"An Interview with Summer Celestèe (This Was Her Idea, Obviously)"
The coffee table was a war zone.
Half a muffin, a tangle of phone chargers, three mismatched mugs (all half full of different liquids), and a cat who didn’t even live here lounged across the surface like it paid rent.
Edward Dovelace leaned back into the couch, cracked open a can of lemon soda, and glared at the voice recorder on his phone like it had personally insulted him.
"You’re not even going to pretend this is serious, are you?" he asked.
Summer Celestèe, movie star, global fashion icon, and his next-door neighbor since the age of five, was currently wearing avocado-patterned pajamas and sitting cross-legged on the floor like a chaotic little gremlin.
"Nope," she said cheerfully. "But I brought snacks. So technically I’m being a good guest in my own house."
Edward sighed. "You dragged me in here for an ’exclusive interview,’ forced me to put on a hoodie that says ’PROPERTY OF CELESTÈE INDUSTRIES,’ and now you’re eating all the trail mix."
"I picked out the raisins for you," she offered. "That’s friendship."
"That’s guilt. You’re trying to bribe me with nut dust."
Summer grinned like a cat who’d knocked over six wine glasses and blamed gravity. "Hit record, Dovelace."
"Okay," he said, settling in. "This is Edward Dovelace reporting live from the stylishly messy lair of Summer Celestèe, award-winning actress, international star, and professional chaos gremlin. We’re neighbors, best friends, and legally I have to say this was not my idea."
"I only bribed him a little," Summer added.
"With stale trail mix."
"Right. Let’s begin."
He flipped open his notebook, which had a cover that read: Edward’s Big Interview Questions (Do Not Eat).
"So, Summer," he began in his best fake-TV voice, "you’ve recently wrapped filming on Lava Sharks 2: Electric Boogaloo—"
"—Best name ever, fight me."
"—and the fans are dying to know: what’s it like working with animatronic sharks and a live parrot named Neil?"
Summer leaned back on her hands, eyes sparkling. "Honestly? Neil the parrot is a diva. He bit the director, threw a peanut at my co-star, and then flew off set during lunch and landed on a hot dog cart. Total legend."
"Surprisingly chill. One of them now lives in my garage. I named him Charles."
"You do not have a robot shark in your garage."
Edward stared at her. "...You have a robot shark in your garage."
Summer gave him finger guns. "Charles is part of the family now. He guards the bikes."
Edward wrote "Charles = apex predator/bike security" in his notebook.
"Alright," he said. "Real talk—what’s the weirdest thing a fan has ever sent you?"
Summer didn’t even blink. "A knit sweater for my toaster."
"With little pockets for the knobs."
"It was actually kinda cute. I used it until it caught fire."
Edward nearly choked on his soda. "You SET YOUR TOASTER ON FIRE?"
"No! I mean, yes. But it wasn’t on purpose. I was making Pop-Tarts!"
"Every time I come to your house it’s a safety hazard."
They paused as the neighbor’s sprinkler kicked on outside. A breeze drifted through the open window, bringing the scent of freshly mowed grass and someone’s aggressively burned barbecue.
Edward stretched his legs out and bumped into a laundry basket filled with DVDs and a single spoon.
"So," he said, "do you ever miss normal life? Y’know, back before all the premieres and camera flashes and international glitter disasters?"
Summer flopped dramatically onto the rug. "All the time. Back then I could go to the estate market in peace. Now I sneeze and it’s on a gossip blog titled ’SUMMER’S NOSE SITUATION?’"
Edward winced. "Oh yeah, I saw that headline."
"They zoomed in on my nostril. My nostril, Ed."
"Fame sounds deeply cursed."
"It is. But also, free smoothies sometimes."
Edward tilted his head. "You mean like, they recognize you and give you a free drink?"
"No, I mean I climb into the smoothie bar window and help myself."
He stared at her. "You’re joking."
He scribbled something in the notebook that looked like "Summer = menace + smoothie thief."
She peeked over his shoulder and added, "Also very charming."
"You let me steal your fries last week."
"That’s the rule of Fry Law. If your fries are unattended, I get six."
"Six? That’s specific."
"You think I got this far in life without structure?"
Edward laughed so hard he nearly dropped the notebook. "You run on caffeine, glitter, and raw vibes."
"And spite," she added. "Don’t forget the spite."
He jotted that down too.
"Okay," he said. "Serious-ish question: do you think all this—the acting, the fame, the chaos—is worth it?"
Summer went quiet for a moment. She sat up properly, brushing cereal crumbs off her pants.
"Yeah," she said softly. "Even on the crazy days, even when people yell weird stuff at me in parking lots—I still get to do what I love. I get to create things, make people laugh or cry or scream at their TVs. That’s wild, right? Like—I get paid to make people feel stuff."
Edward nodded. "That’s kinda beautiful, actually."
"Shut up, I’m being deep."
She smiled at him, the real kind, not the red-carpet kind.
"Also," she added, "I use my fame for good."
"I convinced the HOA to let me paint my mailbox gold."
Edward groaned. "You caused a four-hour debate and someone threatened to move."
He took another sip of soda. "Last question."
She banged her hands on the floor in a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like the Jaws theme.
"If you weren’t a famous actress," Edward asked, "what would you be doing right now?"
Summer leaned forward, eyes bright. "Easy. I’d be running an illegal but incredibly charming grilled cheese stand in our estate’s park. Late night hours only. Every sandwich named after a different species of lizard."
"...You already have a name, don’t you?"
"’Cheese the Gecko.’"
Edward closed his notebook and stood up. "This interview is over."
"You love me," she called after him as he walked toward the door.
"I’ll save you a salamander melt!"
He turned around, grinning. "Fine. But I’m not helping you hide from the food inspectors."
"Too late. Charles already bit one."
Property of Edward Dovelace. All opinions are his unless they’re weird, in which case they’re Summer’s fault.