Accidental It Girl (23 page)

“Oh, my God. Just
move
!”

H
e couldn't have spotted me. He couldn't have known it was me. The most he could have made out through that hole in the fence was maybe a tiny bit of an eye. Right? He probably caught a brief glimpse of a random nondescript eye. Definitely not enough to identify me. I think.

Even so, I felt like I had to lie low most of today. But now it's six-thirty, Ethan's feeding time.

I've discovered that though consumed by an unflinching need to make me suffer, he still requires sustenance. Like clockwork, every night at six-thirty, he eats. Sometimes, he even leaves the front of my building to do it. Amazing.

I am taking this opportunity to visit Blockbuster. It sounds simple, right? Stupid, even? Well, it's not. It's one of those silly little things that you miss when you're shadowed twenty-four hours a day and worried that you might be featured renting
Armageddon
in a national publication. (I find watching Ben Affleck in orange astronaut wear to be extremely soothing. Sue me.) So now I only go to the video store at six-thirty and run there like I'm being chased by a man in a goalie mask. Big deal.

Anyway, I'm here. At Blockbuster. And I have been for the last forty-five minutes. This movie rental process is taking much too long, but I'm having a little problem.

No matter what I do, I always seem to end up in front of an Ethan Wyatt movie. They're everywhere. I've been staring at the back of
The Hager Saga
for the last ten minutes. The cover features a picture of Ethan in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, circa 1925. He's waltzing across an enormous dance floor with Minnie Driver. He's so…so…oh, who am I kidding? He's just totally fucking amazing-looking. It is an incontrovertible truth: Ethan Wyatt is heartbreakingly beautiful. And, in this film at least, a sensitive and thoughtful (yet alluringly roguish) hero with a bazillion-dollar family fortune. That's the very textbook definition of irresistible.

I mean, I hate him. I do. He's stalking me. At the same time, though, he's sort of adorable. He's goofier than I thought he would be, with a sharp wit, and a smile that grabs you and sucks you in—against your will. Most disturbing, I'm kind of getting used to him being around. Sometimes, I even like talking to him. And last night, I did him a favor—a favor that irked Todd to no end. Worst of all, since Ethan didn't even know I did it, it's a favor that will never be repaid.

I think I may be losing it.

And I really want to rent this movie.

But I can't. I absolutely cannot rent it.

“Ah, one of my favorites,” comes a pugnacious male voice from the other side of the shelf.

I look up and see a mop of dark hair that looks suspiciously like…oh, Jesus.

Without thinking, I drop
The Hager Saga
.

Trying to catch the case in midair, I elbow one of the flimsy metal shelves, causing a cacophonous noise and sending roughly three dozen DVD cases tumbling into one another.
Hair
covers
Hamburger Hill, Hannibal
hits
Hannah and Her Sisters
. Two Blockbuster employees continue to look disinterested and underpaid.

Ethan Wyatt smirks at me over the big blue and yellow Drama sign.

“Oh,
you,
” I say, while putting the three
Hamlet
's back in their proper order from best to worst—Branagh, Gibson, Hawke.

“Yeah,
me,
” he says, with that deliciously disarming smile fluttering across his lips.

A sudden sort of otherworldly feeling strikes me, as my eyes tick back and forth between Ethan's face on the cover of a DVD and his smooth, disguise-free face right in front of me. I find myself confused and blankly staring at his rather pouty and alluring lips.

He looks at me puzzled and adds, “What? You're not going to rent
Hager
now?”

Okay. Time to get it together. I cannot let him know he's getting to me, or that I'm sort of…a little bit…just barely…into him, ever so slightly.

I quietly pull the cell phone from the front pocket of my jeans. I flip it open and set it up for the maximum picture quality. Please, for the love of God, let me finally get a picture of the man's face.

Ethan pads down his aisle while blabbing and turns the corner toward me. “If you haven't seen it, you should. But, if you're in the mood for something a little more relate-able…might I suggest
La Dolce Vita
for a start?”

“Oh, I get it. You work here now,” I retort, while wondering exactly which sickly shade of green my skin has turned under the harsh fluorescent Blockbuster lights. “Good, could you tell me where I can find
Motion of the Ocean
?”

“Cute,” he replies to my little dig.

I roll my eyes and continue, “Do you know what your problem is?”

“I have a problem?” he replies, coming closer.

“Your problem is, you set yourself up for this.” I pull the phone up and snap a picture of his face, which has contorted slightly in surprise. Ha! I did it!

“Ah, another
picture
phone,” he says, trying to seem nonchalant, but clearly disturbed by the fact that I've captured his image yet again.

I snap off another picture. Oh, this is great.

“Ooh, that was
good
,” I say, clicking off another one. “But you might want to smile next time,” I add while flipping the phone around to show him his own image, frozen in another horrible expression. I inspect the photo again triumphantly. “You know, you're looking a little tired. Should I call your stylist? Plastic surgeon, perhaps?”

“God, you never stop. You are
always
on—like some photography bot.”

“What about you and your Mr. Big attitude?” I mock his voice, “Might I suggest
La Dolce Vita
for a start? You know, for a guy who doesn't like to be photographed, you spend an inordinate amount of time pestering photographers. Hey! Wait a second!” I exclaim, genuinely excited by this new train of thought. “Is this one of those Sean Penn God-complex things?” I mime pulling out a pad and pencil, change tone, and do my best concerned doctor imitation. “Do you, or any members of your entourage, believe you have the power to save the world from itself? Have you gone on any diplomatic missions without State Department approval, or insulted the media while on a promotional
media
tour?”

“I am not like Sean Penn!”

“You may not have married Madonna. Or gone down to Louisiana to save people in a boat too full of photographers to actually
hold
anybody needing rescue, but you do whine an awful lot about the same things,” I reply matter-of-factly.

I wait for a response, but he just looks at me blankly. I think I may have rendered him speechless.
Nice
.

“Oh, and another thing!” says Ethan boisterously, with a little gleam in his eye. Another thing? What was the first thing? “Your portraits—”

“What do you know about my portraits?” I ask, as a touch of queasiness grips my belly.

“I found the website.” He pauses for effect. “It hasn't been updated lately, I noticed…but it's all there.”

“So now you know my deep dark secret. I am, in fact, a legitimate photographer.”

“No, correction,” Ethan says, moving closer to me. “You were
once
a legitimate photographer.”

I can't think of a single thing to say, a single insult to throw at him. The only word I can form is “Humph.”

He smiles at me…waiting. I got
nothing
.

I click off another picture. Damn, I think he might look pretty stunning in that one.

“When did you sell out?” Ethan asks pointedly.

“
I'm
a sellout?” I bite back.

“You're joking, right? You're taking pictures on a cell phone…right now. Again.”

Oh, that's rich. “
You
of all people are calling me a sellout?” I grab two of his DVD covers and say, “How did you go from this”—I hold up the cover of
Junkies,
a highly praised indie that resulted in his one and only Oscar nomination—“to
this
?” I hold up
Going Nowhere,
an incredibly lame explosion-filled popcorn flick that the critics rightfully panned.

He stares at me, a look of stunned disbelief flickering across his eyes and extending down to his open mouth. Aggravated, he raises his voice. “But you're this…smart, quick…reasonably easy to look at woman…with an amazing talent. Those portraits are good. Really good!”

“Oh, and you're not talented, I suppose?” My voice rises to match his. “You were incredible in this film!” I say, pointing at the back cover of
Junkies
and a picture of Ethan, ugly and emaciated, acting his ass off. “You weren't a movie star in this. You were an actor. A
great
actor!”

We both stand stock-still and stare at one another—both of us, I believe, coming to realize that we've just been insulting each other with compliments.

His bright blue eyes dance nervously over my face. He inhales, as if to speak, but doesn't say anything.

“Ugh!” I say finally, turning on my heels and stomping toward the exit. “You are so
frustrating
!”

And what the hell is “reasonably easy to look at” supposed to mean?

I march out of the store and head back downtown toward my apartment.

“Hey! Sadie!” comes a loud male voice behind me.

I look over my shoulder to see Ethan headed in my direction. He races toward me, while shoving his camera into its bag. I increase my pace and make a sudden left in an attempt to lose him.

“And another thing!” he shouts, catching up to me.

“Why do you always say ‘and another thing' when nothing has been said before it? What is that
about
?” I ask, stopping suddenly in front of a kosher deli and startling a trio of Hassidic men eating at the counter that faces the street.

“Why do you always change the subject when I'm about to make a point?” he fires back. “I know why you're not taking the portraits anymore!”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask haughtily.

“Yeah!” A little smile creeps onto his lips. “You're too scared!” he says definitively, as though I'm now supposed to break down or beat him up or something.

“What am I so scared of, then?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes and huffs, “I've been trying to figure that part out for about the last three days but…(
a
) your mother has stopped taking my calls, and (
b
) well…there is no
b
.” He forces himself to stand straighter. “But I know you're scared of something!”

“Genius!” I reply. “Now, can you tell me why I can't get my VCR to stop blinking?”

“Will you just drop the act?” he says firmly. “I saw you last night, all right?” My heart feels like it's just stopped beating. He continues, “I saw you behind that fence. And I know you didn't take any film on it.”

“What fence?” I ask, dumbly.

His arms fly up in the air with frustration. He slaps a hand to his forehead and grits his teeth, before exclaiming, “Come on!”

Losing a bit of my steam, and genuinely curious, I ask, “How do you know I didn't take anything?”

His body language softens suddenly. He replies, “I asked around.”

Ethan's eyes lock onto mine, really begging for an answer. But it feels too raw, too guileless and pure of a look to be wasted on me.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say finally, before turning to walk away.

He grabs my arm, forcing me to turn around and face him.

“Why do you always deflect? Why don't you listen, Sadie?” Ethan exclaims, letting go of me and flinging his hands around like a windmill. “Why are you holding on to this so damn tight?”

“Holding on to what?” I shout right back.

“This paparazzi thing, this act you've got going—being tough and not caring about things. That's not you! You're better than that. God, you're stubborn—”

“
I'm
stubborn?” I ask, amused. “Why can't you just leave me alone?”

“Why can't you just let me speak?” he says with a scowl.

Oh, good, an easy one. “Because you're a pompous hypocrite! You call
me
a sellout?” Curious, he's moving toward me. I continue louder, “You are the clearest-cut case of selling out that I've ever seen.
Articles
have been written about it!” Ah! He's moving even
closer
. My voice rises a touch higher. “
Rolling Stone…Entertainment Weekly
…
Max—”