best supporting actress: chapter one

Claire disappeared an hour ago, when the rum and coke in Miranda’s hand was still cold and she thought there was a chance of a good time.

Of course, Miranda also didn’t get the memo that “The Future Is Female” meant costumes just this side of naked. She’d expected a few RBGs and Rosie the Riveters, maybe even a Michelle Obama or Rita Moreno. Instead, it’s all slave-girl Princess Leias and low-cut Cleopatras with perfect makeup and $300 blowouts. When Veronica Castle (Veronica Castle!) greeted her at the door, Miranda had been surprised by her host’s subtle and sexy Carmen Sandiego costume. But before she could say something, Veronica complimented Miranda’s… creativity, and she’d been reminded that she didn’t fit in.

Which, fair enough. She’s still not quite sure how Claire got an invitation to Veronica Castle’s masquerade birthday party, let alone how she managed a plus-one. Or how Claire managed to convince her to fly down to LA for a weekend.

But whatever stars had aligned to get her here, the result was this: standing alone in the corner with a lukewarm drink in her hand and a sigh on her mind.

“Nice costume.”

Miranda rolls her eyes, turning to face whichever entitled asshole was making fun of her this time. And then the world stops.

The man’s dressed in head-to-toe high-quality spandex with a perfect replica of the mask worn by…

“Crimson Captain,” she breathes.

And immediately cringes at how she must sound. Fangirl-breathless over a costume at a celebrity’s birthday party. Pathetic.

But he just smiles. “Princess Mononoke,” he says, nodding at her. “It’s amazing.”

“Thanks. A friend of mine goes to cons all the time, and she let me borrow it.”

He nods and she wonders just what it is about him that’s setting her nerves on edge. It’s something not quite right, something a little uncanny valley about the whole thing.

“Are you a fan?” she asks.

His nose screws up under the mask. “Of Studio Ghibli?”

“Of Crimson Captain,” she says, waving her hand at his ensemble.

“Oh. Um, yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

“I mean, you’d have to be, right? To wear spandex to this shindig.”

(She smacks herself a mental facepalm. Shindig? She’s turning into her parents for sure.)

But he smiles a little. “I don’t know that it’s my favorite role, but…”

“Oh, I know,” she says, the rum convincing her that she’s finally on solid conversational ground. “I mean, I love Ben Alexander — he’s probably my favorite actor of all time, definitely of this decade — but I was pretty underwhelmed by him in those movies. The first one was okay, but I always love origin stories. The second one, though… I can’t believe I actually went to a midnight showing.”

He’s staring at her like she’s grown another head over the course of the last ten seconds and she realizes just what she’s done. She’s at Veronica Castle’s birthday party, a party that everyone who’s anyone in Hollywood attends by invitation only, telling a stranger who fills out a spandex suit unnervingly well all about her enormous, embarrassing, middle-school-girl-level crush on Ben Alexander, a man so far out of her league that he may as well be on the moon, and how much she disliked one of the most successful franchises in blockbuster history, and this man probably knows Ben well enough to tell him he’s got a crazy stalker girl here acting like a cheap imitation of a film critic and…

“Not a fan, huh?”

She blinks. He’s shifted his weight, tilted his head like he’s studying her. But he’s not running away.

“I just think he’s had better roles,” she explains hurriedly. “Like anytime he does Shakespeare. His Petruchio a few years ago, the chemistry between him and Lara Greer…”

“You saw it?” Crimson Captain’s eyebrow twitches up.

“The movie theater in my town does a thing,” she says, hand flicking nervously to twist in her hair. “You know, when they broadcast plays? I begged them to get it.”

He doesn’t speak. The blush rises to the tips of her ears.

“But I guess Crimson Captain is the one that got him famous, right? So any fan of his is, like, obligated to like it just a little bit. And the costume is great. Yours is great. You’ve got the right boots, the right accent. You even have the curve right –” she touches his forehead where the mask ridges – “there. Nearly everyone forgets about that. It’s impressive.”

His jaw drops. And so does hers.

It’s like her brain just decided to stop working and the words said, yeah, it’s time to come tumbling out in a mortifying display of awkwardness, and then her hand said, hey, don’t leave me out of this, and honestly this is why she does not drink EVER. She drops into a literal facepalm this time, luckily with the hand not clinging to her glass.

“I had no idea I was talking to such a fan,” he says after a minute.

“I can’t believe this,” she mutters into her hand. “I swear, I used to be able to talk to people.”

And then he laughs. “This your first time at one of these things?”

“That obvious?”

“Party virgins tend to stand out. Mainly because they take the theme seriously.”

“I was hoping for a little more creativity.”

They look over at a group of no less than seven Wonder Women who are enthusiastically giggling over the Indiana Jones sending heated looks their way as he leans on a snack table.

Miranda glances through her fingers to catch Crimson Captain’s smile. “I can’t believe I let Claire talk me into this.”

His smile grows. “The party or the costume?”

“Either. Both. I don’t know. I guess I just assumed ‘The Future Is Female’ would mean more Eleanor Roosevelts and Katherine Johnsons and not this sea of bikinis and implants. Not that there’s anything wrong with a woman being confident in her own body,” she adds quickly.

He laughs again. “If it makes you feel any better, I got talked into it, too.”

“The party or the costume?”

“Both,” he says. “My friend said I needed to make an appearance. I could have said no. Probably should have, frankly. But here I am, sober as a saint. I was just wishing I could be anywhere but here,” he adds with a tip of his glass, “when I bumped into you.”

She wants to roll her eyes, but he’s looking at her so earnestly that she can’t. “Not sure why you’d rather be hiding in the corner over here with me, but thanks. I think.”

“I’ve become rather an expert on hiding lately,” he says. “Probably for the best.”

“An expert hider?” she smiles. “Is that your day job?”

“Oh, no,” he says, “my day job is much worse than that.”

“Oh?”

“I’m an actor.”

“Really? Anything I’ve seen?”

“I’ve had some minor roles.” 

“Anything major?”

“A few,” he says, and she catches the way his eyes flick evasively.

“Like what?”

“Is it hot in here?” he asks suddenly, tugging at the spandex stretched across his chest.

“Maybe a little,” she says, eyebrow raised, “but I’m fine.”

“I’m getting warm.”

“Maybe you should take your mask off,” she suggests.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the effect.”

“Nobody else is trying to accuracy with their costumes.”

“Are you always this…”

“Careful how you end that sentence,” she says. “I’m a lot of things.”

He smiles low and wide. “Does that list include good dancer?”

“Passable, maybe,” she says. “Not good.”

He holds out his hand. “Prove it.”

She studies him for a minute. She knows something’s not right, that she’s missing a key piece of information. Like when she reads an Agatha Christie book and Poirot forgets to mention the clues that lead to the killer. Like all of those murder podcasts she’s listened to that talk about how the women went along with the handsome, charming stranger even though there were some red flags.

And yes, the odds of a serial killer being invited to Veronica Castle’s party are low, but still. She’s stayed sexy and not been murdered for this long, and she’d like to keep that streak up, thank you very much, even if it means not spending time on the dance floor in the arms of the man with the most handsome lower half of a face she’s seen all night. (From what she can tell, his eyes are rather pretty, too.)

Her brain must take longer than she realizes to process all the information because he’s starting to pull his hand back, mouth going tight and eyes flicking to the ground. That slightest movement catches something in her, tugs uncomfortably at the parts of her she keeps hidden away. How many times has she turned someone down for anything because she’s self-conscious or shy or feeling inadequate? She shouldn’t be bothered by saying no again, telling a complete stranger she’s not interested.

Except it’s been so long since she’s felt wanted, felt like the interest isn’t motivated by pity or busybody friends. And this man - this very attractive, very charming man - who has been invited to the birthday party of the year, who may or may not be an actor she’d recognize outside the crowded room, who hasn’t run despite her best efforts, is making her feel so wanted, even if it’s just one dance.

She tangles their fingers just before he pulls back completely. He meets her eyes and her breath hitches. Even in the low light, she can tell his are sparkling.

“One dance,” she says. “Then I’ve got to find my friend.”

He grins. “One dance,” he agrees, “but I’m going to talk you into another.”

“Doubt it,” she says, and pulls him to the floor.

She wants to be the kind of woman who’s confident, who takes control of a situation, who pulls strangers out to dance and seduces them effortlessly. Maybe it’s the costume. Maybe it’s the fact that nobody knows her here. Maybe it’s the rum and coke. She’s feeling like this could be the night that she becomes that woman, the one men fall over themselves to meet.

And then she trips over her own feet and stammers out an apology as Crimson Captain pulls her up and close to his heartbeat.

“Careful,” he says, barely audible over the thump of the bass. “I only get one shot at this, and I want to make it count.”

The song changes to a softer song she knows from the radio and she finds herself falling in step with the beats, leaning into her partner as he turns them around the floor. It feels old-fashioned, the way he dances. There’s no bumping or grinding, no wandering hands or expectations. At one point, he spins her around, pulls her back into a dip, and the light catches his eyes, turns them radiant.

“Wow,” she breathes.

He just keeps gazing at her, mouth open, hands warm around her. Like he wants her. Like he doesn’t want to let go. Like she means something.

So of course that’s the moment Claire, in beyond-smudged eyeliner and full Cleopatra garb, stumbles up to them.

“I was looking for you,” Claire says, tugging Miranda’s arm. “I wanna go home.”

“Okay,” Miranda says, reluctantly pulling away from Crimson Captain. “I’ll get a car.”

“Let me give you a ride,” he offers, fingers lingering in the space between their empty hands. “I’ve got a car here already.”

Miranda bites her lip, remembers being told it’s unflattering, unclenches her jaw. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve got the app.”

“I’d really feel better if…” he insists, but she cuts him off.

“Look, I appreciate the sentiment,” she says, “but we’ve known each other for, what, all of ten minutes? I’m not going to accept a ride from a stranger unless he’s been properly vetted by a third party.”

“But…”

“I don’t even know your name,” she continues, positioning Claire’s arm around her shoulders and tapping at her phone. “And you never bothered to ask for mine.”

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. And just as he starts to say something, another voice pipes up behind him.

“Ben! There you are!”