Apex

04 | pollution

MAY 16

DAKOTA

For all its gilded glory, the thing I never got used to in Los Angeles was that the night sky burned orange. I knew it was just smog and reflected light emanating from the city, but it was eerie.

During those first surreal nights when the novelty of the city still hadn't worn off, I'd explored the smoky shadows and dimly lit streets that curved up into the hills. I'd discovered a quiet park with a secluded bench that overlooked the sea of artificial light and streams of traffic. From this pedestrian throne, I'd seen a few stars twinkling through the orange haze.

The overall absence of stars in Los Angeles fueled my nostalgia for Friday Island. Nearly a straight shot north from Los Angeles, there was little light pollution on an island that was mostly rocky beaches and evergreen forest with dirt driveways disappearing into the trees. On the nights when the rain clouds cleared and stars illuminated the black sea of sky, Maud Hamilton would drag me out her bedroom window and out onto the slope of the roof. She loved astrology and could point out more constellations than anyone else I knew. We would stay out there for hours. She'd eventually fall asleep, and I'd fall in love.

"End scene," I muttered, mentally pressing pause on my thoughts.

After a long day of filming Apex, being pulled down the rabbit hole of memories starring my ex-girlfriend wasn't ideal. Hell, I regretted not campaigning harder to film in Nova Scotia because returning to the island meant I was literally living in that rabbit hole of memories.

Dry dirt crunched beneath my Timberland boots as I walked down a cliffside, wind rustling the tall beach grass. The last traces of sunlight glistened on the Haro Strait, early stars dusting the sky. My hands twitched with the sudden urge to reach for the Canon AE1 that hung from my neck on a black leather strap, but I was short on time.

I huffed and stopped walking to pull a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out from my leather jacket. I hadn't smoked in a week, having managed to convince myself that it was time to quit the habit, but it took off the edge.

Fucking nicotine, I thought. When I inhaled, the lit end flared in the fading light.

"Brooding on a cliff is cliché, even for you."

I didn't turn towards the smooth feminine voice. I knew exactly who was behind me because that voice belonged in front of the camera, effortlessly delivering her lines and shining in the spotlight.

Brenna Quinn, alternatively known as Hollywood's sweetheart, was a savvy actress with a pampered ego courtesy of her childhood on the Upper East Side. She appeared beside me a moment later, the breeze whipping her long brown hair around her head.

I scowled. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know, starring in your cinematic masterpiece," Brenna said with an exaggerated sigh. She stood at my exact height of 5'10" with sunkissed skin and sharp bone structure. The gold of her hoop earrings dazzled in the light.

"That's not what I meant," I rolled my eyes.

"So, let me guess," she mussed, tapping a finger against her chin. "You think I'm somehow going to sabotage your quest to become Maud's - excuse me, Mimi's - knight in shining armor."

I worked my jaw, regretting the time I'd drunkenly divulged the history of my love life to Brenna in a Beverly Hills hotel room. It was a moment of weakness back in January when I'd never felt more alone in my life and needed a friend. But Christ, what was I thinking? Brenna was an actress, not a therapist.