Free Selfie by Amy Lane

us.”
    “I like you.” Her hug surprised me, but I returned it.
    “I like you too. Your kids will too. When are you going back to them?”
    “Five days,” she said, her voice thick. She pulled away then, and we started walking toward the house at a decidedly faster clip. “I’ll be desperate for a little fucking civilization by then. Jesus, do you think people have to mail order their clothes out here?”
    “Seattle’s two hours away, Jilly—I’m pretty sure there’s some posh places to shop there.”
    She sniffed. “You can’t find Manolo Blahniks at the fish market, Sparky.”
    “I don’t know—aren’t they sort of passé? I mean, maybe a fish ate them.”
    She laughed then, even though I’d probably insulted her god or something, and we made our way back to the house in time to get the lasagna out.
    I tossed a salad too, and we ate dinner with a glass of wine apiece before watching TV and going to bed.
    As I fell asleep, I pictured Noah Dakers’s gut-punch of a grin. If I did something to make him happy, would that thing just glow and glow and glow until we all passed through toward the light?
    I dreamed of holding Noah’s hand and walking through bright sunshine, waving across the sound to the deserted island.
    For some reason I thought Vinnie was there.

I thought I was prepared for the press conference.
    Not so much, no.
    It was held in front of what was apparently the office for the soundstage, a little portable cabin, painted a cheery red, and high enough off the ground to need its own stairs. They’d taken advantage of that and had a platform built, so press conferences had a natural venue.
    The conference itself looked almost friendly as far as those things went—the reporters were standing around in jeans and boots, sturdy sweaters and flannel shirts. None of the women were wearing heels—I wondered if the press for a show like this was made up of true believers. That was helpful if it was so—it meant you didn’t get those annoying “sci-fi is for babies” questions, because that shit pissed me off.
    Noah walked us up to the platform, which surprised me—I hadn’t expected him to get out of the car. I took Jilly’s elbow, like she’d schooled me years ago to do in the presence of a lady, and he took our backs, with his hat on, looking official and actually a little bit imposing.
    It was because he didn’t smile.
    But he was reassuring behind Jilly and me as Simon Conklin, one of the show’s producers and occasional directors, addressed the press in jeans and a fleece jacket, with a familiar smile on his face. He talked about the direction the show was going to take, citing some new characters, and adding that if the fans reacted as well to the new characters this season as they’d reacted to the addition of Levi Pritchard last season, then they might consider a spin-off. He was in his early forties, with thick black hair and only a few grays—very attractive, in a happy professor way—and the press ate out of his hand. When he introduced me, it was like he’d led plump fuzzy bunnies to come nibble at my palm, which was sort of a superpower considering the Hollywood press was more like a sleek, muscular shark.
    We took questions for a moment, and the first ones were the ones I’d practiced in my head—why this show, would I miss big-screen acting, how did I like the area—and that was great.
    And then, right when I was expecting questions about Vinnie—and had my answers and my smooth mask of grief all ready—they hit me.
    “Connor—your selfie hit the internet big two weeks ago. What the hell was that about?”
    I stared at the reporter, caught flat-footed for a moment, before eleven years of hard-earned professionalism kicked in.
    And surprised me even as I was the one with my mouth open.
    “I knew Vinnie Walker for ten years,” I said baldly. And why not? Who wouldn’t figure out that some of that was grieving, sound off or sound on. “We were roommates, best