Authors: Tammara Webber
“Emma, I don’t want to upset you…”
Too late.
“There’s nothing going on between Brooke and me—any more than there’s something going on between you and Reid.”
I gasp. “That’s not the same at all.”
“You’re right, it’s not. You’ve actually been intimate… with him.” He realizes mid-sentence what he’s stepped into, but it’s too late to extricate himself from it.
“What exactly do you mean?”
He’s not looking at my face on his screen. His eyes are turned away. So I wait. Finally, they blink back at me, dark and unreadable. “I guess I don’t know what I mean. And I know it’s none of my business, and I have no right to ask.”
“Ask
what?
Ask if I’ve slept with him?”
A muscle clenches at his temple. “I’m not asking you, Emma. It’s none of my business.”
“So you don’t care?”
Sighing, he sits back against his pillows. I hate it when he does that, because I can’t see his face clearly at all. “Of course I care.” His voice is so soft, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s speaking softly or if it’s just because he’s moved away from the laptop microphone.
“Okay. So it’s not your business. But I didn’t.” I don’t tell him how very close we came. He doesn’t need to know that. His eyes close and he breathes another sigh. “Your turn,” I say.
A crease appears between his brows. “My turn for what?”
I tilt my head. “You. And Brooke.”
“No.” There’s no hesitation. “I’ve never slept with Brooke. I thought I told you, the morning we first talked about all of this—”
“You told me you didn’t love her. You never said you hadn’t slept with her.”
We fall silent after this exchange, and the huge space between us feels electrically charged. My throat closes up and even though I’m relieved, I feel like crying.
“Emma, what’s wrong, baby?” He’s never called me that before. Close to the webcam now, his eyes are worried. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel…”
“Insecure?” A tear winds down my cheek and I thumb it away.
He shakes his head. “You aren’t insecure. This is new for both of us—this relationship. And we’re trying to build it from a distance, after months of separation…” He runs a hand through his hair again and makes a frustrated sound. “It’s difficult. But not impossible. I’m sorry about Brooke, and for asking you about Reid—”
“I’m not. I want you to know.” My voice lowers. “You need to know, right? That it will be the first time for me…”
“I suppose so, yeah. I hadn’t… really thought of it that way. I’ve never, um…” He chews his lip, eyes shifting down and then back up to watch my face on his screen. “I’ve never been with a virgin.”
My mind is racing, but coming to no conclusions at all. “Oh.”
His hand rubs over his face. “God,” he mumbles. “I’m going to make you want nothing to do with me.”
“Graham,” I say, and he moves his hand down to his mouth, uncovering his eyes, watching me. “Trust me. That’s not possible.”
*** *** ***
REID
Emma and I are meeting in the lobby at 5:00 a.m. for the first local station interview. We have a second one Tuesday, followed by a live radio interview in the afternoon. Thursday, we’re taping
Ellen
.
When I tell Brooke what I said to Emma—that I wanted another shot if Graham fucked up—she freaks. “Oh my
God
, Reid.
Shit
. That was a huge risk… but maybe she’ll automatically turn to you when she realizes he’s with me.”
“That was my thought.” I’m clicking through muted television channels, reclining against a mound of pillows on the hotel bed. Emma is just down the hall. I texted her earlier, told her I was here, and suggested that we meet in the lobby tomorrow morning. I’ve made plans for us tomorrow night, so I’m giving her unpressured space tonight.
“But she didn’t answer you?”
“I told her I didn’t want one. That I just wanted her to know where I stood.” Leaving the television tuned to music videos, I set the volume on low, like white noise. Emma plays videos in the background in her hotel room like some sort of soundtrack to her life, and I’ve wondered but forgotten to ask her if she does this at home, too. “So what makes you think you love him?”
“What?” Her voice is confused.
I don’t know if I inherited the capacity for debate or I just picked it up as a result of growing up with an attorney, like self-preservation. I’m already imagining what Brooke might say, and what I’ll counter with. “You’ve said a couple of times now that you’re ‘right’ for Graham. Do you think you love him?”
She’s silent for a long moment and I think she’s about to tell me that how she feels about him isn’t my business and by the way go to hell. “I do.”
“Why?”
“Why what, Reid?” Exasperation saturates her words. “I don’t understand what you want to know, not that it’s your business anyway. But I’m in the mood to humor you. So why
what
?”
“Why do you think you love him?” Accent on
think
. Which she catches.
“That’s a weird way to put that,” she muses. “
Why do you think you love him
rather than
why do you love him
.”
“You know I don’t believe in love.” Whoa—that came out a little bitter. Wounded, even. Shit.
She’s quiet again. And then, “You used to.”
“Yeah, well. You know how
that
ended.”
Dammit
. Why am I saying this to
her
of all people? She grows quiet again and I wish I’d never asked the question.
“Kathryn told me once that loving someone means you want what’s best for them. And I’m what’s best for him.” Kathryn is Brooke’s stepmother—one of them. She’s the one Brooke is closest to. Ironically, they didn’t have to have any relationship at all, because Kathryn was her father’s
first
wife—but for some reason, they’ve always been close. Which is good, because Brooke’s mother is one crazy bitch.
“That sounds like convoluted logic to me. My father would say it’s a conflict of interest for
you
to decide that
you’re
what’s best for him.” And there’s my alter-ego again.
“Are you trying to talk me out of this? Because you’ll never get Emma away from him if I don’t succeed.”
Wow—complete avoidance of my argument
and
a below-the-belt insult. “No, I’m not. Ever heard of devil’s advocate? And what the hell, Brooke? I mean shit, I
know
you think he’s better than me. I get it. You don’t have to fucking underscore it every time we talk.”
She huffs a sigh. “This conversation has gotten way out of hand. Look, we’re allies on this little venture, but we aren’t
friends
. When this is over, I don’t care if I ever talk to you again and I’m sure you feel the same.”
“Damn right.”
“Then let’s stop pretending we’re BFFs and focus on what we’re doing. This week is all about me winning his family over—God, what a pain in the ass that’ll be—and you continuing to be emotionally available for Emma. While keeping your dick in your pants.”
“You really have a way with words. You know?”
“So I’m blunt. Sue me.”
***
I knew Emma would love the seafood place in Union Square, with its century-old architecture and an interior resembling an underwater fantasy. One look at her face as we entered confirmed my assumption. We’re escorted to the glass-walled semi-private room I reserved, where we can observe the rest of the place while the bodyguard who accompanied us blocks the door and any possible intrusions.
“I feel like we’re inside an aquarium,” she says, leaning closer. “I keep expecting someone to tap on the glass or make fish faces at us.”
We’ve had caviar and oysters on the half shell and tomato bisque soup, with the main course and dessert still to go. Emma has vowed to be on her stair-stepper from the moment she gets home tomorrow afternoon until Thursday morning, when we meet in Burbank to tape
Ellen
.
I lean up on my elbows after the waiter clears the second course dishes. “So when did this thing with Graham begin?” I expected to startle her with this question, but I didn’t foresee the full-on blush that floods her face. My eyes narrow. “Wait… was it
before
that night in the club?” The night Graham threatened to kick my ass if I hurt Emma. Which I’m
not
telling her, because girls love that shit.
“What?” The blush surges until she looks sunburned.
I had no idea she had such an overactive conscience. Of course, I didn’t know she was capable of what that blush entails, either. She and Graham were screwing around while I was pursuing her? Holy
shit
. She’s staring into her lap and I’m torn between amused as hell and seriously ticked off. “So you guys were messing around before you broke it off with me?”
On second thought, I’m not all that amused. Controlling my expression is abnormally challenging, and the aquarium-like walls are suddenly the worst idea
ever
.
“No. It wasn’t like that.” She looks up, straight into my eyes. Still tomato-red from her hairline to the neckline of her sweater, she seems sincere, though I’m probably the last person qualified to judge honesty or lack thereof in anyone. “We kissed once, before you kissed me. I mean, before
you
kissed
me
, outside of our Will and Lizbeth roles. Nothing else.”
Like a slideshow through my head, I recall those photos of the two of them in Austin, running together or preparing to. And then the looks they shared that Brooke and I both noticed, and the protective way he sometimes acted around her. I all but missed that because he seemed even more so with Brooke. Now it all looks like evidence, and I’m not sure I believe her.
“Here’s the unavoidable question—especially given the fact that you two are a thing
now
—why did you begin a relationship with me, instead of him?”
Eyes dropping to her lap, her voice is low. “It was that photo of you and me at the concert. He thought we were already involved.” She shrugs. “After that went viral, he decided not to intrude.”
So he just backed off and let me have a shot at her with no competition. Interesting. “Hmm. That seems a little… sacrificial.”
The anticipated crease appears in her forehead. “What do you mean?”
I lean closer, staring into her eyes in the muted light, my voice restrained, but with an underlying edge I know she’ll detect. “There’s no way in hell I would have given him the same consideration, if our positions had been reversed.” I watch my words sink in and then I back up a bit, reducing the physical tension just enough to convince her that I’m speaking in past tense. Probably.
She clears her throat. “I guess he’s just not that, um, competitive.”
Spoken like a true hetero-feminist—the girl who
says
she admires guys lacking that aggressive alpha gene, while dreaming of a guy who’ll push her up against a wall and kiss her breathless before telling her to shut up and hold on.
“So you and he got together—when—after you and I broke it off last fall?”
If that’s true, they were together when I voiced that groveling apology and asked for another chance. I’m not sure which would be worse—if I said those things with no chance at all, or if I said them when she was free and clear, but got shot down anyway.
“No. I ran into him in a coffee shop in New York when I was there a month ago, visiting colleges.” She leaves out the Graham-has-a-kid part, predictably better at keeping other people’s secrets than Brooke, though I suspect Brooke lets slip only what she means to disclose.
We’re silent while the third course is laid out and our glasses are refilled. “Would you like anything else now?” the waiter asks, and we look at each other and shake our heads.
“No thanks, man, we’re good.”
I picture Emma spotting Graham in some overcrowded Manhattan coffee shop, with his kid next to him, and I itch to ask her what she thought when she found out. Like, how is that
not
an instant deal-breaker? What eighteen-year-old girl wants her boyfriend to have a secret kid? And how the hell did he end up saddled with it? I can’t imagine my parents’ reaction if they’d have found out Brooke was pregnant (they didn’t) and then I said
Oh and by the way, I want to keep it.
I’d have been under psychiatric observation before I could whimper one more word.
“That’s a bizarre coincidence—running into someone in New York,” I prompt.
“Mmm-hmm,” she says.
“So when are you planning to move there? In the fall?”
“Yeah… maybe before that.”
“Oh?”
She takes a bite of her pan-seared Alaskan halibut, as much to stall as anything else, I think. I take a bite of maitake mushroom and wait her out.
Emma
I’m never sure how Reid gets me to reveal information that might not be hush-hush, but is still personal. He has this way of posing questions—like he’s just curious and we’re old friends, no big deal, and then
boom
, I’m blurting out stuff about Graham and our relationship. Then I catch myself and I think
crap, how did that happen?
I haven’t even broached the subject of moving to New York early with
Graham
, and I just mentioned it to
Reid
, who’s forking bites of grilled ahi tuna while waiting for me to make another unbridled announcement about my private life. The silence stretches taut between us, and finally I glance at him. His dark blue eyes regard me closely, and his compressed lips tell me he’s amused.
“What’s funny?”
“You, realizing you’ve said more than you meant to.”
I sigh, and laugh, and he laughs, too. “How do you
do
that?”
He shrugs, unashamed, as always. “I was raised by a master cross-examiner. Plus, I’m sneaky.”
“
Yeah
, you are. I have an idea. Can we talk about
you
?”
He smiles. “All right. What do you want to know?”
I prop my chin on my fist,
Thinker
style. “Hmm. Okay—you said a few days ago that you and Brooke had reached an understanding.” Last fall, I’d have never thought the two of them could coexist in the same room for long. Now they’re exchanging pleasantries and acting normal. It’s freaky. “What did you mean by that?”