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Ava slipped into the cabin of the party yacht. The music was blasting hard enough to numb her ears, her nerves, her thoughts.
“How long until we’re back in Fullerton Bay?” she asked the officer stationed at the door.
“It’ll be another forty-five minutes, miss.”
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, barely audible. She blinked hard, trying to keep tears from spilling. “Okay. Thanks.”
She glanced around, hunting for somewhere to collapse, but every corner was already occupied: couples laughing too loudly, silver-haired men in linen shirts singing off-key, women drenched in sequins clinking glasses of champagne. Everywhere she looked, there were clusters of people too drunk to notice how pointless it all was.
This had been the landscape of her life for the past eight months in Singapore: retirees so rich they’d forgotten the value of money, businessmen cheating on wives continents away, and Deborah… Deborah, who didn’t quite fit any category. People in denial? People who’d given up? She didn’t know which box to check.
And honestly, she got it. The industry had chewed Deborah up, spit her out, and then lit the scraps on fire for good measure. Work had always been her oxygen, her church, her blood. And now without it she was drowning in expensive liquor and endless parties that blurred together like a nightmare that was technically beautiful but mostly unbearable.
Ava rubbed her temple, guilt settling like a weight she couldn’t shake. She had fucked up. She knew that. She never should’ve gone to Lewis with the Ethan Sommers thing. If she’d just kept her mouth shut, Deborah would’ve had the show. Our show, she corrected herself bitterly.
Deborah had been good all these months. But Ava still couldn’t untangle the mess: the pride, the betrayal, the guilt. Part of her wished she hadn’t done it, the whole quitting thing. That Deborah had found a way to screw her over again at least then the pattern would’ve stayed intact. At least then everything would still be familiar. She’d probably be waiting tables in LA, miserable but stable, instead of standing here on a yacht feeling like she’d personally destroyed the only person she cared about.
Sometimes the guilt woke her at night, sharp as a blade. When the silence pressed too heavy, there was no other voice in her head but her own reminding her of what she’d taken. And during the day, the guilt lived in her chest, worse when she watched Deborah drink herself senseless. Deborah who once commanded entire stages, now nodding off on them, glass in hand. Ava couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a conversation where Deborah wasn’t slurring her words or reaching for another refill.
Unable to stand the heat of the cabin, Ava drifted outside. She leaned against the railing, letting the sea breeze slap her awake. Singapore’s skyline stretched out in front of her, glittering, foreign, and lonely. She missed home, she really did.
But the ache inside her came from knowing that home wasn’t LA or Las Vegas anymore. Home was Deborah. And realizing that only made the tears come. She let them fall, silently, hoping the wind would carry them away before anyone could see.
Ava didn’t know what else to do for Deborah. She wanted to be there, to anchor her, to fix her. But she was exhausted. Exhausted by the endless parties, the meaningless nights, the hangovers that weren’t even hers. Exhausted by this life.
And underneath all of that was loneliness. Not just the kind Deborah had mocked her for “you don’t have friends”. Though it was true. No, this loneliness was heavier, sharper. Because the one person who really understood her, who got her in a way no one else ever had, was also the person tearing her apart.
She wanted to reach across the gap. To talk it out. To cry, scream, laugh, anything. Sometimes she even wished Deborah would just unleash one of her volcanic tirades on her for an entire hour if it meant they’d be engaged again. Silence was worse.
These past eight months had been peaceful, technically. No screaming matches, no scandals, no betrayals. But Ava could feel the absence like a missing limb. Peace wasn’t enough; peace felt like decay.
And Deborah… Deborah always knew where to stick the knife. That was her gift, and sometimes Ava thought she did it on purpose: cutting her just deep enough so she’d never forget it. Maybe that was easier to believe than the alternative: that Deborah actually wanted her gone.
Pathetic, she thought. Of course it’s pathetic to be standing here, 29 years old, orbiting a woman who’s made a sport out of humiliating you. She should be in L.A., in some dimly lit club, pounding out monologue jokes for a late-night host who barely knew her name. She should have a girlfriend, a lease, a life that looked normal from the outside.
But all those “normal” things meant nothing if Deborah wasn’t in it. Because Deborah was the only person whose company she truly enjoyed. That was the sick punchline.
Maybe tomorrow she’d start the life she was supposed to want. Maybe she’d finally walk away.
Deborah swirled the champagne in her glass, pretending to listen to the man sitting across from her. Martin. Or Marvin. Something with an M. He was bragging about some hotel he owned in Dubai, or maybe a horse—honestly, she didn’t care. Billionaire people were interchangeable, and she’d spent the last several months surrounded by them. Drinking with them. Laughing at their flat jokes. Numbing herself.
She told herself she wasn’t an alcoholic. Of course not. She could stop anytime. She just… didn’t have anything else to do. Sure, she still got onstage, still told jokes. But they weren’t new. The audiences were easy. She could blank in the middle of a set, ramble something half-coherent, and they’d laugh like it was genius. It wasn’t work, not really.
But then her thoughts circled back to Ava. Ava, who was still here with her, even though technically she could be working back in L.A. Sure, the network and Bob Lipka had probably blacklisted her too, but legally speaking Ava could still get hired. Deborah was certain Lewis Benton would’ve given her a spot on On the Contrary if she asked. “The least he could do”, she thought bitterly.
And that’s why Deborah hated herself for the things she’d said earlier. She’d seen the hurt flicker across Ava’s face, and still she couldn’t stop. Because part of her, maybe the ugliest part, wanted Ava to have a better life than this. She knew she was dragging her down. Knew she was hurting her. And yeah, maybe she had a slight drinking problem (fine, more than slight). But the truth was simple: she drank to numb everything. Because the feelings were too much, all at once, and she hadn’t actually processed a single thing that had happened.
She’d been inching her way back to something healthier, especially after the night on the beach when Ava had quit and run off. After that, the work between them flowed excellently, less poisoned by resentment. People were even impressed how they got their dynamic back. There was still plenty they hadn’t said out loud, but Deborah had let herself believe that the fight was behind them. That when they clinked glasses of terrible champagne and celebrated the show, it meant the bad months were over.
She thought back to all of it: lying about the head writer job, Ava finding out and confronting her, the blackmail, the pranks, the screaming match at Bob’s party, the awkward magazine shoot, that fake-ass hug outside Winnie’s house, the arrest in Las Vegas, Ava reaching out and being told to fuck off, the blow-ups on set, the ring joke with Ruby… Months of pure hell. And yet, drinking that awful, flat champagne felt like raising a glass to survival. To the end of it all.
And then fucking Ethan Sommers. Of course. Even if the whole thing about sex with Bob hadn’t existed, the network owned the show and she needed to play with Ethan. She should never have done that damn joke. Yes, Ava had told Lewis—but Deborah never should’ve given her the ammunition. She should’ve just stuck to the script, kept the machine moving. Maybe they’d still be number one.
Instead, here they were.
And God, she missed it. The writing mornings, the way they’d dodge Stacy and sneak off to some empty corner of the building to work and laugh, mostly laugh. The thrill of breaking rules together. Later, during tapings, she’d glance over the cameras just to catch Ava’s nod, her quick laugh at a line they’d crafted. Yes, Ava wrote with the team and Deborah polished, but there were always moments, lines, that were just theirs. Ava had this annoying “ethical boss” thing about crediting everyone, but Deborah knew the truth: the best stuff came from the two of them alone. And those were the jokes that Ava pushed first on the show.
After the taping ended each night, things got different. Too quiet. The coyote problem faded, but the silence didn’t. When Ava had moved out after the fight, the house became unbearable. Hollow. Empty. She missed Ava’s loud boots stomping through the hall. The terrible music blasting from her phone. Her laugh echoing off the walls. Her presence.
Before everything with the network fell apart, Deborah had even thought about inviting Ava to dinner at her house, just the two of them, to celebrate properly. But also, to feel her light in that house.
That was the truth: the house, the work, the life, none of it had light without her.
“Deborah?” Martin’s voice cut in. She was startled. How long had he been talking?
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, masking the fact that she hadn’t heard a single word.
“So would you come with me to Dubai?”
“What?” She blinked, sobered instantly.
“Dubai. You’d love it. Forget the show, forget the grind. Just enjoy yourself. I’ve got more than enough money for both of us. And maybe send that… assistant of yours back home. She looks out of place here.”
“Rude,” Deborah muttered, just loud enough for him to hear. She stood and Martin tried to follow, she placed a hand on his shoulder, firm, dismissive.
“Listen: No. I’m a comedian. That’s my life. That’s not something you can buy me out of. And that ‘girl’ you’re talking about? Her name is Ava Daniels. She’s the youngest head writer in late-night history. She’s a hell of a writer. So don’t you ever talk down about her in front of me. Good night.”
She left before he could answer, her pulse pounding. Fuck. She’d told Ava to fuck off maybe twenty minutes ago, and now all she could think about was finding her.
Deborah pushed through the crowd, scanning for that mess of red hair. Finally, she spotted her: outside, leaning on the railing, staring out at the Singapore skyline. Alone.
From behind, Ava looked peaceful. But Deborah knew better. That stillness was loneliness. Sadness. It was the same weight she carried herself.
Deborah inhaled, steadying herself. If she went out there, there’d be no turning back. Ava would push, and if Deborah started talking, she wasn’t sure she’d stop. Part of her wanted to call Jimmy, beg him to get Ava a job, give her a life away from this sinking ship. But another part, and maybe the louder part, wanted her right here. By her side.
So she straightened her shoulders, exhaled, and stepped onto the deck. The sea air was heavy with salt and bass from the party inside. Ava gripped the railing so hard her knuckles whitened, eyes fixed on the glittering skyline. Deborah stepped closer, her heels clicking against the wood, the faint smell of champagne trailing behind her.
“You know, if you lean any farther you’ll fall in. And I’m not jumping in after you, my hair costs too much to get ruined by seawater.” she said trying to sound casual but failing.
Ava didn’t smile. She barely looked at her.
“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna make your night that interesting.”
Deborah’s throat tightened. She shoved her hands in her pockets. Easier than letting them shake.
“Listen, I… I shouldn’t have said what I said back there.”
“Which part? The part where I’m pathetic? Or the part where you don’t want me around?” Ava turned to face her now. Her eyes were glassy but steady. Deborah looked away first, out toward the water.
“Ava, no… I—ugh. You know I run my mouth like it’s cardio. Doesn’t mean I—”
“Yeah, sure. Doesn’t mean you mean it.” Ava’s tone was flat, deflated.
They stayed in silence for a moment, staring at the sea. Deborah could tell: Ava wasn’t furious.. well, not only furious. What sat between them wasn’t anger but weight. Sadness, thick and aching.
Deborah felt it press down on her chest, heavier because she was the one who had put it there. She turned, forced herself to really look at her.
“I’m sorry for what I said. I mean it,” Deborah murmured, softer now, the edge stripped away. “I did it because…” Deborah’s voice rasped, gravelly, as though the words scraped her throat on their way out.
“I don’t want you wasting your life on me. I’m a sinking ship, Ava. And you’re—” She flailed her hand in the air like she was grasping for the right word. “You’re better. You could do a hundred things without me dragging you down.”
Ava let out a sharp, ugly laugh.
“God, do you think I don’t feel that every single fucking day? That maybe I’m the reason you lost your show? That maybe if I’d just shut up, if I’d been a little less… me, you’d still have everything you wanted?”
Deborah’s head snapped toward her, eyes blazing.
“No. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that.”
Ava froze, startled. Deborah’s voice was sharp, protective, like she was defending Ava against some invisible enemy, not Ava herself.
“You didn’t kill my career. I did that myself. Ethan Sommers didn’t need your little confessional to Lewis. I handed him the bullets.” Her voice burned with anger, but it was aimed squarely inward.
“But it was my finger on the trigger,” Ava said, the words breaking, desperate. A tear slipped down her cheek.
Deborah stepped closer, as if she could hear every self-accusation swirling in Ava’s mind.
“You think I hate you for it. But the truth is, I hate myself more. Because I look at you and I see everything you could be, and I know this—” She gestured vaguely at the yacht, the glittering skyline, her own body in its immaculate suit. “This isn’t it.”
Ava’s lip trembled. Silence fell between them.
It wasn’t the clean silence of a conversation run dry. There was longing there. Longing, and grief, and the kind of stubborn affection that refuses to die no matter how many times it’s been cut down.
Ava felt her throat tighten, because for all the cruelty, all the mess, all the chaos, the truth was here in the silence: they wanted to be next to each other. They just didn’t know how to stop hurting each other long enough to admit it.
“Deborah, I—”
The horn of the yacht blasted, cutting Ava off. The vibration trembled through the deck beneath their feet. The yacht was docking at Fullerton, the dull thud of the fenders and the lurch of slowed engines making everything shift slightly under them.
A uniformed officer stepped close, speaking just loud enough for them to hear: “We’ve arrived. The party continues at the Fullerton disco.”
Inside, the cabin had already erupted into chaos. Guests spilled out, laughing, shouting, singing off-key as they carried half-empty glasses to the dock. It was a migration of glitter and noise.
Ava and Deborah looked at each other. Neither wanted to move. Neither wanted to cut this fragile thread of a conversation—this was the first time in eight months that they’d had anything even resembling one. Ava wasn’t sure when she’d get another chance. She wanted to cling to it.
And a part of Deborah, though she hated to admit it, wanted to talk, too. She’d built a lifetime out of being detached, but she was still human. There had been a time when Ava wasn’t just her writer but her shadow, her spark, her person. Physically, they were still side by side every day. Emotionally, though, Deborah had been alone for months. And she missed the girl. She missed them.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” Deborah’s voice was soft, hopeful in a way that didn’t suit her armor.
Ava looked up at her, a small, almost shy smile curving her mouth. “Sure.”
They were the last ones off the yacht. They began walking along the coast. Even though they’d been living here for months, neither of them had ever really explored. Ava had suggested it at the start of the trip, but Deborah had waved her off. “We have drinks here, let’s stay at the hotel” and Ava, as usual, had gone along, thinking it would only be temporary.
Now the coast felt almost new. Lamps cast golden pools of light on the pavement. Benches lined the boardwalk. People strolled past in murmuring pairs, the sound of soft music from a bar mingling with the hush of waves. The atmosphere was peaceful and strange, like the world was giving them privacy without actually closing in.
Ava noticed Deborah slowing her pace. She hadn’t been exercising, had been drinking more than she should, and her body betrayed her.
“Why don’t we sit down?” Ava said lightly. “I’m getting tired already.”
“Sure.” Deborah knew Ava was doing it for her. And deep down, she was grateful. She wasn’t old and finished, but she wasn’t in the kind of shape she’d once been either. All the drinking, the sedentary days, well it showed.
They sat on a bench overlooking the dark water. The sky stretched out above them, a canvas of black and silver. Something in the air shifted; heavier now. Not hostile, but charged. Like a stage before the first line.
“Deborah—”
“Ava—”
They spoke at the same time, then chuckled. It was ridiculous, and it broke the tension for a beat.
“You first,” Deborah said.
“Okay.” Ava’s fingers fidgeted in her lap. She took a deep breath.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I really, really am—”
“Don’t be. It’s not—” Deborah started, instinctively trying to brush it off.
“Wait. Let me finish.” Ava’s voice was soft but firm.
Deborah raised both hands in surrender. “Okay.”
Ava exhaled hard. “I’m really sorry. I do feel guilty. Sure, fuck Bob!, and fuck Ethan Sommers!, and fuck the network!” she let out a big angry sight and continued “But I know I fucked up. I do. And I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like shit.”
“But what hurts more isn’t just that. It’s all these months not being able to be with you. Sure, we’re together every day, but when was the last time we actually wrote jokes? When was the last time we watched Law & Order together? When was the last time we just sat and looked at each other and talked honestly?”
Her voice cracked. She pressed on anyway.
“Two months ago I called Jimmy, begging him to find a lawyer in Europe or Asia to help us to get you out of the network hold. Because I can’t keep watching you like this. I know you love your job. I know. But I can’t stand by while you slip away, drink by drink. And it’s not even about the drinking. It’s that you’re not you anymore.”
Ava’s words came faster now, as though they’d been waiting behind her teeth.
“You know what Jimmy said? That you and he had already scoured the world for a loophole in your contract. That there was no way out.”
Ava let out a pause. Deborah looked at her sadly and then to the view of the night. She knew that. It hurted.
“And then he said something that… God, Deborah, it broke me. He said you’d contacted your lawyers seven months ago and set up a protection contract to make sure Jimmy and your lawyers would take care of me, even if you were here but not with me anymore. Even if I wasn’t working for you. Even if you were… gone.”
She swallowed, her throat dry.
“When I asked Jimmy about it, he said, ‘I can’t answer that.’ And I lost it. I yelled at him. Hung up. Called back five minutes later to apologize. And he said you were trying to protect me. That you cared for me and didn't want to make the same mistakes like you did. He wouldn’t say more. Just that you cared for me and that he would take care of me.
“He even suggested I come back to the States.” Ava gave a bitter laugh. “I hung up on him again. This time I didn’t call back.”
Her eyes searched Deborah’s face, desperate. “Deborah, I know you’re pushing me away. But please … please! … let me in.”
She stopped. Really looked at Deborah, like she was trying to memorize her.
“I miss you. And I—” Her voice broke.
“I don’t want ‘everything I could be’ if it doesn’t have you in it.”
Deborah froze. Her hand twitched, wanting to reach out to steady Ava’s shaking breath, to close the space between them. But she curled it into a fist instead.
“You’re an idiot,” she said finally, her voice low.
“Yeah, well,” Ava replied, with a weak smile. “Takes one to know one.”
The corner of Deborah’s mouth tugged despite herself. They both looked back toward the dark water, the silence thick but softer now, like air after a thunderstorm.
“I miss it,” Deborah said, almost to herself. “The mornings. You sneaking me out of meetings I didn’t want to sit through. The way you’d nod at me across the stage when a line landed.”
Ava blinked fast, fighting tears.
“But even more, I miss writing with you,” she said. “I miss our little adventures. I miss it too. I miss… you. Even when you’re unbearable. Especially when you’re unbearable.”
Deborah gave a small laugh. Quiet, real. She unclenched her hand and placed it in her lap, open now, like she was testing the idea of being vulnerable again.
“Ava, I miss you. I—this… this whole thing has been a nightmare,” Deborah said, her voice shaking just enough. “Yes, I lost my dream job. No, it wasn’t your fault. It was a thousand tiny things that fell apart all at once. And yeah, it hasn’t been easy. I had that dream job, and it was spectacular.”
She looked at her, eyes glinting with a tired, bittersweet smile. “We had it. You lost your job too. Your career. And I wasn’t there for you.”
Ava opened her mouth to speak, but Deborah continued. The words were coming now, tumbling out after months of being swallowed.
“I guess I’ve been running away from it. Drowning it in parties and brunches and bingo nights. At first, coming here…sure, I told myself it was about trying new material. But then it became something else. A coping mechanism. I thought I was doing you a favor: ‘I’m paying her to be my companion,’” she said bitterly, mimicking herself. “But I got lost. And I knew it. I’d wake up at night, sweating, staring at the ceiling, thinking, ‘What the hell am I doing?’ And then I’d drink, just to stop thinking.
“But behind all of it… I was guilty. Guilty that you were losing yourself here too. I wanted you out of this mess, but I didn’t know how. That’s why I said those horrible things today. I felt responsible.”
She sighed, eyes on the sea. “Yes, we tried everything with the contract even after we came here. I had a call with Jimmy and my lawyers seven months ago. They told me flat out: there’s no way out. Sure, I could technically pay my way free, but I’d lose everything, and I’d probably still never work again. Blacklisted, done. And they warned me that if I tried, I could take other people down with me.”
Her jaw tightened. “But then I came out of that meeting, and I saw you. You were sitting on the balcony, notebook open, frowning the way you do when you’re thinking. That little crease right here.” She reached out, almost without realizing, and gently touched the space between Ava’s brows. Ava didn’t move.
“I saw you,” Deborah whispered, “and I just… couldn’t leave you. Couldn’t let it end like that. So I called Jimmy back. Told him I wanted to set up a protection contract for you.”
Ava’s eyes widened, tears already pooling.
“He was shocked, but not surprised. He asked me why, and I told him—‘Ava’s young. She’s talented. She’s got a real career ahead of her. I’ve fucked up enough times to know how fast this industry eats people alive. She won’t be one of them.’” Deborah’s voice broke slightly. “I told him, ‘Make sure she’s taken care of. Make sure nothing can touch her.’”
She gave a hollow laugh. “Jimmy’s a good man and a good manager, he really is. And my lawyers are expensive as hell. Between them, even a fly couldn’t land on you without signing an NDA.”
Ava smiled weakly through her tears.
Deborah looked down at her hands. “After that, I told myself I’d done something good. That if I couldn’t fix my career, at least I’d protected the only thing I still gave a damn about. And then I just… let go. I stopped fighting. Because I’d already saved what mattered.”
Her voice went quiet. “I asked Jimmy not to tell you. Said he could only step in if it ever became necessary. But he also told me he couldn’t make you do anything.And that’s when I started detaching myself. Pushing you away. I thought if I made you hate me, you’d finally leave. You’d go home. You’d find something better. But I couldn’t make myself go. I’m selfish like that. I wanted you here. Every single time, I wanted you with me.”
Her eyes glistened, and her voice trembled. “You’re incredible, Ava. You have no idea how bright you are. You’re a goddamn star. And I’m the most selfish prick alive, because I’d rather keep you here.”
She took a ragged breath. “I care for you, Ava.”
The words came out barely above a whisper, but they hit like a confession years in the making.
Ava looked at Deborah. Really looked at her. There were tears gathering at the edges of Deborah’s eyes, catching the streetlight, trembling but not falling. Her whole face was tense, holding back everything she’d refused to feel for months.
Ava’s heart ached. She wanted to bridge that impossible space between them.
So she did.
She reached out and placed her hand over Deborah’s. The contact was small but it felt electric, like a current running through both of them. Deborah flinched at first, instinctively ready to pull back, but she didn’t. She let herself feel it.
Ava’s thumb brushed against Deborah’s knuckles, slow and steady, grounding her. The older woman’s breath hitched. The night seemed to still be around them: the waves, the wind, even the distant laughter from the pier dimmed into silence.
Deborah finally looked up, meeting Ava’s gaze.
And Ava saw it all. The exhaustion, the fear, the guilt, the love, all of it flickering raw and unguarded in those eyes. She saw the woman who’d once seemed unbreakable finally allow herself to break, just a little.
Deborah’s lip trembled. “We’re a disaster,” she said, laughing softly, voice trembling somewhere between heartbreak and relief.
“Yeah,” Ava said, smiling through tears. “But you’re my disaster.”
That undid Deborah. Her face crumpled, but she kept her voice low, steady, like she was afraid too much sound would shatter the moment.
“Then I guess… we’re company. That’s all we’ve got left.”
Ava turned fully toward her, tears slipping freely now but smiling anyway. “It’s enough,” she whispered.
Deborah looked at her. Really looked. And for the first time in months, the ache in her chest loosened.
They stayed there, side by side, watching the dark sea stretch endlessly before them. Neither spoke. The city lights flickered on the water like ghosts of everything they’d lost and everything they still had. For once, silence didn’t feel empty. For once, it felt like peace.
And as the night pressed softly around them, Deborah reached over, tentative, almost shy, and let her fingers rest over Ava’s hand again. Both of them smiled at the view they had in front of them.
Both of them were broken out of the moment by the sudden sound of Ava’s ringtone. Ava frowned, wiping quickly at her eyes. “Who the hell is calling me this late?”
She looked down — Jimmy.
Ava answered, pressing the phone to her ear. “Jimmy? What’s—”
“What happened to Deborah?!” Jimmy’s voice was frantic, ragged, like he’d been shouting or running.
Ava blinked. “What? What are you talking about?.”
“TMZ is reporting she’s dead!” Jimmy practically screamed.
Ava’s brain stuttered. “What?” she whispered, her mouth dry.
“What?” echoed Deborah, confused, tilting her head as she caught Ava’s stunned expression.
Ava's voice came loud and panicked: “TMZ said you’re dead Deborah”
Deborah stared, then exhaled. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. Not horrified, just mildly inconvenienced, as though someone had spilled coffee on her blouse.
Ava looked at her like she’d grown a second head.
Jimmy’s voice was still in Ava’s ear. “Wait—oh my god, is Deborah with you right now? So it’s an error? Jesus Christ, thank God, I nearly had a heart attack.”
Ava shook her head, dazed. “How… how does that even happen?”
Deborah shrugged, unbothered. “They pre-write obituaries for famous people. Saves them time when we actually kick it.”
Ava blinked. “That’s… bleak.”
“I’ll call TMZ and tell them to pull it down,” said Jimmy. “I’ll call you back.” The line went dead.
Silence again. The wind picked up, tossing Deborah’s hair across her face.
“Let me see it,” she said quietly. “The article.”
Ava hesitated, then searched it up. It didn’t take long. The headline was already trending: “Comedy Legend Deborah Vance Dead at 73.”
She turned the phone toward Deborah. Her eyes scanned the screen, moving fast: disbelief, irritation, then something sharper.
Ava watched her carefully. The tension in Deborah’s jaw was building. Her lips pressed together, white-knuckled on the phone.
“Oh my god…” Deborah muttered under her breath. “They used the R word.”
Ava’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Retired.”
“Oh.” Ava exhaled.
Deborah looked up, eyes blazing. “They said I retired,” she repeated. Like it was a personal insult from the universe.
And then, without another word, Deborah shot to her feet. The suddenness of it startled Ava.
“Let’s go!” Deborah barked, her voice alive again, pulsing with fire. “I will not retire. It will not end like this!”
Ava stared up at her. Disheveled, furious, and radiant. That spark she’d missed for months was back, full force.
Deborah’s eyes were lit from within, that unstoppable, reckless brilliance roaring back to life. She was pacing now, muttering plans under her breath. “They think I’m done? Oh, just wait. I’ll sell out Madison Square Garden. I’ll do a goddamn posthumous tour if I have to.”
Ava stood slowly, watching her. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Ava smiled. A small, exhausted, honest smile.
There she was. Deborah Vance. The hurricane. The legend. The woman who refused to die, not even on paper.
The wind whipped around them, sea spray catching in the air like glitter. Deborah stood, hair wild, eyes fierce.
Ava crossed her arms, shaking her head, still smiling. “Well,” she said softly, mostly to herself, “she’s back.”