“Huh.”
“Let’s put yours up, too. Turn around.”
I turn away from her, away from the mirror. It’s better for both of us if she doesn’t see the incredulity on my face.
Chapter 37
REID
John: theres some shit going around about that emma chick, that shes doing both you and that graham guy
Reid: Meh. Those sites are jacked up.
John: yeah ok but there are photos of them together. not just one or two but it looks like they run together all the time did you know about that?
Reid: wtf – when???
John: this one site has hotel employees saying that they come downstairs together pretty much every morning. like theyre screwing then running. i don’t know man i just thought youd wanna know.
Reid: k thx
I usually avoid the tabloid sites like a disease. All of us do, as much as we can. Most of the time, it’s fabricated by some fucktard “journalist” who just wants to sell a story and doesn’t give a shit if it’s true.
The hitch in ignoring this crap comes when there’s photographic evidence. Not that this can’t be deceptive, too; photo alteration software can be a horrific tool in the wrong hands. But there’s nothing fake about the multiple photos of Graham and Emma running, stretching, talking, laughing. Their clothing varies, so it wasn’t a one-time thing. This is something they’ve been doing or were doing regularly.
Bob manages one of his bait-and-switch routines tonight to prevent paparazzi obstruction, sending one of his less beefy cohorts—wearing one of my caps—out the front door with the others, while Emma and I escape straight into a waiting SUV out back.
As we’re pulling away from the hotel, I ask, “So, how long have you been running with Graham?” My tone is as nonchalant as I can manage. I am
not
used to this jealousy crap. It’s not that I’m trusting. It’s that usually, I don’t give a shit.
“Huh?” she says, caught off guard.
“Running. With Graham. How long?” I repeat the question one phrase at a time, my fingers stroking the back of her neck.
“Um, sort of on and off since we’ve been here.”
“Since we’ve been here in Austin?” I tip my head to the side. “Were you two already acquainted?”
The expression on her face changes. She knows where this is coming from now. She knows about the photos online. She’s unused to everything she does being scrutinized so closely. She clears her throat and swallows. “No.”
“So, you just started running together when we got to Austin, even though you’ve never met before, and don’t know each other at all.” I’m trying to sound merely curious.
Fail
.
“We both run early, and we ran into each other one time that first week, and the time goes more quickly to go with someone else...” she trails off.
“He’s a good-looking guy,” I say, watching her reaction.
“Graham? Uh, I guess so.” Her tone says,
Oh really? I hadn’t noticed
. Her eyes, widening slightly, says she definitely has.
I smile. Might as well lay it all out there. “What’s weird is that some of the fansites are posting pictures of you guys together. Saying you’re sleeping together.”
“
What
?” She’s good. I almost can’t tell that she already knows this.
“Weird, yeah?”
“That’s insane. We’re just exercising together, and that’s
all
.” I can hear both truth and lie in her words, and I’m not sure what to make of it.
“Okay. I was just checking.” I tug her closer and leave off the cross-examination, stroke my fingers along the side of her neck and kiss her. I’m not letting anything screw up tonight.
*** *** ***
Emma
Reid seems to forget what he brought up in the car, but I can’t look at Graham without recalling every word. It’s true, I haven’t been forthcoming about running with Graham every morning, but I didn’t think I needed to account for every waking moment. Reid never struck me as that type, and frankly that sort of expectation would alarm me, especially after the Meredith/Robby drama.
The kiss Graham and I shared was weeks ago. I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I do. There can only be one reason for that. I still feel it. It still means something to me, even if it shouldn’t. Walking into the club with Reid holding my hand, I’m determined to forget it. I can’t take that kiss, and these feelings, into what Reid and I will do tonight.
Production wants nothing happening to Reid that could cause a relapse. The bodyguards are sticking close, keeping him separated from non-cast people. The fans and photogs are forced to content themselves with drooling over him from afar. Every now and then someone talks her way past security and is escorted close enough to salivate over him at close range.
He dances with me a couple of times, pulling me full against him, swaying so slowly that we’re hardly moving. Mostly, though, he leans against the bar drinking, talking with other cast members and the occasional favored fan, and watching me dance. Every time our eyes meet, his look is pure fire, reminding me of our later plans.
I’m dancing with Tadd when I glance up to see Reid talking to Graham, who’s spent most of the evening at the bar in conversation with Brooke. At first, I don’t think anything about it, but then Reid gestures towards the dance floor, and though he doesn’t look towards me, my instincts say this exchange has something to do with me. Uh-oh. As the song ends and another starts up, I see that Brooke is at Graham’s side and all three of them are talking, and while they all appear under control, the antagonism between them is visible.
I wonder what’s being said, and how it will affect my relationships with either of them. Something is about to change, I can feel it, and I realize with blinding certainty that despite what I was thinking when we entered this place, I do not want to lose Graham’s friendship. I don’t want Reid to do anything to end it. Oh, my God.
I have no idea what to do. As I’ve done for more than half my life in times like this, I reach for my phone and start to dial Emily’s number, faltering when I recognize what my mental autopilot is making me do. Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with indecision and grief. As a new song begins, I leave Tadd talking to one of the extras and bolt for the bathroom. Bob points me towards a secluded VIP lounge.
I’m alone for the space of about fifteen seconds.
“Reid is following me,” Brooke says as she enters. “If you’re trying to avoid him, you’d better hide.”
Darting into one of three stalls, I click the stainless steel door shut behind me, put the toilet lid down, sit and pull my feet up. Before I can ask myself what I’m doing skulking around a bathroom stall like I’m in a bad spy movie, Reid enters. “Anyone else in here?”
“No,” she answers. “What, you wanna check the stalls? Be my guest.” I hold my breath, but she knows him well and he takes her challenge as confirmation.
“Just answer one question. Tell me the truth, if you can. Does Graham know?”
Through the quarter-inch strip of space between the door and the frame, I watch her remove her lip gloss from her bag and apply it carefully. After a cursory glance over the door behind which I sit motionless and mute, she studies him in the mirror before answering. “Yes, he knows.”
He makes a sound of irritation. “God, I
knew
it. Why would you tell him.
Why
?”
She throws the tube of lip gloss back into the bag and turns to face him. “Graham was in the movie I had to break contract on because I was
pregnant
. When you didn’t give a shit and my parents and my agent were pressuring me about ‘the right thing to do,’ he knocked on my trailer door and found me sobbing. So I told him. And he told me to do what was best for
me
. He was the only person I knew, and I barely knew him at all, who cared about what
I
needed.”
My blood is pumping so furiously that I can barely hear.
“No one forced you to have that baby, Brooke.”
“‘That baby,’” she says, her voice breaking, “was
your
baby, you asshole. When I told you, I thought—” she stops. “Well. No one cares what I thought. All that matters are the facts. You wanted nothing from me but sex. You said whatever you had to say to get it. I was a naïve little girl, and I got stuck with the consequences.”
I’m not breathing, and it’s just as well because it feels as though there’s no air left in the room. “You have no idea what I wanted,” he says, so quietly I could barely hear him. “If you’d had an abortion like your parents wanted you to, there wouldn’t have
been
consequences. It was your choice. Your choice to derail your career, your choice to fuck up both of our lives if the public ever finds out.”
She stares at him. “How
dare
you act like it was oh-so-simple. Flip a coin. Throw a dart. It wasn’t that goddamned
easy
. You know what, Reid? My decision
did
sidetrack up my career, but I made the right
fucking
decision for
me
. And I’ll take my life over your miserable egocentric
I am God
existence any day.”
“Miserable? Hardly. Egocentric? Okay.
I
can live with
that
.”
“Get.
Out
.”
“Going. No problem.” The bathroom door wooshes open and shut behind him.
I can’t move.
“He’s gone,” she says, and I unwind my legs and open the door.
“I don’t know what to say.”
She shrugs, blotting excess gloss from her lips. “Join the club. What is there to say, anyway.”
“When did it happen?”
“Three years ago. I was sixteen. Three years ago today, in fact, which was also the last time I saw him.” She grabs a paper towel and presses it into the corner of each eye. “Reid doesn’t even know his birth date. He never asked. God
dammit
. I was fine all day. I thought I could handle it this year. Guess
that
was wrong.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I think of how young she is, how much more so she was three years ago. How scared she must have been. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Just ask Bob to get me a car? I just want to get out of here. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Sure. No problem.” I start for the door.
“Emma…” I stop, turn with my hand on the door handle. “Don’t go in blind. Whatever he’s saying to you, he’s saying to get what he wants. If that’s all you want, too, then more power to you. Just don’t fall in love with him.”
I find Bob, who assures me he’ll get Brooke back to the hotel. Her request accomplished, my head is crammed with impulses and empty of solutions. Sneaking along the wall, I merge into the crowd, reluctant to confront Reid, who absolved himself of responsibility or even emotion over getting someone pregnant.
I want Emily. My eyes fill with tears and I head for the exit, missing her, needing her advice, the way she centers me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought of her as permanent, but she wasn’t. She’s detached herself from me, and she’s gone, just like everyone else I’ve ever loved.
Chapter 38
REID
I can’t fucking believe this night.
First, the text from John—the rumors online concerning Emma, Graham and myself. Since I don’t usually do exclusive relationships, the speculation about Emma has been crazed since it became apparent that I was more interested in her than my usual catch-and-release pattern. If the tabloids can’t get confirmation of a relationship, they invent it. And then they try to dig up any evidence of infidelity they can find.
I do
not
let this shit get to me. I don’t. But this is the first time since Brooke that I’ve been in this position—in a relationship of sorts with someone who might be screwing around.
I’d just danced with Emma and turned her over to Tadd, who’s in better shape to dance at the moment. Chatting distractedly with some of the minor characters and a few of the extras who found out where we were going tonight, I watched her dance, the way she moved, the way she looked over every few minutes to see if I was still watching her. Her shy smile when she saw that I was. Everything was on track for this night to be mind-blowing.
Brooke was a bit wasted, sitting at the bar a few feet away, with Graham. I ignored her. Until.
“Excuse me—Mr. Alexander?” the bartender said behind me.
I turned. “Yeah?” He handed me a screwdriver, which I definitely hadn’t ordered. “What’s this?”
He pointed at Brooke, who blew me a kiss. Undeniably wasted. I picked up the drink, walked the few steps to her. “Um, thanks? But I think you’d enjoy this more than I would.”
Her expression turned almost pouty. “You liked them at one time.”
I narrowed my eyes, wondering at her game. Graham sat silently on the other side of her, staring into his drink, his lips pursed. “Oh? When was that?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t remember.”
Oh, I remember all right. Not long before our breakup, Brooke smuggled a bottle of vodka into my house in her bag. “Let’s get some OJ and make screwdrivers,” she whispered. I made a show of making popcorn in the microwave while she grabbed two large plastic cups and half-filled them with orange juice and ice cubes, and we told my parents we were going to watch a movie in the media room as we disappeared into my wing of the house.
An hour later, we were completely hammered, giggling and all over each other. We’d been aware of little but each other that night, and we were reckless in every possible way. Why she’d want to remind me of that night—with Graham right next to her—was incomprehensible.
“Is there some
reason
you expect me to remember drinking screwdrivers with you, Brooke?”
She stared, while under the surface, both of us popped and snapped with tension. She was a live wire, dangerous and unstable, and some presentiment pushed forward, telling me to beware. In a flash of idiocy, I discounted it. “Only because of what came from it,” she answered.