Between the Lines (30 page)

WILL

And?

LIZBETH

I haven’t.

This is the point where the song on the soundtrack will end, and we stand looking at each other for ten seconds. His eyes are cold, and the chill between us twists in the pit of my stomach. It’s all I can do to keep from shivering. Ten seconds can be a very long time. It feels like an hour before Richter calls, “Cut!” and we turn and walk in opposite directions.

Filming breaks are like coming up for air after being under water for a few seconds too long, but breaks are their own sort of misery. Everything we do is being scrutinized by everyone on set. They all know that last night, whatever was going on between us ended. Unpleasantly. Speculations fly, buzzing near but never landing; no one knows exactly what happened, only that something did, and they probe for clues to what.

This goddamned day is never going to end.

Chapter 40

REID

The scenes with Emma are the hardest I’ve ever had to film. Would it make any difference if I got her alone, begged her forgiveness and told her that Blossom meant nothing? Does it make any difference that it’s true? I needed a distraction last night to numb the emotion boiling under the surface after the confrontation with Brooke, after Emma disappeared and wouldn’t answer my calls or texts. Now there’s a glacier between us, cold and mountainous and lethal. When I see her talking with Brooke, staring at Blossom, glancing at me and away, I know crossing it won’t be possible.

It’s a good thing Will Darcy is sort of a dick, or I’d never be able to pull this off.

I bristle at the idea that I should feel sorry for what happened almost four
years
ago, when it likely wasn’t even mine to feel sorry for. I haven’t thought about this shit in years. Even seeing Brooke when filming started—sure, I remembered the relationship, but I sought long ago to purge the ending from my brain. The way she was hooking up with another guy, maybe several, while telling me she loved me, while getting me to say it back,
feel
it back. I adored her, and she betrayed me. So what if that kid might have been mine? Why should I have cared?

Emma probably doesn’t see it that way; she’s a girl. She views my actions as desertion. And maybe it was.

Fuck this. I have enough to deal with—an alcoholic mom and a career to keep on track and build. I don’t need this shit. I’m done. I’m so fucking done.

*** *** ***

Emma

“Emma, what’s going on?”

My father’s question hangs in the several hundred mile space between us. I’m sitting on my bed after this hell of a day, in the middle of taking an SAT practice test online. I’ll have to start over if this conversation doesn’t end quickly.

“Um, what do you mean, exactly?” I stall, unsure if he’s referring to the rumors that I’m sleeping with Reid, and/or Graham, or breaking up with one or both of them, or the report of my baby bump… or something else altogether.

“Is there anything you need to talk to me about?”  This is a characteristically evasive question that I’m both grateful for (because I don’t have to answer to anything specific) and annoyed by (does he even care?).

“No.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I begin to relax. He never presses about anything like this. Sometimes he asks, because he thinks he should. But he doesn’t really want to deal with it. So I’m taken by surprise when he doesn’t drop the subject, but instead asks a question that blows my nice predictable view of my father apart.

“Emma, you know how much credibility I give to celebrity gossip, but I can’t pretend it’s all crap, I can’t ignore it if… if you need my help. Because,
dammit
, I’m your father, and that’s my job. So I need to know,” I actually hear him gulp, “are you pregnant?” If this isn’t a nightmare moment, I don’t know what is.

My mouth works as though I’m speaking, or chewing something, nothing but little clucks coming out until finally I say, “No.
No
.”

He exhales, and I imagine his hand at his forehead, his eyes closed. This time, his moment of silence doesn’t fool me. I’m on high alert, not that it helps. “I know we’ve never really discussed, uh, sex, before,” he charges on, “but as your father, I have to make sure you have the tools you need to be safe.”

“Huh,” I say, my face flaming.

“So, you know that uh, condoms are necessary to protect yourself against not only unwanted uh, pregnancy, but also STDs—er, sexually transmitted diseases…” He’s explaining this stuff as though I’ve never heard it before, as though I haven’t known it since Grandma and I talked years ago. I’m thinking
late much?
and trying to contain my hysteria while he morphs into one giant sex ed TMI, “…herpes and chlamydia. Um, I think those are the major half-dozen, though there are more, but you don’t need to know them all…”

“
Dad
.” The word feels strange, like someone else is saying it, because I don’t think of him as
Dad
. He’s
my father
, formal and impassive. Like our relationship has been since Mom died. “I… I know all of this.”

“Oh? Did Chloe—?”

“
No
,” I say, too harshly. “No—Grandma, and Emily’s mom.” And then because I said Emily’s name, I’m crying.

“Emma, what is it?”

“I had a fight with Emily!” It bursts from me, unable to be contained any longer. “She’s not talking to me and I don’t know what I did or what I can do or should do.”

He goes quiet again, and just as I start to berate myself for blurting this out to
him
of all people, he asks, “Have you tried calling her?”

“Sort of. Not really. I don’t know what to say.” I sniffle. “She thinks I was ignoring her, and maybe I was, but I didn’t mean to…”

“Then that’s what you say, sweetheart.” He hasn’t called me that in so long. Not like that—like a caress, like a hug. “You and Emily have been like sisters for almost your whole life; she’ll listen.”

“What if she hangs up on me? What if she hates me?”

“Emma, do you really believe that’s possible? Think how long you two have been attached at the hip. Now you’re both about to be adults, have separate lives. Maybe she’s scared of losing you.”

“Then why is she pushing me away?” I sob.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Because that’s what people do sometimes, when they’re scared, and they’re just being reactive. Maybe you need to be the brave one.”

“But I’m not brave,” I say, my voice small.

“Oh, honey, I don’t know anyone braver than you.”
What?
“Let’s make a deal, you and me. You call Emily tonight. And I’ll tell Chloe that you’re going to college next fall. SAT a week from Saturday, right?”

“Yes.” I shake my head, saying, “You haven’t told her?”

“Time for me to be brave, too,” he says, not thrilled. I start laughing and he joins in.

“Are you going to tell her about your lunches at McDonald’s?” I ask, teasing. I try to be rational and suppress the hope that this is for real, but hope has a way of closing its eyes to reason and it just keeps growing.

“Let’s not go crazy, now,” he says, all pretend-serious. “In some cases, what she doesn’t know… well, you know Chloe.”

“Yeah, I do.” I take a shuddering breath. “Thanks, Dad,” I say, liking the sound of it, afraid that this image of him is a mirage, that if I look away and look back, it’ll be gone. I think about what he said. That I’m brave. If that’s true, maybe I won’t let him go so easily this time. Maybe I’ll remind him, if he forgets again.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he says, and I let that one word envelope me and shove the doubt away, at least for tonight.

“Night, Dad.”

Me:  I’m sorry. I was selfish, but i didn’t mean to be. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you believe me. To make you forgive me. I miss you so much.

As I hit send, I tell myself that a sliver of bravery is better than a load of cowardice. It will hurt less to have her ignore a text than it will if I call and she doesn’t answer and I get her voicemail, or worse, if she answers and tells me that she meant everything she said.

I survive an agonizing five minutes, during which I rock in the middle of my bed, my arms around my knees, staring at the phone in my hand as though I can’t trust sound alone to tell me if she texts back. When it rings, I startle and drop it onto the bed, then grab it up. “Hello?”

Her voice is so soft I can barely hear her. So unlike Emily. “I’m sorry, too,” she says, and we both start crying and talking at the same time. “I didn’t mean it—”

“Emily I’m so sorry—”

And then we’re laughing and crying, and she says, “Let me start. First, don’t ever let me do this again, even if you have to send Chloe over to bitch-slap some sense into me.”

“I could never.”

“Yeah, well, seriously. Second, for a long time I’ve congratulated myself on what a great friend I am—with you being on television, then getting this movie and getting
famous
, and me not being a bit jealous. Then all of a sudden you’re having this fantasy romance while I’m scared to death that I’m about to have the worst case of pathetic unrequited love ever with a guy who works at the freaking
Abercrombie
. So it turns out that I’m a
horrible
friend—” she hiccups.

“Emily, no you’re not,
I
am—” I object, but she plows on as though I haven’t spoken.

 “—and your fantasy romance has gone to the shitter and it’s clearly all my fault for deserting you when you needed me!” Now she’s bawling, and I butt in while I can.

“Emily, I’m okay, and you’re
not
a horrible friend, you’re the best friend ever.”

“Psshh!”

Before she can object more, I say, “Honest, I’m okay. I’ve been more upset thinking I was losing
you
than anything else going on. I’m sorry for making you feel like I always got your attention when you never got mine, for making you feel like I didn’t care about your problems.”

“Em, that’s not even true. I was just jealous. Forget what I said.”

“No. You needed me, and I was obsessing over Reid and Graham, and I should have been listening to what
you
needed, instead of expecting you to always be the one listening. When I lost
you
, I didn’t care much about anything else.”

She sighs. “Even if I felt ignored, I knew better. You’ve never not been there for me. Jesus Christ, I just used a double negative. Clearly I’m traumatized! Please, just forgive me.”

“If you forgive me.”

“
Fine
. I forgive you. Happy?”

“Yeah,” I sniffle.

“Okay. Now what in holy hell is going on down there? Mom is off her freaking noodle—she called your father and ripped him a new one. She even used a couple of actual curse words! Not any really good ones, but still.”

“I guess that explains that...”

“What?”

“He called earlier… do you think he only did it because she told him—?”

“I don’t think so. At first, yeah, she was all over him, but then they started talking, and from her answers, he was asking the right questions. I think he had no idea how badly he was doing. Until, you know, she
told
him, in that way that only Mom can do.”

“Oh.”

“Now. What’s going on with this baby bump crap.”

“Emily, I’m not—”

“Oh, I know that. I also know how conflicted you were over Reid and Graham. And it looks like everything just blew to hell. So what happened.”

“How long do you have?” I ask, lying back on the bed.

“All night, baby. I even called Derek before I called you, and I told him, ‘Don’t call me; I’ll call you,’ so we have as long as you need.”

“Emily, I’m doing it again, we should talk about Derek—”

“Everything is fine with Derek; he can wait, we’ll talk about him soon enough, don’t you worry. So quit stalling and start talking.”

I tell her everything. And the first thing she says after is, “Wow. I had no idea how much I missed knowing more than the freaking
National Enquirer
.”

“Huh.”

“Em,” she says then, “have you ever noticed that you say ‘huh’ whenever you can’t think of anything else to say?”

Chapter 41

REID

I almost feel sorry for Blossom. I couldn’t tolerate her for even a full twenty-four hours. Turns out there actually
is
such a thing as too much flattery and adoration. Next up was a girl playing a Netherfield High cheerleader (I asked her to leave the costume mostly on), followed by a woman billed as one of the teachers.

I’ve avoided any social interaction with cast mates—except Tadd and Quinton—until tonight, when everyone is gathering in Brooke’s room to celebrate Jenna’s birthday. I’ve stupidly brought last night’s girl along. Vivian was hot and inventive in bed; out of it she’s rude and grating. Even still, I need a buffer between myself and Emma, or I’m going to end up doing something rash like getting on my knees and pleading for mercy.

Tadd is opening a bottle of Riesling, sort of. He’s actually mangling the crap out of the cork as Emma looks on, laughing as they pour the wine into glasses and then fish bits of cork out of each one, using straws, spoons, napkins and toothpicks.

“Did you
chew
the cork off, Thaddeus?” I say.

“Piss off, man,” Tadd says as he traps the last piece.

Vivian slides up to me and asks, “What’re you doing?” while fixing Emma with a defiant stare. Christ. I do
not
need this.

“Getting you something to drink, babe.” I grab a glass and hand it to her with a smile, wondering if alcohol will make her mellow or more belligerent. She stands on her tiptoes and rubs my nose with hers, marking territory. Holy shit, you’ve
got
to be kidding.

Emma, sharing a look with Tadd, sticks a finger in her mouth, her tongue out, and he chuckles. Unfortunately, Vivian catches the pantomime. She narrows her eyes at Emma and snaps, “Got a problem?”