The Other Side of Now by Paige Harbison (Excerpt)

CHAPTER ONE

present day

The gun feels cold and hard where I hide it against the small of my back.

I lean on the rolltop desk and watch Kim cross in front of me, her chiffon pantsuit hanging loosely around her frame. I will the tears to come to my eyes. It’ll be better if I look upset.

“It wasn’t my fault you left. That was your choice,” I say. I try to sound strong, but I don’t hide the sadness and anger either.

“You couldn’t accept that you were wrong; you forced me to leave. It was your fault and you couldn’t stand that you made such a huge mistake!” She puts her hands on her hips and stares me down, the massive fake diamonds around her neck catching the light. I allow my eyes to be drawn to them only momentarily before I lift my gaze back to hers.

“No,” I say, exuding calm, despite my voice shaking a little.

“You were too damn proud to listen,” she says, a humorless smile playing at her lips.

“Proud?” I scoff, blinking the tears away, and underplay the next words where someone else might scream them. “If there’s one thing in my life that I’ll look back on with pride”—I pull the gun out from behind my back and aim it squarely at her exposed, ample cleavage—“it’s this.”

I pull the trigger. Kim falls back against the grand piano. Her underweight body drapes against the keys, sounding a discordant crash before she slides down to the ground.

I walk over to her, and before her eyes go blank, I yank the necklace from her. “I’ll think of you every time I wear it.”

She struggles to speak, and I lean closer to hear her say, “You … bitch.”

I laugh. A little. Then a lot. Maybe too much.

“Cut!”

The grin falls from my face and I clear my throat and stand. “Did we get it?”

The director, Devon, bursts out of the control booth and comes over, tearing his headphones off. He puts his hands on my shoulders and his voice echoes through the cavernous studio. “Lana. You knocked it right out of the park. I’m not kiddin’, you knocked it right out of the city!”

There is a massive cheer from the crew, all of whom are beyond ready to wrap for the season. The firearm-safety guy comes over with great caution and takes the fake gun.

Devon pulls me toward him, then drags me over to video village, saying, “I gotta show you that last take. It was absolutely mesmerizing. You’re such a talent. I’m so glad Martin introduced us, and that I got to be the one to discover the great Lana Lord all those years ago.”

I am desperate to get the hell out of here—the stage lights, which have the heat of the surface of the sun, and the many bodies in here have made this place a sauna—but I go with him, ignoring the way his hand has drifted down to my lower back. He seems to assume that since he’s gay, I won’t mind.

I sigh, too worn out to bat it away like I usually do.

“Take it back to right after Velma’s monologue,” he says to the camera operator. “Yeah, right there, right there.”

He hovers two fingers in front of the monitor, and between them I notice where his spray tan has settled into the webbing. Then he hands me a pair of headphones and I hold one ear to mine and watch.

I never get used to it. Seeing myself this way. The blazing lights make my eyes look bluer and clearer than they are, and the waist cincher beneath my dress gives me an impossibly angled silhouette. Not to mention the fake eyelashes, the big-hair wig, the intense contouring, and the actual nose job I might never fully adjust to.

In post, they’ll retouch us all to death, giving us that soapy, perfect look. It’s good that they do, because it’ll make a Botoxer out of anyone to see themselves this close up, unedited. No line or pore can hide from these cameras.

Falling for the hyperclear image myself, I wonder if a little more Botox wouldn’t hurt. It’s such a slippery slope. Once you put it here you need it over there, and suddenly you’re getting injections in your earlobes and don’t know what happened. I talked to someone at a party once who said she got her knees injected after seeing someone on Instagram say that they looked like angry hobbits.

I saw the picture and they weren’t totally wrong, but frankly everyone’s knees look stupid when you stare at them long enough.

“You look good, kid.”

I sigh deeply and give Devon a loaded look. “Thanks.”

He juts his chin and gives me a look back. “I know this isn’t exactly what you had in mind when you made your deal with the Hollywood devil,” Devon says, his voice low. “Hell, it’s not the deal any of us thought we were making. But it worked.”

I nod and say, “Well, I didn’t have a functioning car when I started and now I’m here, so I guess you could say it’s working.”

He considers me for a moment, looking like he has something to say, but isn’t sure he should.

“Just say it, Devon.”

“I do have a bit of unpleasant news. Some words from up top.”

I tilt my head, braced. “What?”

“They want you to lose another”—he drops his voice to a whisper—“ten pounds.”

“What?” I ask again. I heard him. I can’t believe him.

“I know, I know,” he says.

“Devon, are you serious? They already had me drop ten pounds this season. I’ve basically been eating lemon water soup as every meal for three months.”

“It’s the evil twin storyline. I don’t make the rules, baby. I’m sorry.”

“This is insane. Another season and there won’t be any of me left.”

“Actually, hon, the truth is…” He comes closer again, close enough that I can smell his veneers. “I’m not sure there’ll be another season. They’re hoping, so you have to be prepared, but it’s not a sure thing.”

“Wait—what? The show is huge! The ratings are—well, obviously they’re not great but that’s kind of what we are. Bad and everyone likes us.”

“I know.”

“Is it because of that New Yorker article?”

“Shh, shh, you cannot tell anyone else. Not a soul. I’m not telling anyone but you. Don’t worry, I’ve already got some backup plans lined up, and I promise I’ll take you with me wherever I go if we get…” He drops his voice to an inaudible level, basically mouthing, “canceled.”

I stare at him in shock, but then nod slowly and say, “Okay, I guess I’ll … go ahead and lose those ten pounds though, just in case.”

He does a what are you going to do? shrug, not quite getting my ironic tone, then says, “I know a guy over at Love Is Blind, rumor has it they’re looking for a new host. What do you think?”

“I’ve got to go. Let me know if my career is over when you get word.”

I turn on my Louboutin and leave.

After changing and having my fake eyelashes ripped off and my makeup removed for almost an hour, I walk to my ride while checking my phone. As always, I have several missed calls, a few voicemails, almost thirty missed texts, and a flurry of emails. I scan over them.


Copyright © 2025 by Paige Harbison