who made it out in Hollywood instead of changing lanes and choosing childhood education as a career path.

... I'm trying to stop myself from thinking about it, because I know I'd start to spiral. Being stuck in an endless loop of what-ifs was one of the biggest triggers during my depressive episodes. I need to let that thought go and focus on bringing my A-game on for tonight.

Freddie keeps me close by his side at the red carpet. He, like every other boring man in Hollywood, is wearing a classic black tuxedo with a silly bowtie. I'm wearing a silvery pink gown with a halter neckline and a draped A-line skirt, my hair curled and styled in a bun to allow my exposed back to show off.

As a media person but not an actual celebrity himself, Freddie doesn't spend a long time on the red carpet. Even though he's currently the head of the streaming division of his family's company, he's also here on behalf of the company's film studio, Archer Pictures. Freddie's being very selective about the journalists that are allowed to approach him, and we slink away into the ballroom after about five minutes of posing in front of the flashing lights of the cameras.

After his contribution to the success of the negotiations with the striking writers and actors, his fame has only skyrocketed. Not to mention, he is very young compared to his peers in this business, so that scored him a bonus point. It's what makes it even trickier to navigate through our upcoming divorce news, because the spotlight will definitely be on him at all times now.

But we stick to our script like pros. We remain attached, but exude a skittish sense of intimacy toward each other. Subtly, of course. Like when he slides a hand down my back to show me off to the cameras, and I very slightly lean away from his touch. Or when I pretend to dust off a lint on his collar and he flinches back.

"I think we did okay," Freddie murmurs at me from the side of his mouth as we're being directed to our table. "Did I cringe too much? Not enough?"

"Guess we'll see it in the news, if anybody cares enough to pick it up," I whisper back. "You're not famous enough to trend on Twitter, I don't think."

"It's X now."

I snort an ugly laugh. "I am not calling the damned bird app anything other than Twitter."

Among all these Hollywood A- and B-listers in the room, I mingle. It's easy when your husband is an Important Media Person—they're eager to chit-chat with you, even if you're just babbling stupidly about the weather.

If everything goes well, I'll be divorced from Freddie by the time the Academy Awards take place in March next year. So, this is most likely the very last time I get to be around all these famous people—obviously, I'm going to have to make the most out of tonight.

I'm in the middle of complimenting Florence Pugh's very beautiful necklace when I catch a glimpse of Jonah from the corner of my eye. Discreetly, I shift my gaze to the side, trying not to make it too obvious that I'm looking for someone.

From the opposite side of the ballroom, among the hundreds of the film industry's notable people, past and future Oscar contenders, and members of the press in the room; he easily finds me. One side of his lips curl upwards before immediately flattening when a waiter walks past him, eyes flicking away from me as if he's scared of getting caught red-handed. I purse my lips, trying not to laugh and focus back on the gorgeous woman in front of me.

Before I knew it, I get pulled into a group photo with half of the cast of Oppenheimer—I'm being photographed together with Iron Man, holy fucking shit!—and then I make an excuse to get something to drink and slip away from Freddie's side.