It was entirely possible that they'd seen each other before. In fact, it was more than possible; it was probably true. A sidestep on the boardwalk; an adjacent seat on the subway; a shared bench in Central Park. After all, New Jersey was New York's backyard, was it not? Then again, maybe they'd never even crossed the same street. Queens and Brick Town weren't exactly next-door neighbors.

But it didn't matter, did it? Even if they had once passed each other by, they would've been just kids. They wouldn't recognize one another now. They'd never know. And maybe, all circumstances considered, that was for the best.

* * *

Peyton. It was an odd name, even odder that she had chosen it to get away from a stranger name. But then, she had spent eighteen years sharing the name of a place on a map. In fact, it had always struck her as odd that her mother had named her after a country – a county she had never even been to, by the way. More to the point, Peyton was rather confident in saying that her mother knew nothing about aforementioned country aside from the fact that curry was a popular dish and that there were elephants there.

What had possessed her mother to name her so?

"I figured that since no one can rhyme it with anything," she'd said, "you can't be made fun of."

Okay.

But anyway. Peyton stood in front of a mirror in an apartment she could hardly afford, assessing her hair with a certain amount of dismay. California had not been kind to her hair. It had made it monstrous and frizzy so that it required the discipline of a flat-iron that had never before beleaguered her.

But today, at least it looked nice.

No, she decided, I look like a crack addict. But the truth of the matter was that even if she had been changed by this strange state and its even stranger inhabitants, she did not really look like a crack addict.

Why had Mike insisted on conducting rehearsals on the beach? Mike was the director of the film Peyton was starring in. Well, co-starring, really. She was sharing the spotlight, which was fine with her. Even finer with her was the fact that she would be acting alongside Vincent Chase, as this was to be his 'back in the game' movie.

She hoped to do him justice.

Winding slowly through the sluggish and barbaric L.A. traffic, Peyton chewed impatiently on her gum, snapping it harshly in the afternoon heat. When spaces in the endless line of cars opened up, she took them; when people honked and swore at her, she ignored them. She was a Jersey Girl and she drove like one: badly and without apology. She knew that between the clogged artery of the PCH and her complete lack of navigational skills, she would most likely be late for rehearsal.

What beach had Mike specified? Had he specified? No, she rather doubted that. Mike was very typical beach-bum. He was thirty-four and had a sandy, receding hairline and loose board shorts. She suspected that he thought he could surf.

Peyton pulled into the closest beach lot and murdered her parking job before climbing out of the junky Nissan and burning her feet on the tar. As she approached the shoreline, it was clear that she had the right beach: women were sitting on blankets in designer velor sweat suits and teased hair.

"Sorry I'm late," Peyton called across the dunes, waving to everyone. Her beach bag swung by her side and she felt suddenly self-conscious at the fact that she was wearing an actual bathing suit. How comically, delightfully ironic. Several men looked up and smiled, that winning sort of Hollywood smile. But of course, there was one smile that came in first place.

Vince, friendly as could be, waved her down. But then, she knew all about him. She'd read Ok! and she'd heard the stories. Vince was a whore, but goddamn it, he was beautiful. She'd play it kinda' safe.

"You're not that late," he said playfully.

Without a word, she sat down beside him on the sand, no towel necessary. She couldn't help but note the look of discomfort and uncertainty that had emerged on his face at her lack of response. If she was going to work with him, she would have to play the resistance card.

"Okay people," Mike called over the roar of the ocean, "now that our leading lady's here, let's get the ball rolling!" He was an optimist type, Peyton decided, a glass-half full. She dug through her bag, overturning her makeup and her cell phone (out of minutes, she noticed), finally pulling out the script the producers had mailed to her. It was already crumpled and rolled, used and lovingly abused. She'd read and studied the entire text religiously, ensuring that she wouldn't forget a thing.

"Wow," Vince said softly, glancing her script, "you really went over that thing, didn't you?"

"Mm-hmm," she hummed casually. Inside though, she was bubbling over with joy: he spoke to me, he spoke to me! Vincent Chase had been one of her late teenage crushes: he'd decorated her walls for almost four years; he'd been the center of her fantasies and her daydreams, as well as countless poems that had kept up her third trimester English grade since sophomore year.

Vince just licked his lips and looked away, clearly discouraged.

Maybe after the movie wraps, she thought remorsefully, knowing how quickly Vince would move on.

They started with an end scene – one they would begin shooting the next day. It wasn't so climactic as it was frustrating, and Peyton vaguely wondered if she would even want to go to the premier by the end.

Ten more rehearsal scenes later and they were finally done. Vince ran up beside Peyton and caught her elbow. "Hey, you did real good," he said.

"Really?" Peyton couldn't stop the note of happy surprise. "Thanks." She worked to keep down her excitement and sound casual, like it was everyday that one of her favorite movie stars complemented her on her reading.

"Yeah." his voice was smooth and confident. "But you could still use a few tips. Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee sometime? You could bring your script." Under any other circumstances, it would have been a sweet, even friendly gesture. But as things stood, he was the idolized film star and she was the starving, aspiring actress.

"Maybe," she replied, making sure not to give him eye contact. "I'm busy," no she wasn't, "but I'll think about it."

The look of shock on his face was enough to make her day, even if she was ten days late on her rent.

* * *

So she didn't go for coffee with Vince. Instead, she forced the coffee (and Vince) to come to her. Peyton was a seasoned flirt, and she knew not to expect much of a guy like Vince, and she knew she ought to play hard-to-get.

"You know," Vince said during a break one day, "it's going to be difficult to act like you're in love with me if you really don't like me." His stance was defensive and frustrated. It was amusing, but not where she wanted him to be. It was probably time to let him know that she was comfortable with him.

"There's a reason they call it acting," she said coyly, accepting the coffee, "but I do like you." She took a sip and winced. He got her hazelnut. She hated hazelnut.

Vince noticed her wince after another sip or so. "You don't like it, do you."

"Nah," she said, some Jersey working its way in there, "I like my coffee like liquid candy."

Vince had to work to stifle the laughter.

"I don't like the coffee," she repeated, "but I like you. I love your movies, especially Queens Boulevard." She knew she was opening the doors a little wider, but hey. There's a line between 'hard-to-get' and just plain cold.

"I've seen your stuff too," he said. "You're good."

"You've seen my films?" she asked, incredulous and unable to contain it. "Which ones?"

Vince smiled big. "All of them."

"Well what did you think?" she asked. Nervously, she lifted her fingers to her lips as though she had a cigarette, though she'd kicked that habit at sixteen. She'd only been in three films, and only one lead role.

"As a movie," Vince said very analytically, teasing her, "I really liked Dumping You." That had been her first shared role. "I saw the trailer and I totally thought it was gonna' be a chick flick, but it was actually really hilarious." He chuckled for her benefit. "Kind of Seth Rogen in a way."

"Yeah, that's why I liked it," she said. She was trying to remember all the things she'd learned about body language in Cosmo. Tilt your head, she thought anxiously, don't cross your arms.

"But I think your best performance was in Sickly. That movie was intense."

That had been her lead role. "Yeah," she spoke pensively, remembering her preparation for her role as Lindsey, a drug-addled fifteen-year-old with a bad anger problem. It had been a role she could sort of relate to. "Well...it was intense. I almost quit the role," she said.

"I can understand that, but I'm glad you didn't. It was a good movie."

"Makeup, people, makeup!" Mike's assistant, Carl was shouting, waving his arms frantically.

"I guess we should probably get going,huh?" Peyton said. She was speaking softly, flirtatiously. She let it slide.

"Yeah, probably." Vince touched her shoulder. "Hey, let me take you out for coffee tonight so I can get something you like." He looked genuinely pleading.

"Alright. I didn't take my car today, so you'll have to give me a ride home."

"I can do that," Vince said, hoping that he wouldn't have to parallel park.

"Okay. See you in a few." Peyton waved as she walked into Marc-the-makeup-artist's trailer. She sat down in front of the mirror and heaved a sigh.

"Looks like you're finally hitting it off with your costar," Marc said to her, a wily smile appearing on his face.

"Vince is taking me for coffee later. We're going to go over the script." She fought for casualness, and she thought she was doing pretty well.

"Sure you are, sugar." Marc fluttered some blush over her cheeks and toyed with his lip ring as he spoke.

Peyton got the feeling that she was being mocked.

* * *

Peyton fought to uncurl her fingers from the edges of her seat in Vince's Escalade once he'd parked outside her building. "Sorry," was his chuckled apology, "I only just got my license."

"How?" she asked. She wasn't really joking, but he laughed anyway.

"Premier tickets," he answered seriously.

"God," she sighed. They laughed for a minute, and then Peyton found her breath. "Um, do you wanna' come up for a minute or two?" she asked. She knew that, classically, it was a risky invitation, but she wasn't interested in giving Vince everything right when they were starting a picture together.

"Sure," he said, excited. He was taking the classic implications.

They got out of the car and walked up through the building. Vince observed, as they traversed the never-ending staircase, that the walls were chipped and the floors were in desperate need of repair. It reminded him of home.

"Your walk-up is..." he paused.

"Shitty?" she supplied, unfazed.

Vince chuckled. "I was gonna' say 'unique,' but yeah, shitty is a good word.'

"I'm on the fifth floor," she warned him.

"I've walked worse," he insisted. He followed her into her studio, surveying the complete lack of personality. "There's not much here," he mentioned. There were a few crates lying around, mostly as coffee and end tables. There was a crack in the stove.

"I'm not getting my security deposit back," she said, "and hey, I'm not living here for the rest of my life. This is just for the movie."

"Where will you go when we're done shooting?" he asked, confused by her indifference to permanence.

"I don't know yet," she answered, the picture of nonchalance. "I'll probably just go home to my mom until I find another job."

"You're going to live with your mother after the movie wraps? Why?" It was a valid question; this was a big-budget film and the paychecks would be fat, even down to the last caterer.

"Well," she was digging through her refrigerator. It looked to Vince that there wasn't much there. "I'm still paying off a few debts, so...I've got a while before I'm landing an episode of Cribs." She emerged from the fridge with a box of strawberries. She enveloped one between her lips and sucked on it before biting. "Want one?" she proffered.

"Uh...no thanks." Vince tried hard to ignore the stirring of blood heading south.... "You know," he threw out casually, "you stand a better chance of finding more work here in L.A. If you want," he paused, "you could come stay with me once we're done shooting." The alarmed look on her face prompted him to continue. "I have a guest house," he explained.

"We'll see." She turned around and put the strawberries back in the fridge. "I'll think about it." She walked up to Vince and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's generous of you to offer," she said, "but it's also kind of implicative."

Vince smiled. "Implicative?" he asked. "Please, I'm a humble actor."

A snort forced its way through Peyton's nose. "Humble? Okay." She waved it off and continued. "It's suggestive –" she stopped momentarily, hesitating for suspense, "of an affair."

Vince's grin grew.

"And I'm not looking to date a coworker. Office politics and all that." She was smiling, but she really wasn't joking. It was one thing to start a fling with an extra, or even a character who you're not supposed to get along with, but once you're dating the person you date in your film, well...complications can ensue. After all, once you break up, how can you continue the chemistry? Acting is tough enough as it is; there is no need to push your luck by making reality more difficult to ignore. "Besides," she flipped her hair, "aren't you a bit old for me?" She knew it was a cheap shot, but she also knew it was true.

"Do I look old?" he asked, puffing himself up.

"No," she said, "but I know you're older than me. A lot older." She sipped at the remains of her coffee.

"How old are you?" he asked. He was leaning against her skeleton of a kitchen table.

"Maybe I'll tell you tomorrow. But for now," she flicked off the light, "I need to sleep."

Vince was left to let himself out of her uniquely shitty five-floor walk-up.