Chapter 1 1
I’d forgotten just how hot it feels under a spotlight.

“All right, Liv, we’re going live in five… four… three…”

A production assistant motions for quiet, and the chorus of chatter fades in the Java with Jade studio. For a split second, it’s just me and Jade Johnson and the hum of the electricity powering her sunny morning-show set. I shift in my seat, a plush armchair upholstered in brightest white. It’s comfortable, even if I’m not entirely so.

My relationship with the press: it’s complicated.

I pick a focal point, anything that will ground me here in this singular moment—the coffee, dark in its bone china cup—and just like that, I’m prime-time TV starlet Liv Latimer again, not just Liv who regularly tosses her hair up in a messy bun and wakes up with morning breath like the rest of the population.

“Liv!” Jade says, her voice a song even with just the one syllable. Her teeth are next-level perfection. “It is my absolute pleasure to have you here on the show—can I admit I’m just a little starstruck right now?”

She laughs, and I laugh, and it all goes down like honey. “Thanks, Jade. Can I admit the feeling’s absolutely mutual?”

“It’s not every day I get to sit down with someone who was such a fixture of my adolescence,” she goes on. “And now I’m dating us both—it cannot possibly be two decades since Girl on the Verge premiered!”

“Unbelievable, right?” I match her energy, careful not to surpass it. “I think it feels like less time has passed because we were on the air for so long.”

“Six seasons.” Jade takes a sip from her coffee and sets the mug back down on the low table between us. “What was that like, growing up with the whole world watching?”

It’s hardly the first time someone has asked—I’ve gotten every question under the sun. People will take as much as you give them, Livvie, my father used to say. Be careful to keep some things for yourself. I need something sharp and quotable, something relatable and true that doesn’t actually require me to part with some private piece of myself I’ll never get back.

“It was exactly how you’d expect,” I say, like even this doesn’t feel like giving too much away. You’d think I’d be used to it at this point, scraping slices of my soul into sound bites, but it has never gotten easier. “It was a lot of pressure but also a lot of fun.”

“Let’s talk about the pressure. Your character on the show—Honor St. Croix—was Miss Americana to the extreme, and honestly, it never looked like a stretch. Honor never crumbled under the pressure she felt, and from what I can tell, neither did you. How did you handle it all?”

Jade wasn’t there for my rather jagged twenties, or any of the behind-the-scenes days that led up to them. There’s a difference between crumbling and cracking. Honor and I absolutely did both.

“It all comes back to being grateful,” I say. It’s a line I’ve practiced many times over in my head, and one I think is true? “Being grateful, even for the hard things, and starting fresh each new day no matter how tough the day before felt.”

“But they did feel tough,” Jade says. A fact: not a question.

I look her straight in the eye. “People go through harder things every day,” I say, choosing my words carefully. I’ve gone through harder. “But yes, the expectations on me back then were unreal.”

The schedule, the interviews, the tours. There was pressure everywhere, so many eyes on me, always.

I loved the acting itself, though—unsurprising, given that it’s practically a family legacy on the Latimer side. The chance to escape into someone else’s skin, to be someone as perfect as Honor St. Croix while my own personal universe was falling apart? Even at a young age, it was never lost on me what a privilege that was. It worked out well that I was good at it. Good enough that no one ever had to know exactly how hard things were on me when my father—three-time Oscar-winning Hollywood heartthrob Patrick Latimer—was killed in a car crash up in the canyons during our second season.

“It certainly seemed like an intense experience for all of you when the show took off overnight. At least you clearly had chemistry with your castmates,” Jade says, eyes glittering under the lights. I know where this is going. “You and Ransom Joel seemed especially close.”

And there it is: I’ve been down this road a thousand times—in interviews, in daydreams, in sleepless nights where I tried to piece together where everything went wrong between us. We were best friends, closer than anyone else on set. The closest.

Slipping into Honor’s life was exactly the escape I needed when my father died. And when the cameras stopped rolling, it was Ransom—and only Ransom—who got the real me.

“You and Ransom were inseparable in those years, and more than a few people speculated you were secretly dating.” She leans in conspiratorially, as if it’s just us having a chat over coffee without millions of viewers hanging on our every word. “I know you both adamantly denied it, but I have to know—was there ever any truth to those rumors?”

It takes every ounce of professional poise to not break character: Liv Latimer, perfectly unruffled talk show guest. Behind my ultra-calm facade, I’m wondering how this question possibly slipped past my publicist.

“They were rumors,” I say evenly, putting on a smile that’s anything but easy. “Never anything more.”

I don’t tell her how we were so close it felt like dating sometimes, how there were days when he mattered more to me than the show itself. I especially don’t tell her about the painful drama between us at the end of our final season, the purposeful step back from our friendship—Ransom’s idea, not mine. How it felt like a breakup.

It’s always been easier to deny the rumors than to admit I once wished they were true.

“Have you and Ransom seen each other since the show ended?” Jade’s question is so casual, so blissfully unaware of all that went down between us.

“I’ve certainly seen him on social media!” I reply, deflection-with-a-smile at its best.

“Oh, haven’t we all!” Jade says, pivoting with me without missing a beat. “I admire how he uses his platform to put good out into the world. Is he really that good of a guy behind the scenes?”

That good and more, I think. So good it hurts.

“He once took in a stray kitten and kept it in his dressing room—it was an entire week before the studio found out and made him take it home!” The memory of him smuggling a bag of kitten food under his hoodie in the middle of a heat wave makes me smile for real, no acting required.

Jade’s eyes light up. “I can only imagine how many pets have been adopted thanks to his activism—did you know he even did a calendar to raise funds for the ASPCA one time? My niece gave me one for my birthday a few years ago!”

Ransom, when the clips from this interview inevitably go viral, will not love this turn of conversation. His photos have taken on a markedly dark filter as of late, veering decidedly away from teen heartthrob into GQ cover–worthy territory.

Not that I’ve been keeping up with his daily posts.

Or the six to ten stories he posts on the regular throughout each day.

Or his Snapaday Lives, which my personal-assistant-slash-best-friend Bre peeks at for me on her account every so often, just so he won’t know exactly how often I tune in to see what he’s up to.

Jade leans in, as if she’s about to tell me something extremely confidential.

“Let’s circle back to the reunion special. For those who haven’t heard, it’s an all-new hour-long episode that’s rumored to pick up where the series finale left off. Fans everywhere are dying to know—without giving away any spoilers here—will we finally get closure on that one big thing the show left hanging in the balance?”

I let out a long exhale, relieved to be back in preapproved-question territory. “I’ve read the script, Jade, and I think it’s safe to say it will have been worth the wait.”

“Were you surprised by anything in the script?” she asks. “Or have you always known what would’ve happened next? I’ve got to admit, I screamed when the series finale cut to black in the middle of your last line!”

“Honestly, I didn’t know for sure.”

People have never believed my answer to this question, but it’s the truth. If I had known how many times people would ask—Did Honor stay with Duke in California or take her dream job in New York?—I would have begged the writers to give a more conclusive ending.

“I obviously had my own theories after playing Honor for so many years,” I go on. “I felt such a strong connection with her and had this gut feeling about the choice she would’ve made. I’m happy to report that my gut feeling was spot-on.”

“I love that,” Jade says, looking absolutely sincere. “Is what I’m hearing true—that we might get even more than just one new episode? Is Girl getting a reboot?”

Calm, Liv, calm, I coach myself. This is extremely confidential news, and it’s not a sure thing yet. If the numbers from streaming and the reunion special are high enough, we’ll almost certainly get the green light, but it would be completely irresponsible—not to mention a breach of my contract—to tell her so.

I’m also still not entirely sure I want to go back to such a sprawling set full-time; it’s not a coincidence I’ve taken only a handful of roles since we wrapped fourteen years ago, all of them on small, intimate indie films. It’s definitely not for lack of opportunities.

“As of this morning, all six seasons are streaming on Fanline for everyone to enjoy,” I say, turning my charm factor up to distract from my nonanswer. “If you love them, let the producers know you want more by spreading the word on social media!”

Jade runs with my lead and closes out the interview by telling them where to find me in various corners of the internet—because a few million followers are only a fraction of what I could have, according to my publicist. I should share more of myself, be more relatable instead of a beautiful, mysterious recluse, as she once referred to me.

To some extent, she’s right. That’s why I hired Attica in the first place, to help me find balance—left to myself, I’d be off the grid entirely (maybe not the electric one, but most certainly the Snapaday one).

“Well, get ready, Liv!” Jade says, eyes bright. “I think it’s safe to say you’re going to have an entirely new generation of fans.”

The very thought of being in the spotlight again fills me with butterflies… and also a few reluctant moths that aren’t sure they’re ready to fly out of the shadows. I want it, and I don’t. I want it more than I don’t, though, so I’m doing the brave thing: putting myself back out there a little at a time—but only what I want to give.

Back in my dressing room, I take a moment just for me—it might be the last of its kind, at least for the next few weeks.

Girl on the Verge was the most-watched teen series for six years straight, beloved by critics and fans and even a few university professors who’ve devoted entire courses to dissecting the things our writers did right. Even though we’ve been off the air for a while, the general consensus is that Girl on the Verge remains a timeless hit and will hold up—which means I should probably prepare myself for a decent amount of attention in the days to come. Months or years if the reboot happens.

I slip my phone out of my handbag. Missed messages fill the screen: there are nearly half a dozen short texts from my mother (who’s still fiercely supportive of me even though she’s traded Hollywood for the Outer Banks of North Carolina), three notifications from Bre, at least ten one-off texts from various people from the fringes of my life, and one from… Ransom? His name on my screen is such a surprise I nearly choke on my coffee.

It’s been a while.

I swipe it open on instinct.

do you have any idea how many kittens are in my mentions this morning? i’m drowning over here!

According to the time stamps on our text history, it’s been over a year since I last heard from him—a brief congrats for the award nominations, then dead silence after I sent an ecstatic GIF back in reply. Before that, we texted sporadically here and there, mostly on birthdays and whenever one of us had a premiere making waves.

It’s hard to believe we were once inseparable, even harder to believe he was my safe place and I was his. Before the end of our last season, anyway, when everything came crashing down.

Despite it all, I feel an undeniable thrill at the sight of his name at the top of my screen; his words are rock candy at the bottom of my stomach, jagged but sparkling, a sweet aftertaste that leaves me feeling a little fizzy inside.

My body is a traitor.

There are worse ways to drown! I write back. You’re welcome.

I tap out of the window and into my thread with Bre. CALL ME ASAP, her most recent message says, on the heels of two others sent just before and just after my interview—You’ll be amazing! one says, and the other simply says, Killed it, Liv!

Once I’m all tucked in to the back seat of the shiny black Mercedes I arrived in, sunglasses firmly in place, I call her back.

“Liv?” Bre’s voice is loud in my ear. “My inbox is blowing up with requests passed along from Mars and Attica—there’s a magazine in Spain that wants you to shoot a cover for them, I think that’s one of the best ones, but point is, I’m going to send you a list in twenty minutes, and I need you to approve at least eight of the opportunities and no more than twelve. That’s a request from Attica.”

Attica, my twenty-six-year-old publicist, has the energy of a rabbit and the instincts of a tiger shark. Bless her. She’s a relatively new addition to my team—I hired her a few years back to help with press when the first indie film I did started to take off. Marsden, on the other hand, has been my agent since the beginning, a tour de force of patience and wisdom and razor-sharp intuition.

“Mars will work with legal to handle the contracts,” Bre goes on, “and I’ll make sure all the scheduling works out. Oh, and Liv, your social is absolutely exploding—between your interview with Jade and the GIFs the new fans are starting to circulate and the kittenpalooza over on Ransom’s account, you’re trending everywhere. If you could work in a post or two before noon and a story or two by three p.m.—where you’re talking to the viewer and where we can clearly see your face, but definitely with a tone that says I’m oh so natural and relatable, everyone!—that would be great. That’s another request from Attica, by the way. Oh, and—”

“Bre?” I cut in. Her energy is necessary, but on a normal day, it’s never as frenetic as this. “I’ll look out for your email, thanks, and I’ll do my best with the social media. Pass my thanks to Mars and Attica, too, okay? Now take a breath. Are you breathing?”

“I am. Yes. Yes, thank you—today’s a bit more hectic than usual and—”

“Bre. You’re amazing. I couldn’t live without you, and I’m beyond grateful,” I say. “But I think you should take an hour and go get some gelato. Tell me you’re going to get some gelato, okay?”

A beat of silence passes. “Okay. Okay, yes, you’re right. Thank you.” The way her energy starts to settle is palpable, even over the phone. “I’ll go right after I send the list your way. We’re still on for quarter to six tonight?”

“Unless you have more interesting plans that come up between now and then,” I deadpan. As we are both very much single these days, Bre has agreed to be my plus-one for the fancy dinner Fanline’s throwing for the cast and crew tonight to kick off the show’s anniversary festivities. She—Bre Livingston, who makes new friends in the snacks aisle at Trader Joe’s—went full-on speechless when I invited her. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen another person so excited.

“I was thinking about finally getting started on knitting an ugly Christmas sweater for Sergeant Moonbeam…”

“Oh, yes, I can see how knitting your cat a Christmas sweater in June might take priority,” I say, smirking into the lid of my flat white.

“When you put it that way, I guess I could put it off for another day or so.”

“Such sacrifices! I know you’re not looking forward to this at all.”

“Only for you, Liv. Only for you.”

“You’re the best,” I say. “See you tonight.”

This barrage of requests pouring in all at once? It’s not normal for either of us. When Girl was still on the air, no one ever asked for my input—I’ve since learned that having a say in things is a blessing and a curse. So is being back in the public spotlight more significantly than I have been in quite some time.

Speaking of, did she say I’m trending? I open my Flitterbird profile and… oh. Four million followers and growing, more than double the number I had when I last checked a couple of days ago. I don’t dare look at my mentions. Before I can stow my phone away in my handbag, though, it vibrates with another new text.

Ransom—again.

Not for the first time this week, my mind trips over the fact that he’ll be at the dinner tonight in the flesh, sharing the same air as me. We haven’t been in the same physical space in fourteen years—it feels like fire to think about, something warm and familiar and captivating that could burn if I let down my guard and get too close.

GQ wants to do my shoot this afternoon with a literal pile of kittens surrounding me, WHAT HAVE YOU GOTTEN ME INTO, LIVVIE

I can’t help myself, I smile.

And then I remember how close we were, and then how close we weren’t, and it fades.

You know you love it, I write back. He’s never been one to say no to attention, has never felt the crushing weight of the spotlight like I have—only its warmth.

I tuck my phone away, look out the window instead to watch the world pass by. I’ve been in a thousand cars just like this one, done a thousand interviews—but today feels different. New. Like a beginning, like the start of something big.

Like a landslide.

Get ready, Liv.