LONG ISLAND, MAY 1999

"This," Sylvia Fletcher announced, "is where the cast will be staying for the summer."

Willow gazed at a practically dilapidated brick building. It was nestled between a convenience store and a pawn shop, its walls reaching six or seven floors. One of the front windows had been broken, the medium-sized hole covered by a piece of plywood.

She turned to Sylvia, one fair eyebrow cocked curiously. The woman met her look with a sheepish grin.

"It's all the studio could afford," Sylvia responded, as her husband unloaded Willow's bags from the cab. "But I promise, the inside looks a lot better. They have the entire top floor to themselves."

Jared Fletcher, Willow's college advisor, gave the building a ghastly look.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay with us this summer?" Jared asked with concern, his voice slightly strained from unloading Willow's bags.

"Yes, I'm sure," Willow replied with a gentle smile, glancing at her advisor. "Plus, it might reflect poorly if Sylvia is seen giving me special treatment."

What she didn't say was that the real reason for declining the Fletchers' kind offer to stay in their Manhattan condo this summer was their unruly children. She couldn't bear the thought of spending her days on a bustling movie set only to return to the chaotic noise of Sylvia's youngest son and the angst of their eldest daughter. For Willow, with her introverted nature, a quieter existence among peers felt far more appealing.

Sylvia seemed to sense her reluctance, giving her husband a knowing look. "I'm sure Willow would much rather spend her evenings out at the bars with the rest of the cast, right, Willie?"

Internally, Willow cringed at both the suggestion and the nickname. The idea of going out filled her with anxiety; navigating social interactions felt daunting. And the nickname? Well, that was self-explanatory.

"Sure," she replied, forcing a reassuring smile.

"I dunno," Jared hesitated, biting his lip. "How wise is it to throw a bunch of hormonal twenty-somethings under one roof?"

Sylvia waved his concern away. "That's the whole point of my movie, Jared. How many times do I need to explain it? Sunburn is about the freedom of adulthood."

Amid the rush of cabs and the distant wail of sirens, Jared shot Willow a sideways glance. "I'm just worried."

But Sylvia missed the depth of his comment. Jared's concern wasn't merely about the chaos of young adults sharing a space; he was genuinely worried about Willow adjusting to it. He fretted over her crippling shyness, the only flaw in an otherwise remarkable young woman.

Willow recognized this, too. The night before, Jared had pointed out her fears as she sat in his home office, listing reasons she didn't deserve the summer opportunity.

"You're making excuses," he had said. "You're too afraid to put yourself out there."

And he was right - he always had been. As a military brat himself, Jared understood the costs of moving and the emotional toll it took.

Willow was all too familiar with the rhythm of packing boxes and saying goodbyes. As the only daughter of Air Force parents, she had spent her life in transit, leaving friends before bonds could fully form. Each new school promised a fresh start, but the excitement was quickly overshadowed by the pain of separation.

By high school, the constant upheaval had taken its toll. When her parents decided she should stay with her grandmother in Los Angeles to secure her college grades, Willow felt a mix of relief and dread. For the first time, she could settle in one place, yet the prospect of building roots terrified her.

Living with her grandmother provided stability, but loneliness loomed large. Willow had learned early that friendships were fleeting; just as she began to connect, it was time to leave. So, she stopped trying. While other kids formed tight bonds, laughing and sharing secrets, she kept her distance, unsure how to dismantle the walls she had built.

She had grown accustomed to being a ghost - visible yet untouchable. Her heart ached for connection, but the pain of parting was a risk she was unwilling to take. Yet, perhaps because of this, she found herself looking forward to the summer, knowing there was an end to the adventure.

"Let's just get this started," Willow said with a heavy sigh, reaching for one of her suitcases.

Sylvia and Jared exchanged a glance but said nothing more. They followed Willow inside, climbing the steep, warped steps with care. At the top of the sixth floor, Jared leaned against the wall, breathless.

"Man, I need to work out," he wheezed.

Sylvia laughed, rummaging through her coral blue purse for the apartment key and handing it to Willow. "This is yours now."

The key was simple - just the standard silver color with jagged edges - but behind its simplicity laid a weighty message. One that invoked the excitement surrounding freedom and independence, a symbol that Willow was finally on her own, at least for the next few months.

The front door opened into a vast loft, lacking any clear divisions. The walls bore the marks of age, scuffed and faded, with the faint outline of delicate wallpaper peeking through the dull gray paint. The linoleum floors, stained and cracked, contributed to the musty scent of mildew that lingered in the corners. The loft's only redeeming feature was the three large windows, each stretching nearly half the wall, flooding the space with natural light.

It was evident that Sylvia's studio had repurposed scraps from previous movie sets to cut costs. Mismatched furniture- a threadbare couch, a rickety coffee table, and a flickering television - formed a makeshift common area in the center. A chaotic stack of old magazines and takeout containers cluttered the table, remnants of hurried meals and the fact that no one seemed to know how to cook.

In the far-left corner, closest to the front door, was the 'kitchen.' However, it consisted of little more than a chipped sink, a gas stove, and an outdated refrigerator that screeched and groaned every time it turned on. A trash bag hung limply from the wall, its ties dangling from a single nail.

The bedrooms resembled cubicles, outlined by partitions that barely reached above Willow's head. They were elevated on a platform that spanned the entire back wall. Instead of doors, mismatched, sagging curtains hung between shower rods, giving an illusion of privacy. Most of the rooms were occupied, save for one in the back right corner. It was easy to see why - it had a direct view of the front door, making it impossible to keep its curtains open without being exposed.

"Hello?" Sylvia called in a sing-song voice, and a young woman, seemingly about Willow's age, emerged from behind one of the cubicle spaces.

"Sorry!" the unfamiliar woman said, crossing the loft quickly. Her short, chocolate-colored hair framed her face, and her beautifully bronzed skin stood out against her white camisole. She spoke with a thick English accent. "I thought you were the lads."

"No worries," Sylvia smiled. "We're just dropping off Willow - the intern I mentioned."

"Right!" The woman flashed a bright smile. "I'm Paloma."

"Paloma is playing the part of Aideen, Davin's love interest for Sunburn," Sylvia said, eyeing Willow thoughtfully, "You have read the script, right?"

Willow nodded weakly, the anxiety in her thought causing her to clam up entirely. Sylvia hardly noticed, instead giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"Hi," Willow replied quietly, shifting awkwardly on her feet and avoiding Paloma's gaze.

Jared peered further inside, stepping into the common area with a mix of disgust and fascination. It was clear he was also seeing the place for the first time. "Is anyone else here?"

"Inge is showering," Paloma replied, heading toward the refrigerator. Willow noticed the blue sweats she wore, which hung low on her hips, emblazoned with four letters: C-U-T-E in patched, fringed lettering across her bottom. As Paloma swung open the fridge to grab a glass bottle of Yoohoo, her hair swayed.

"Speaking of the bathroom," Jared said, lifting a pointed finger, "Where is it?"

Paloma chuckled, twisting the metal cap off her drink. "It's a communal bathroom - the door across the hall."

"This place is so strange..." he murmured, stepping back out of the loft.

Sylvia turned to Willow. "Back in the '70s, this building was a studio for emerging artists-a co-op. That's why it feels more like an office than an apartment."

"We love it," Paloma shrugged. "It's forced us to bond, especially since I have to listen to Cillian snore and Barry fart in his sleep."

"She's talking about the other two boys on the cast list," as an aside, Sylvia explained, "Both from Ireland, unlike Paloma."

"Call me a black sheep, if you will," Paloma remarked, "But I'm sure you will figure that out shortly."

Sylvia gave Paloma an appreciative smile just as Jared rushed back in, his face as red as a tomato. Flustered, he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his cargo shorts. "I think I just met Inge."

Moments later, Inge strolled in behind Jared, wearing nothing but a fluffy white towel and flip-flops that slapped loudly against the floor. Her damp blonde hair streamed down her bare shoulders, creating a puddle at her feet. Inge seemed completely unfazed by her state of undress.

"Your husband, I presume?" she asked Sylvia, her Irish accent thick and rich.

The older woman flushed, letting out a nervous chuckle. "Yes."

Inge rolled her eyes, barely glancing at Willow as she brushed past them toward her room. The three women turned to Jared for an explanation.

"I might have walked in on her... naked," he stammered, his face burning even brighter.

Paloma burst into laughter, while Sylvia playfully whacked him on the shoulder, deciding it was time for both of them to leave.

════════

As dusk settled in, Willow discovered more about Paloma during the short hours that had passed. Paloma was born in England but spent her early years in Mexico, where her parents, one Mexican and the other English, pursued their musical careers. However, after her parents' divorce, Paloma and her mother returned to London, where she developed a passion for theater and embarked on an acting journey. Paloma believed that Sylvia's movie would be her breakthrough moment.

Meanwhile, Willow, who had already unpacked her suitcase, remained mostly silent. Paloma, on the other hand, never allowed her a chance to speak. Throughout their time in the loft, Paloma shadowed Willow as if they were long-lost friends finally reuniting after years apart. It was strange, yet Willow couldn't help but feel grateful. She didn't have to endure uncomfortable silences or come up with personal answers. Paloma's self-involvement was oddly comforting.

Willow sat cross-legged on her bed while Paloma sprawled out on her stomach, her legs swinging in the air. Paloma flipped through photographs from her life back home, weaving intricate backstories for each one, when the sharp ring of the loft telephone pierced the air, making Willow jump.

"That must be the boys," Paloma murmured, pushing the glossy photos aside as she sprang to her feet. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the linoleum, quickly overshadowing the phone's shriek.

Willow couldn't quite make out Paloma's words from across the room, so her gaze drifted to the top photo in the stack. It captured Paloma in the center, surrounded by a group of girls clad in thin, cropped tank tops, some in flowing skirts or corduroy pants. They looked like models, their toned bodies and flat stomachs framed by styled hair and vibrant red lips.

I wonder what it feels like to be loved and accepted by so many people, Willow thought.

Paloma returned, a bright smile on her face, hands on her hips.

"We're going out," she declared. "There's a bar down the street where they want us to meet."

Willow blinked in surprise. "We're going out?"

"Duh," Paloma giggled as she stepped into her room. "I'm tired of being the only girl, so you're coming with me."

Willow felt herself shrink inward. "W-what about Inge?"

Paloma waved a hand dismissively. "Inge thinks she's too old to hang out with us. Besides, she has friends in the city, so she's hardly ever here."

From across the loft, Inge snorted. "I can hear you."

"Am I wrong?" Paloma called back.

A brief pause followed.

"No, not really."

The girls locked eyes, Paloma biting back a knowing smile. Moments later, she burst into giggles, and that alone was enough to make Willow laugh for the first time that day.