Our initial encounter took place at a trendy wine bar, where we indulged in rosé. As the night progressed, we found ourselves at another bar, dancing to early 2000s throwbacks. To my surprise, he asked if I wanted to come home with him. Normally, I would decline, using the typical “nice girl” excuse. However, the combination of wine, music, and the vibrant atmosphere of Los Angeles made me feel more adventurous. In New York, I had hit rock bottom — single, exhausted from auditions, and dealing with a falling out with my best friend. But this month-long stay in Los Angeles felt like a new beginning. So, with butterflies in my stomach, I kissed him and agreed to go home with him.
In his apartment, as we undressed, it felt as though we were living out a scene from a movie. The instant connection and the spontaneous way we hopped from one bar to another added to the cinematic quality of the moment. All I desired was to be a part of a movie. Being an actor requires constantly putting oneself out there, hoping to be loved, and facing rejection countless times. It’s like dating, but with payments (hopefully) and without the physical intimacy (though sometimes it happens). And that was before the industry was struck, leaving everyone with a resounding “no”.
The following morning, we made plans to have dinner the following week. He suggested L’antica Pizzeria Da Michele, which gained fame as the restaurant from “Eat, Pray, Love.” It wasn’t the original location in Naples, Italy, where Julia Roberts fell in love with her margherita pizza, but rather a new franchise in Hollywood. I eagerly looked forward to our second date.
During my stay in Los Angeles, I found myself staying in the guest room of my friend’s mother in Beverly Hills. It was a time of heartache, having just experienced a breakup with my best friend. For nearly three years, we were inseparable. We spent countless nights sketching comedy bits, discussing crushes, shedding tears over unrequited love, and envisioning our bright futures. I cherished being a part of her dreams and she made me believe that anything was possible. But our similarities became a source of rivalry. We both wanted the same things and were constantly pitted against each other. One of our final moments together involved auditions for a role as a girl with severe acne canceling plans with friends. Every comedic actress I knew in New York auditioned, including my best friend who ultimately got the part. Soon after, she started canceling plans with me.
The breakup began slowly. She arrived late to our monthly comedy show, having attended a notable birthday party to which I wasn’t invited. She opted for a diner outing with her podcaster friends rather than grabbing drinks with me. In rooms filled with more prominent individuals, I felt invisible. I couldn’t bring myself to express my feelings to her, so I turned to alcohol to cope. I was in pain, and tequila provided temporary relief. Slowly, I became less prominent on her whiteboard.
The end came abruptly. She broke up with me via email, stating she needed some distance due to her upcoming move. I wasn’t surprised that it was over, just shocked to find the message in my inbox. Our friendship was no longer bringing us happiness.
I responded to her email, writing, “I hope you have an incredible time in LA. I have no doubt that you’ll be amazing because you are amazing.” And I genuinely meant every word, despite the pain it caused me.
Six months later, I decided to escape New York and the feeling of being left behind. Los Angeles, with its vastness, held the promise of accommodating my dreams as well. I called myself an actor, even though I was almost 30 years old with an empty IMDb page. My appearance on “Blue Bloods” had been edited out in the blink of an eye.
I connected with this man on Raya, the exclusive dating app reserved for celebrities. Neither of us were celebrities, but I had received referrals from two DJs. In Hollywood, it’s all about who you know, and I happened to know a couple of DJs.
Being a part of something exclusive made me feel special as I swiped past DJs, photographers, art gallery owners, and occasionally Trevor Noah. Rumor has it that Pete Davidson also had a profile on the app, although I never came across it.
On Raya, users create a slideshow with a dozen photos and a song that represents their personality, reminiscent of a bat mitzvah. Straight men typically struggle with creating compelling slideshows, but this man excelled. His profile included film photos and a song from “Summer Heights High.” It was the perfect combination of attractiveness and humor. He had what I like to call “big slide show energy.”
When he first messaged me, he wrote, “Hey, it’s the person who’s either going to kill, ghost, or fall in love with you.” He was responding to a prompt in my profile that described my expectations for potential matches.
“In the event of my murder,” I replied, “this conversation will serve as a great clue for the police!” However, option three, falling in love, was the one I hoped for the most.
Within a week, I ran into my ex-best friend at a house party filled with comedians. Seeing her caught me off guard, and I felt frozen in her presence.
Fortunately, the Hollywood environment of the house allowed us to avoid each other for three hours, strategically staying on opposite sides of a large pool. As I bid my farewell, I couldn’t completely avoid her since she was standing next to the hosts. I thanked them for inviting me.
“It’s nice to see you,” I said to her.
“Likewise,” she replied.
We both executed those two lines brilliantly. When I returned to my room, I broke down in tears. I couldn’t help but wonder if she felt the same.
My new romantic interest and I planned our second date after my pay-to-play acting class with a casting director. For a fee of less than $200, I would have the chance to leave a lasting impression on someone who had the power to change my life. If I attended a few more of these classes, surely one of them would lead to a three-line role in a sitcom.
Following a scene from “Superstore” assigned in class, I headed to the pasta restaurant, arriving 20 minutes early. In the restroom, I changed into a more alluring top and texted my date, expressing my excitement to see him.
He responded with the news that he was having a tough day at work and would be running late. So, I ordered a cocktail and engaged in a conversation with the bartender, who was also an aspiring actor. In LA, bartenders equate to actors, while baristas are commonly aspiring screenwriters.
Twenty minutes later, my date texted, indicating he was finally leaving work. The timing was perfect; I had almost finished my cocktail. However, fifteen minutes later, I received another text: “Would you be terribly upset if I said I really want to go home, get high, and go to bed?”
He had previously mentioned that he could either kill me, ghost me, or fall in love with me. Well, option two was certainly better than option one. I replied, “I might be a little mad. I’m already here.” But truthfully, I wasn’t just a little mad; I was devastated.
Leaving New York, I had foolishly hoped that a change in scenery would bring about a positive shift in my life — love or a career that didn’t involve my day job. I longed to be chosen just once, after countless rejections and embarrassments. Whether it was expressing my enthusiasm to see someone or paying $200 to perform a scene from “Superstore” in front of other hopefuls, I felt drained from putting myself out there and constantly facing rejection from strangers, Raya dates, and even my closest friend.
He texted back, “I am so so sorry. I feel awful.”
But his remorse couldn’t possibly compare to how terrible I felt. Amidst my devastation, I caused a scene, loudly crying in the restaurant, much like Julia Roberts. The owner approached me, offering consolation and bringing over donuts from the kitchen.
I was too exhausted to pretend that everything was fine. And those donuts…
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