When we sat down, Harry said, “If you win, will you talk to her?” I laughed. “And gloat?” “No, but you’d have the upper hand that you seem to so desperately want.” “She left me.” “You slept with someone.” “For her.” Harry frowned at me as if I was missing the point. “Fine, if I win, I'll talk to her.” “Thank you.” “Why are you thanking me?” “Because I want you to be happy, and it appears I have to reward you for doing things in your own favor.” “Well, if she wins, I’m not saying a single word to her.” “If she wins,” Harry said delicately, “which is a big 7f and she comes and talks to you, I will hold you down and force you to listen and speak back.” I couldn’t look directly at him. I was feeling defensive. “It’s a moot point anyway,” I said. “Everyone knows they’re going to give it to Ruby, because they feel bad she didn’t get it last year for The Dangerous Flight.” “They might not,” Harry said. “Yeah, yeah,” I told him. “And I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.” But when the lights dimmed and the host came out, I was not thinking that my chances were slim. I was just delusional enough to think the Academy might finally give me a goddamn Oscar. When they called out the nominees for Best Actress, I scanned the audience for Celia. I spotted her the very same moment she spotted me. We locked eyes. And then the presenter didn’t say “Evelyn” or “Celia.” He said “Ruby.”