Between the Lines (11 page)

Tadd does a hangover groan. “Nine. We’ve got tomorrow off.”

“I’ll call Bob and let him know we’ll need a bodyguard and a car, possibly separate cars on the way back.” I’m bringing somebody back with me, that’s for damned sure. Emma is proving more elusive than I expected her to be, and I need someone to take the edge off.

***

When we meet downstairs at nine, Bob and Jeff are waiting to usher us to a car. Tadd comes down last. Alone.

“Is Graham meeting us later?”

“He said he’s staying in tonight.”

I pull to a stop in the middle of the lobby. “What?”

“He said he’s still recovering from last night and he’s going to stay in.”
Liar
. He was the least drunk person in the room last night. Tadd bumps me and keeps walking. “Come on, dude. What’s the big deal? Let’s go.”

I have no choice but to follow. The paparazzi are handled deftly by Bob and Jeff and two minutes later we’re in the car heading to a martini bar Tadd heard about.

“What are the girls doing?” That didn’t come out as offhand as I’d intended, but luckily Tadd doesn’t care.

“I ran into Brooke and Meredith earlier—they were planning a girls-only night. Brooke looked as relieved to have a night off from you as you look about a night off from her.” He has the nerve to smirk that I’m relieved to know where Emma’s going to be tonight. Wow. This is already
way
more high-maintenance than I’m used to.

Quinton leans up. “What’s going on between you two anyway?”

“Nothing, man.” I share a quick look with Tadd and shrug. “We had a thing, like years ago, and she’s apparently not over it.”

Quinton bumps my fist with his, grinning. “Here’s to always leaving them wanting more.”

I don’t tell him that
wanting more
is not exactly what’s between Brooke and me.

*** *** ***

Emma

My hangover is gone, but I need a quiet evening. I
was
planning on a long talk with Emily, but she has a date with a guy who works at Abercrombie, a few doors down from Hot Topic, where she works. (I pointed out that this scenario contains serious odd-couple potential, which she didn’t appreciate as much as I did.)  She’s been through a long dry spell, and the possibility of starting her senior year with no boyfriend and no prospects is “intolerable.”

There’s more to my recuperation plan than ditching the lingering headache. My father and Chloe are arriving tomorrow and will be in Austin for five days. I’ll need my strength to deal with both the grueling filming schedule and the stress of having her that close at the same time. It’s too much to hope that she’ll recede to the background. Chloe doesn’t do background.

I’ve excused myself from tonight’s Austin nightlife tour—guys in one group, girls in the other. Room service delivers a spinach salad and the television plays music videos, volume low. Feeling restless, I wander onto the tiny balcony that overlooks the street and lean on the stone railing, staring at the big black sky, where I can only make out a few of the brightest stars. Downtown is too illuminated for star-gazing. People mill around below, and even this far up, I catch jumbled bits of conversation and laughter. And a trace of tobacco?

“Emma, hey.” Graham is two balconies over, straightening from the railing, smoking. His eyes, meeting mine, are black with the darkness and distance. He takes a drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing red near his silhouette in the dim light from the streetlamps and headlights below.

“Hey, yourself. I assumed you’d gone out with the guys.”

A momentary breeze kicks up, and he shakes the hair out of his eyes, exhales a trail of smoke that dissipates in all directions. “I decided to opt out tonight.”

I nod. “Me, too.”

He takes another drag and resumes his posture of leaning on the railing, staring down at the swirls of color and noise at street level. He doesn’t speak again, and though I’m curious about the call that interrupted our earlier conversation, I can’t think of a casual way to ask about it. I walk back into my room without interrupting his thoughts. I consider hauling one of the cushy chairs out onto the balcony to read, but if Graham is still outside, it might be awkward.

After perusing the dessert menu and convincing myself not to order a slice of double chocolate cake, I grab the novel I bought this morning and settle on the bed. My stomach growls in protest, unshushed when I mumble, “Shut
up
.” Opening the book, I feel the familiar brush of pleasure—the crackle of the pages and the binding, the inky smell. And then I nearly jump out of my skin when the phone on the nightstand rings at full volume.

“Hello?” I answer, heart pounding, looking for the sound control switch.

“Emma? It’s Graham. I, uh, don’t have your cell number…”

 “Oh.”

“So… I ordered this chocolate cake from room service, and it’s even more monstrous than it looked in the menu… and I was thinking we could share it. If you want. I understand if you’d rather be alone, though.”

I smile, having planned for an evening of precisely that, just as I’d originally planned to run alone every morning. “I
just
convinced myself that I didn’t need that cake... But I guess if I share yours, it won’t really count.”

“Exactly. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“I could order up coffee?” Because that’s what I need at nearly 10 p.m. when I had intentions of going to bed early—
coffee
.

“Sounds good.”

I call room service and then run to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I have just enough time to sweep on lip balm before Graham taps lightly on the door. When I unbolt and open it, he’s holding two forks and the most massive slice of cake I’ve ever seen. “Wow. That thing is enormous.”

“Yeah. It’s basically an entire cake.” He runs a hand through his hair and a couple of strands towards the middle stick straight up. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a worn t-shirt inscribed with the name of an indie band I vaguely recognize. Emily would know it.

We drag the chairs and one nightstand out onto the balcony, where we sip coffee and eat from opposite sides of the cake without dividing it. The muffled din of Saturday night floats up from the street below. After a few minutes of clinking forks and sighs of contentment, Graham asks what made me want to play Lizbeth Bennet, returning to this afternoon’s conversation as though the interruption occurred moments ago, rather than hours.

“What girl wouldn’t want to do an adaptation of
Pride and Prejudice
?” I hedge.

“She said mysteriously,” he returns, one eyebrow raised. He takes another sip of coffee, waiting, slouching into the chair, turning more fully towards me, his long legs extended.

I pull my knees up into my chair, angling to face him. “Well, like most girls in the English-speaking world, I adore Elizabeth Bennet. She’s the ultimate heroine, strong-willed and independent, intelligent, loyal, but at the same time, she’s not flawless, she’s not above mistakes, or falling in love.”

He nods. “So as soon as you knew about the film, you wanted to do it?”

Wow, he’s good.

“Not exactly. I mean, it isn’t Elizabeth Bennet, after all. It’s
Lizbeth
, this Americanized version. And some of the screenplay lines… I guess I’m a purist about some things, and Jane Austen is one of those things.”

“Fair enough. So when did you first read
Pride and Prejudice
?”

Here we go. “I don’t know. It was my mother’s favorite book. I remember her reading it aloud to me when I was very young.” My stomach pitches and I blame the sugary cake and caffeine-laden coffee, when the origin of this uneasiness is all too familiar. I evade this discussion whenever possible. I could do that now, with Graham, but I’m not going to. I want to tell him.

“So what does she think? Did she want you to do the film, or is she a Jane Austen purist, too?”

Here we go, here we go, here we go. I pick at a fingernail, staring at my hands. “She died when I was six.” The words spill out quickly, but softly, and I want to tell him everything, all of it, though I can’t say any more because I can’t quite face the bits and pieces I always fold away and shove under the surface. My father and the way we haven’t connected since we lost her. My inability to have a normal childhood because I’ve been in front of a camera, pretending to be someone else, since before she was gone. Chloe and the way she always expects to be the center of every universe near her. And I’m okay, I really am, most of the time. But sometimes, I’m just not.

Graham doesn’t speak until I look at him. His eyes hold mine, and they don’t slide away, uncomfortable with the fact that mine are brimming with tears. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he says.

I nod, take a breath, and pull a napkin from under the nearly-empty plate, pressing it under my eyes. “Thanks.”

We sit outside for a while longer, eventually talking about other work we’ve done. I tell him about the Nazi director of the grape juice commercial, and he tells me about the attractive forty-something star of an art house film he did a few years ago who showed up at his trailer door wearing a robe and nothing else.

“Do I want to know how you found out about the ‘nothing else’?”

He grimaces. “The exact way you’re thinking.”

“Eww… so did you—?”

“Um,
no
. I told her I had to get up early, and she said, ‘you don’t have to be scared, Graham,’ and I just blustered through it, of course, something like, ‘oh, no it’s not that, I’m just really tired.’ And then I didn’t answer my door after that. She got the idea eventually.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “I may still need therapy over that night.”

We end up sitting on my bed, six or so inches of space between us, watching a movie on pay-per-view. I fall asleep about halfway through it. When I wake up just after 4 a.m., he’s gone. The chairs are back inside, the balcony door closed and locked. The comforter is folded over me like a cocoon, and there’s a note on the nightstand.

Thanks for helping with the mountain of cake.

I’ll be downstairs at 6 if you want to run.

Graham

I set the alarm on my phone for 5:40.

Chapter 16

REID

I should be asleep until noon. Instead, I’m wide awake and staring at the ceiling by nine a.m., deciding how pissed I should be.

Between the late dinner and the martini bar last night, we drove past Brooke, Meredith, MiShaun and Jenna going into a club. Tadd pointed them out. “There go the girls—small world, huh?”

“I didn’t see Emma,” I commented.

Quinton yawned, glancing back at them through the rear window. “Yeah, I talked to Meredith earlier, on the way to the elevator. She said Emma was wavering over whether to go or not tonight. Apparently she had a monster hangover this morning.”

Meaning Graham and Emma both ditched.

“Son of a
bitch
,” I swore.

“What?” Quinton asked as Tadd grinned at me and shook his head. He’s always been a big fan of any girl who gets under my skin.

We were three-for-three last night, soothing the annoyance somewhat—at least until this morning. There was a bachelorette party at the bar—nine girls and three guys, and
all
of them looked hot. Quinton was ready to lead the offensive, but Tadd cautioned that when encountering a group like that, you have to watch out for the Cheerleader Effect: the inexplicable consequence of a few extreme hotties in a group bringing less attractive friends up to par. Possible hazardous situation. As a man of action, Quinton was skeptical.

 Tadd glanced at the group surreptitiously. “Okay, look. At first glance, all three of those guys are candidates. But in reality, only one of them is one-nighter material.”

Quinton and I checked them out. “I don’t see it,” Quinton said.

“Easy—it’s the blond guy,” I said.

Tadd sighed. “Reid, you obviously have a blonde predilection—”

My palms turned up, shoulders shrugging. “Blondes are my gold standard.”

“Don’t get distracted by hair color.” He shook his head, hair falling perfectly around his face, and leaned closer. “Dudes. It’s
obviously
the Hispanic guy. Look again.”

Quinton stared, frowning. “I still don’t see it.”

Tadd rolled his eyes. “That’s because
you
are disproportionately straight.”

“Excuse me! Unless disproportionately means
all
—then guilty as charged. And BTW, Reid, dibs on the sister who looks like Halle Berry’s reincarnation.”

Tadd pursed his lips. “Dude, Halle Berry isn’t dead, thus she can’t be reincarnated.”

Quinton emptied his drink and got to his feet. “Whatever, man, I’m going in.”

Tadd and I each grabbed an arm and sat him back down. “Hold up, noob,” Tadd said. “Let’s get Halle and Mr. Tall Dark and Gay to bring their most attractive girlfriend and trot over
here
.”

Quinton sat, still unconvinced. “We can do that?”

“Watch and learn.” Tadd turned to me. “Reid, you’ve just said something incredibly amusing.” And then he laughed his patented Tadd-Wyler-Sexy-Laugh while I smiled and chuckled along.

A dozen pairs of eyes shifted to us. Tadd made eye contact with his target while Quinton—who’s a remarkably fast learner—did the same with his. I appeared oblivious, staring into my martini, pulling the olive from the tiny plastic sword with my teeth. Tadd broke eye contact, only to glance back a few seconds later. Quinton smirked, straightening and stretching his arms behind his neck in a blatant display of biceps. And then we sat back and waited for recognition to flicker.

A few hours, several dirty martinis and two cigars later, Bob was escorting the bride-to-be from my hotel room to a waiting Town Car. Personal policy—I don’t wake up with them still in my bed. And don’t worry—there was no way she was going to pull off wearing white, long before I came along.

*** *** ***

Emma