If best friends save best friends, then now it was time to help Sterling with her problem. Which would have the fortunate side benefit of ending the discussion about Andie's problems. Sterling's problems could be solved.

It is a truth, universally acknowleged, that it's way more productive and enjoyable to focus on problems that are not your own.

The only issue was, how to change the subject. Might as well just dive in. "I'll keep the saving thing in mind. But on that note, can we please now talk about you?"

Sterling sighed and bit off the edge of a cookie. Which meant that whatever was happening to her had to be bad. "My favorite subject. Well, I let myself into your apartment ..."

"'Let yourself in' being a euphemism for 'I broke in like a criminal?'" Thanks for ruining my new lock by the way."

"If you didn't want me to break it, you should've given me a key."

"And hijack your joy at the sense of accomplishment?" Watching Real Housewives was mild compared to some things Sterling had done to prepare for film roles, which is how she possessed the most bizarre and disparate skills of any human. Among her abilities: starting a fire without a match, disabling a bomb, and performing an emergency vasectomy. So far, she'd only played heroines. Andie worried about what would happen if Sterling portrayed a serial killer. When she sank her teeth into a role, she left marks.

"I came over because of this." Sterling fished around inside her emerald eco-sensitive tote, which had been leaning against the side of the sofa. She extracted a tabloid. Not just any tabloid. The nastiest, most obnoxious, deceitful scandal sheet in all of Hollywood—The Star Enquirer.

Andie took the paper. Occupying the top of the front page, was an obviously photoshopped picture of Sterling. They had shaded her face, making her skin blotchy, and turned the corners of her mouth down into a frown. Her teeth looked slightly fanged, and she had a pronounced wrinkle across her forehead. Andie cringed at the headline—Sterling Champagne: Tarnished at Age 26. "Bastards!"

"Total jerkwads," Sterling spat. "But here's the weird part, I only discovered the wrinkle last night." She shivered.

"What wrinkle?" Andie pulled Sterling's head close. "I see nothing."

"I'm wearing concealer. It's there."

"Too bad you can't join the dark side and get Botox like a normal celebrity."

Sterling rolled up the tabloid and bopped Andie on the head. "Is that another Star Wars reference?"

"You're joking? You don't know about 'the Force?'"

"I never joke. Unless it's for a role. I need to be paid to grace the world with my illustrious humor." Andie laughed. Sterling was one of the funniest people she knew. "But Andie, hon, you have a serious science fiction problem. You really should put the kibosh on the Star Wars references if you ever want to get laid."

"I'm not interested in having sex with anyone who isn't a science fiction fan anyway. You're just bitter you lost that part in The Force Awakens. And, in case you haven't noticed, Star Wars is cool. Nerds are in style—like Gucci but smarter. Now, back over to you and your problems as a gorgeous, successful celebrity with a practically invisible wrinkle who won't ever get plastic surgery because she made a vow to Oprah."

"Damned straight. No one lies to Oprah. And you know very well that's not the only reason. I founded an entire charity opposing plastic surgery and empowering young girls to be happy with their bodies. Look, Andie, it's okay to be a twenty-six-year-old accountant. Hell, the older the better, but twenty-six is like ninety-six in actress years."

"Hon, you know most people don't pay attention to the tabloids. It's not the first time anyone's written mean crap about you."

Sterling speared the tabloid into the edge of the seat cushion. " Yeah, I've had lots of shit written about me. But I got a bad feeling. It's like someone's out to get me."

"You've played too many conspiracy theorists in the movies. Don't worry, Ster. I promise this will pass. Celebrities have recovered from cellulite sightings, nervous breakdowns, wardrobe malfunctions, and disastrous box office opening numbers. This is nothing."

"Maybe you're right," Sterling conceded. "I guess I overreact occasionally." Sterling's cell phone chimed. "It's Bernie, my new agent. Why does he keep annoying me? I'm a star, dammit." She flipped her hair.

"You going to answer it?"

"Not while you're making me feel better."

A warmth bloomed in Andie's stomach, as it always did when she made Sterling happy. Or perhaps it was Sterling's cookie-'enhancements.' "Being a star doesn't earn you the respect you deserve these days." Andie bit off a grin. Through the years of schoolyard torment (both of them), studying for the CPA exam (Andie), endless heart-wrenching auditions (Sterling), they could always make each other laugh.

"I better go." Sterling grabbed her bag, stood, and used the armrest for balance as she slipped into her Jimmy Choos.

Andie wobbled to her feet, even though she wore practical running shoes and not spiky heels. The fluid in her brain fizzed and gurgled as if it had been replaced with cheap champagne. Wheeling her arms like a drowning victim, she fell back into the cushions.

Sterling raised that perfect eyebrow again. "Wait. Are you okay?"

"Whadayamean?" Andie said. Her tongue had expanded in her mouth, and now there were two Sterlings. As if one wasn't enough. She giggled.

Sterling canted her head. "I told you not to eat any more cookies. Geez, I was kidding about the emergency room. I better stay."

"Go," Andie insisted. "I'll be fine. Fine." Hopefully. Maybe. "Lemme know about ..." Andie tried and failed to snap her fingers. Why would her fingers not cooperate? "Barney? Bertrum? Bernard?"

"You mean Bernie?"

Even in her Sterling drug-induced haze, Andie knew the only way she'd get to be alone and have a proper wallow would be to appear normal. "Yeah. Him." She managed to articulate two whole words like a sober person.

Sterling sighed. "All right. But call me if you need anything. Oh, and since you won't let me fix this, there's an interesting job listing in the 'Help Wanted' section of The Star Enquirer. I swear it's like they wrote it for you."

Andie snorted. "I'm not that desolate. Despot." Ugh! She clenched her fists and silently cursed her tongue. "Desperate," she spat.

Sterling surveyed the bare apartment. Picked a cookie crumb off of Andie's sweatshirt and hugged her before leaving. She hated Sterling's ability to speak volumes without a single word.

Extracting the tabloid from the loveseat, Andie crumpled the foul thing into a ball and tossed it in the general direction of the trash. It landed a whole foot from the sofa. Everyone knows tabloids are the cockroaches of the publishing world. No way would she call about that job. There had to be a solution that didn't require her to sell 100% of her soul.

A little TV would keep her from thinking about annoying best friends, insolvency, possible bankruptcy, and the prospect of moving in with her hippy pet-psychic mom. Sterling was right about how long that arrangement would last.

Probing between the seat cushions, she found a sticky penny, a paper clip, and finally, the remote. After a few attempts, she located the "on" button. Bingo. The picture sprang to life—a toothpaste commercial starring Sterling and Chris Pine.

Click.

A Sterling interview on E!

Click.

Sterling driving a car over a cliff in slow motion.

Click.

A stupid reality show with a hot guy sporting washboard abs and a cowboy hat, marinating in a Jacuzzi with three drunken women. Perfect.

"How 'bout you ladies mosey into the house and wrangle us up more of these strawberry margaritas?" He twanged, jiggling an almost empty salt-rimmed glass.

"I'll go!" shrieked one.

"No, me!" yelled another.

"On it," tittered the third.

Water sloshed over the Mexican pavers as the bikini-clad women competed for the honor of providing Mr. Cowboy with his beverage. Now alone, the man stuck his pinkie in the glass, scooped up the dregs, and sucked it clean. Andie laughed.

"What's so entertainin,' you fine filly you?" he said, ogling Andie. Could he be speaking to her? Calling her a fine filly? Who uses the word 'filly?' Plus who calls a woman in grungy sweatpants 'fine?' Andie pushed her index fingers into her temples. What was in those cookies? "Well?"

Wow, the guy was persistent for a hallucination. "Time to turn you off, Mr. Cowboy. Where is that remote?"

"Now why'd you want to turn me off sweetheart?"

Andie checked between the cushions again, but the remote was nowhere. And she had to stop this insanity or admit that she'd fallen into a psychotic abyss. "Because you're not real. Only crazy people talk to their TV sets. And TV characters never talk back. Never."

Mr. Cowboy's chin quivered, taking his thick mustache along for the ride. Was he going to cry?

"Sorry?" she said, not wanting to be rude, even to a delusion. Okay, if she couldn't find the remote, the only other way to get rid of this guy was to leave the room, which was physically impossible, given her jelly legs, or close her eyes and hope that when she reopened them, the world would be back to normal. Or as normal as possible after eating contraband cookies.

"Why you still sittin' there?"

"Huh?" This made no sense. TV-to-living room communications didn't exist. She shook her head, trying to exorcise the hallucination, but only succeeded in more brain sloshing.

"Call the number for that there job," he pointed to the crumpled Star Enquirer. "It's perfect for you. Trust me. You'll love it." He hopped out of the Jacuzzi. Buck naked.

"Ugh." She finally located the remote, which had been in her lap the whole time. She clicked off the TV right before a welcome blackness descended over her consciousness.

She woke the next morning squished into a fetal position on the sofa, the smoothed-out pages of The Star Enquirer opened to the "Help Wanted" section covering her face. Wow, she must've been out of it last night. Andie squinted to read the ad: "Wanted. Controller for a major entertainment company. Experience with the IRS and fixing broken accounting systems a must. Salary and benefits commensurate with experience." The phone number printed beneath.

She flung the tabloid onto the floor and eased into a seated position. Her head throbbed. Her neck ached, and her breath smelled like something had slithered inside her mouth during the night and died. She stretched her arms and legs to regain some feeling. Why did the room smell like chlorine?

Andie's right foot hit a glass. It toppled, spilling red liquid on the wood floor. She picked it up. Sniffed. Strawberry. No way!

Vowing never again to eat anything baked, fried, fricasseed, or even poached by Sterling, Andie snatched up the tabloid, her heart pounding as she searched for her phone. Something happened last night, something bizarre. And she had the feeling the only way she'd figure out the truth was to dial the number.

Who do you think will answer the number, and will it turn out well for Andie? Read on to find out!

Thanks so much for reading my story. I am just thrilled you're here. Leave me a comment on the chapter. Or a recipe. Or your grocery list! I'd love to know more about you!

Dedicated to because of all her comments. I appreciate each and every one of them!