Alone in L.A.

Check-in’s late afternoon. Iris and I kill time in the lobby of the EAST Miami. It's high-end, sleek and modern as hell. Floor-to-ceiling glass everywhere. Marble polished to the point it could blind you. It’s the kind of hotel where every employee’s smile looks rehearsed and every corner smells like expensive wood polish and citrus.

Creation Entertainment is footing the bill. HBO’s covering the per diem. So, we do the only logical thing: blow part of it on a late lunch at a nice restaurant tucked away off Brickell Avenue. If the office knew we were eating here, I think to myself.

It’s funny—the rumors about me and Iris didn’t even start from some drunken holiday party or a late-night work session. They started last year. When her mom passed.

Wasn’t planned. Wasn’t anything but raw grief, and the way she leaned into me… into us. Emily and me. That’s how they got close—Emily and Iris. And how Iris and I became, well… this.

Partners? Friends? Handler and liability? Who the fuck knows.

All I know is, after that, the gears shifted. Suddenly, she anticipated my needs before I even clocked them. My projects? Smoother. Paydays? A little fatter. She took the reins on the contracts, and I cut her in properly—a percentage of my salary, a real bonus my studio sure as hell wasn’t going to give her.

She earned it. Twice over.

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By the time we finally check in, the front desk hands me a keycard. Iris had printed up my itinerary printed on thick glossy paper.

I get upstairs.

It’s not a room.

It’s a fucking suite.

Bigger than it needs to be. Not quite the size of my apartment back in New York—but it’s close. Plush carpet underfoot. Clean lines. Modern lighting. Living room area with a sectional big enough to get lost on. The king bed’s draped in Egyptian cotton sheets that probably cost more than my old camera rig. Full minibar. Two balconies—one overlooking the glittering skyline, the other peeking at the bay in the distance.

The view? It’s ridiculous. The kind of high-rise panorama you only get if you’re rich or someone else is paying.

But the size? The empty corners? The absence of her? Hits harder than I expected.

Iris double-checks the itinerary. Everything’s printed neat—the panels, the trailer debut, the meet-and-greets. It’s all real now. She hovers, scanning for errors like she’s prepping for a raid.

“You good?” she finally asks, eyes soft but knowing.

“Yeah,” I lie.

She doesn’t push. Just rides the elevator down a few floors to her room.

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I hit the minibar.

Jack and Coke. Heavy on the Coke. The Jack’s more of a suggestion. I drink, but I don’t drink drink. rip open a Butterfinger from the minibar—because apparently stress makes me regress into a child—and order room service. Ribeye, medium. Steak fries. Grilled asparagus. Screw it. The con organizers are picking up the tab.

I flop onto the sectional, drink in hand, glass sweating in my palm.

Tonight’s gonna be brutal. Definitely the worst night’s sleep I'll have.

I try calling Emily. Straight to voicemail.

A second later, her text buzzes through.

Em: Elbow deep with my paralegal team. Hotel war room. This case is a mess.

My chest tightens. Part of me hates how good she is at her job. Part of me loves her for it.

I send her a heart emoji. And, just because I know she’ll roll her eyes and laugh, an eggplant.

Em: Rofl.

Small victory.

I sink deeper into the couch, sip my drink, waiting for dinner to arrive. The ice clinks in the glass. Miami glows outside the window like a mirage.

The hardest part hasn’t even started yet.