I met Justin for lunch, a monthly checkup that became routine during my yearlong hiatus. I followed the hostess as she snaked through the tables then stopped, gesturing to Justin, who waved me over then spent ten seconds finishing a text before putting away his phone. He gave the place a performative sweep with his gaze, most of the tables taken by agents in suits, speaking excitedly to their dressed-down clients.
We both had ice water. I took my straw, peeled it open, and stuck it in the glass, just so I had the paper to fidget with.
“How have you been?” Justin asked, watching my hands.
I told him fine, that life was quiet these days, which was probably a good thing. When the waiter sidled up, we ordered. Justin waited until our turkey sandwiches arrived and we took our first bites before dabbing his lips and honing directly in on my situation. It was the reason he was there, to gauge my state of mind, my willingness to return to work.
“Trust me,” he said, “You aren’t my first client to become overwhelmed. It’s an overwhelming business, and when you’ve also got real problems, the ship can sink fast. It’s my job to keep it afloat, and I’ve let you down, Jal. But I don’t want to abandon it—everything we achieved. You were in two top-grossing films last year,” he said, holding up a peace sign for emphasis. “Love you or hate you, your face is planted in the hearts of millions. A few interviews, and all those seedlings are gonna sprout.”
I shrugged, in place of the answer Justin wanted, or an explanation he could wrap his mind around.
A year ago, my mom died. She’d left me behind, but little else. It was my duty, therefore, to honor her only wish: cremation, as if to fully depart a country, maybe a life, she could never assimilate to. I slept in my childhood bedroom with her ashes moonlit on the dresser. The next morning, I drove two hours with the canister buckled in the passenger seat, to a lake up north that the man at the funeral parlor offered when he saw my vacant face. It was a quiet spot, shaded and tree-lined. At one end, a dock extended over the water, and I wondered how many sons and daughters had walked that plank, reached its end and said a goodbye they hoped would summon some grand, meaningful catharsis.
But I returned to Los Angeles, haunted by everything left unfinished between us. My career, as Justin noted, had finally hit its stride. I no longer had to audition, jobs offered on budding reputation. Media and interview requests rolled in, a degree of attention I would have once thrilled at, but was now unable to withstand. My mother’s death had punctured some hole in me that drained all my confidence and joy. Everything felt wrong, so I did nothing, backing out of meetings with producers, retreating from every door success opened.
When Justin realized my actions weren’t part of some misguided strategy, he sat me down, and I stumbled through my reasons while he nodded patiently, clearly not understanding. Even now, watching his eager face, on which he’d missed a dab of mustard, all I could really offer was to set him free. He wanted me to work, and I was unable to explain why this was impossible, how my mom’s death so gutted me that I still felt, a year later, like a shell. Until I found a way to fortify myself, I couldn’t withstand the scrutiny of an audience, a camera, a single interviewer. I was so certain that I opened my mouth to do it, sever our tie, send us our separate ways.
But Justin’s eyes didn’t stay with me. They roved, up and to my left, and a new smile bloomed on his face. “Rachel,” he said, taking up his napkin to clear his mouth of crumbs.
I turned to a briefly startled young woman. When she recognized him, she beamed, then let some of her enthusiasm remain as she looked down at me. “I’m a little early for a meeting,” she said.
“Don’t tell me who,” Justin said, with a degree of sheepishness that revealed she was a young actress he badly wanted to sign. “But if he’s running late, sit with us a minute. Have you met Jal Persad? Jal, this is Rachel Covington. She just wrapped the show of the summer.”
“It was a small part,” she said, shaking my hand.
She sat, and Justin began asking how she was treated on set. He listened patiently to her answers, talking her up whenever she expressed doubt about her talent, her burgeoning stardom. It was uncanny and unsettling, hearing Justin talk like this to another actor, hearing my champion go to bat, just as eagerly, for someone else.
As they spoke, I refolded the straw paper in my hand. I was antsy as the focus of the conversation shifted away. But it only got worse when I set the straw paper down, drawing their attention, like I had cleared my throat for an announcement. They both looked down at the fraying paper then up at me. Justin’s eyes appeared desperate, probably for a way to spin my appearance, my life, my career in a way that would flatter us both.
Rachel, because she was new enough to the business to still be gracious with social cues, said, “Do you have anything fun on the horizon?”
“It’s a bright horizon for Jal, I was just telling him,” Justin said quickly. “But you know how it goes, or you will: When things take off, you might need to step back. There’s a point early in a career where you don’t take just anything. Map out the right path, be discerning.”
I nodded, then, because I hadn’t yet spoken, said, “I’m taking some time to think . . .” but trailed off and felt my cheeks heating. I imagined Justin and Rachel strolling comfortably in tandem, until they noticed my huddled figure blocking their path. They stopped to observe, little traces of pity wrinkled into their foreheads, the turned-down corners of their lips.
“I’ve been thinking about writing something,” I said, reaching inside myself, from a place I didn’t know existed.
Rachel nodded encouragingly, as though she was my high school guidance counselor. When she asked about this mysterious project, Justin jumped in. “Oh, let’s leave the man his secrets,” he said.
Rachel held up a hand. “Sorry,” she said, a slight, endearing blush coming to her cheeks. “It can be difficult to talk about in the early stages, right?”
I opened my mouth, but this time nothing came but a dry croak.
Not long after, Rachel excused herself to grab a table for her meeting.
“Great to see you again,” Justin said, taking her hand in both of his. “Just remember: No promises, and for God’s sake don’t sign anything.”
We watched her walk away, and when I turned to Justin’s glance, I thought I saw reluctance, disappointment for the fact that he wasn’t going with her. For a moment, I assumed he would make some excuse and rush off. Instead, he said, “So you’re writing something?”
“I am,” I said, digging myself inexplicably deeper. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
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From False Prophet. Used with permission of the publisher, Melville House Publishing. Copyright © 2026 by Afsheen Farhadi.
False Prophet can be ordered here.
