“Yes, you.” He grins.

I smile back at him, a feeling of warmth filling my chest. He’s always been supportive of my acting, but this time feels different—probably because it is. I can act blasé all I want to, but the three of us know that this is a way bigger deal than being part of a large ensemble cast on a Hulu show.

Hannah and I finish doing our makeup, then join Tyson on the balcony.

“So what did Alessandro say, anyway?” I ask.

“He said to congratulate you. He didn’t know you were an actor.”

“That’s sweet,” I say. “But I meant what did he say about dinner?”

“Oh. That. He got us into L’Olivo. In Anacapri. It has two Michelin stars.”

“We don’t need anything that fancy,” I say.

“Yeah, we do,” Tyson says. “This is big-time. Now, c’mon. Give us the full scoop.”

“I really don’t know much yet,” I say, trying to remember what Casey told me back when I thought I was a long shot for the part and that going to L.A. was probably a waste of my time. “It’s a romantic comedy. Called The Pigeon Girl.”

Tyson’s eyes light up. “Oh, very cool. I love pigeons.”

“And you made fun of Gus for loving dogs?” I say with a smirk.

“First of all, I didn’t make fun of him. I just told him to get the hell out of my room. Second of all, pigeons are actually smarter than dogs.”

“Yeah, right!” I laugh.

“True statement,” Tyson says, nodding. “I saw a documentary on them. They’re smart as shit. They pass the mirror test of self-recognition. They can differentiate letters of the alphabet, as well as human faces. One just sold for almost two million dollars in a bidding war.”

“Why would anyone spend that kind of money on a bird?” I ask.

“Pigeon racing. It’s a thing.”

“That’s nuts,” I say, as the reality of my news starts to sink in. I sit up a little straighter, feeling a wave of pride.

“And what does the Pigeon Girl do, exactly?” Tyson asks.

“The typical romantic comedy thing,” I say. “She falls in love, gets her heart broken, pieces her life back together. You know the drill.”

“Yes. But I mean—what does she do with pigeons?” Tyson asks. “Why is she called that? Does she train them? Raise them? Collect them?”

“I didn’t read the whole thing yet. But she has, like, one as a pet—and I think she has it deliver a message to this guy she likes—”

“See? That’s what I’m trying to tell you! They’re smart as shit!” Tyson says.

“Is it a happy ending?” Hannah asks.

Tyson immediately puts his hands over his ears, closes his eyes, and says, “Hey. No spoilers.”

“It’s a romantic comedy, Tyson,” I say. “There’s your big clue that the ending is happy.”

“Whatever. I like to be surprised.”

“Since when?” I ask.

“Since now,” he says.

“Who else is in it?” Hannah asks.

“I’m not sure. Casey mentioned Adam Driver a few weeks back, but I don’t know if they got him…. Oh! And Andrew McCarthy is my father.”

“Oh my gosh!” Hannah says. “Summer would be so happy! She loved Pretty in Pink!”

“And St. Elmo’s Fire.” I glance nervously at Tyson. If he’s fazed by Hannah’s mention of Summer, he hides it.

“Who’s the director?” he asks.

“Ed Burns…Oh, and I lied,” I say, smiling at Hannah. “My agent actually was talking about Brad Pitt.”

“Oh, my goodness! I knew it!” Hannah squeals.

“Wow,” Tyson says, shaking his head as he stares at me with such sweet sincerity and pride. “This is incredible, Lainey. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I say, hit by a wave of déjà vu. The moment feels so familiar, yet I know it hasn’t happened before. I chalk it up to a dream.

A few minutes later, the champagne arrives. Tyson opens the bottle, then pours our glasses. As he raises his and says, “To our movie star,” I realize where I’ve seen the expression on his face.

It was the way he used to look at Summer during her races. I can so clearly picture him now, leaning over the chain-link fence encircling the track, yelling her name, and cheering for her. At cross-country meets, we could get closer to her, finding her at the finish line. Sometimes she’d be gripping her knees, catching her breath, her chest heaving, her cheeks bright red. Other times, she would be collapsed on the ground, flat on her back, covered with sweat and grass and dirt—and sometimes, when she got spiked, blood.

Regardless of her performance, Tyson always looked at Summer with pure respect and intense admiration.

“Thank you,” I say now, holding his gaze, then smiling at Hannah just before we all take our first sip of champagne.

As Tyson looks out over the horizon, I admire his profile. At some point I think you stop noticing the way your friends look. You just see them as who they are. But in this moment, he looks so handsome.

I feel a wave of affection for him—along with a deep appreciation for his friendship. I’m just so glad he’s in my life. That he and Hannah both are.

He suddenly turns and looks at me. “What?”

I shake my head and smile. “Nothing.”

“Then why are you giving me that look?” he asks, almost seeming self-conscious.

I lower my gaze and run with it. “Your jacket,” I say.

“What about it?”

“It’s wrinkled.”