Between the Lines (17 page)

Taking a turkey sandwich, a Diet Coke, and this afternoon’s sides, I go out back to the covered patio. The weather is hot, but in the shade it’s passably warm. When the door opens behind me, I hope it isn’t someone from makeup, since they’ll have to touch up anything that gets shiny, which is inevitable now that I’m hiding out in the heat.

“Hey, Emma,” Graham says, walking around the cushioned bench where I sit and taking the seat opposite me. He sets a bottle of water on the low table and reaches into his pocket for his pack and lighter.

“Hi.”

“I’m starting the patches tomorrow, as soon as we’re done filming,” he says, tapping a cigarette out of the nearly empty package, lighting the end. Taking a drag, he stores the pack and lighter away, leans back, exhales above our heads. “That way I start when I’m not filming.”

“You bought the patches, then?” Hearing his voice makes me happy. Just knowing he doesn’t hate me is a relief.

“Yeah. When I was in New York.” He doesn’t elaborate, taking another drag on the cigarette and looking out over the parched yard.

“Is everything okay… with your trip to New York? Someone said you had a family emergency.”

“Oh. Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says, falling silent again.

“Okay. Well. Good.” I look back down at the sheet in my hand, not sure what to say now that he’s here. I’ve forgotten how Graham is with silences, though. He’s comfortable in them, never determined to fill them unless he has something to say.

He finishes his cigarette and starts another before he speaks. “Sorry for earlier, getting you bitched out with me. I was just really off today, for some reason.” His eyes are sincere, the earlier judgment in them dissolved, gone.

“It’s okay. I was off, too.”

“Well. I wanted to apologize. Actors tend to play off of each other in a scene, and I really screwed up the first time around.” He starts to run a hand through his hair again and stops abruptly, yanking his hand down and taking a last long drag, like his nicotine cravings know that he and cigarettes are about to go their separate ways, and they want to stock up.

I can’t help smiling at him. “That stuff in your hair is driving you crazy, isn’t it.”

He grins back at me. “Man, you don’t even know. I had no idea how often I touched my hair until all of a sudden I
can’t
. This stuff feels like glue.”

I eat the last bite of my sandwich and finish the Diet Coke while he smokes. I fiddle with the wrapper, wad it up and balance it on top of the empty can.

“Have you been running, while I was gone?”

 I look up at him. “I skipped one day, but I ran today.”

“Going tomorrow?”

“I was planning to.”

“Mind if I join you? I haven’t done so much as a pushup since we ran last.”

“Sure.”

The PA pokes his head out the door. “Five minutes, Emma.”

***

At the end of filming, Graham leaves the set without speaking to anyone but Richter. I want to talk to him again, but I feel so guilty over kissing Reid that I lose my nerve any time I consider initiating a conversation. And then I think of Brooke, and I’m not sure if I have anything to feel guilty
for
.

Reid:  Hey, just thinking about you and wanted to say hi

Me:  Hi back. Having fun? Using sunscreen?

Reid:  Yes… and yes... but after that many hours in the sun, I may come back saturday a little pinker anyway.

Me:  Lol. See you then.

Reid:  Hope so ;)

Chapter 23

REID

Brooke got one thing right: river whores.

I’m talking about the guys and me, of course. The past two days have consisted of watching for hours as groups of girls float nearby with their tubes hooked together, clad in bikinis and frayed denim shorts with straw cowboy hats or baseball caps shielding their faces. Last night was after-hours partying and inviting a few girls (and a couple of guys—Tadd’s no more angelic than the rest of us) back to the cottages. Being on this river the past couple of days, I remember what made Brooke so fascinating.

I grew up in LA, and thanks to a multitude of factors including Dad’s career trajectory, Mom’s ancestry, and their collective net worth, I’ve run in exclusive circles my whole life. The majority of women in those circles of southern California, and their daughters, have a look. An untouchable beauty, a not-quite-real quality, everything pampered and flawless. My mother has this look, as do her friends. The socialites, the actresses, the wannabes, they all have it.

When I met Brooke, she was fifteen and new to California. She’d been discovered in Texas—in Austin, in fact, and she was so raw and fresh and
different
, she took my breath away. She was beautiful, but natural. Her hair wasn’t highlighted, and she wore no makeup off set. She had tan lines from laying out at the community pool and muscles from playing soccer since she was five. Since she’d grown up in a relatively large city, her accent was mild, but definitely there.

She’d confessed that her manager was sending her to speech classes to lose her “horrible drawl.” I remember telling her that was the most idiotic thing I’d ever heard, but when I begged her not to go, she’d laughed and said, “You don’t want me to sound like some brainless hick, do you?” That was just the first thing LA changed about her. Now she’s as perfect and soulless as the others there. Not that I can talk.

The girls here all have her former accent, in various concentrations. In some, every other word is
y’all
. Others just soften syllables and liaise words. All of them tend to drop any
g
at the end of any word.

A few of them figured out who we are. Not difficult when we’re all together like this, which is what had Bob freaked out. When I’m outside LA by myself or with John, I sometimes get away with saying, “Yeah, I get that all the time,” if someone discovers who I am. With Quinton and Tadd along, it’s nearly impossible. Hats and sunglasses help, but a few people  know our identities despite the camouflage.

The last thing I need in my campaign to win Emma over all the way is photos of me with other girls popping up tomorrow on the Internet. Wherever there are cameras, or wherever cameras might be, I’m doing no more than hanging out with the guys, maybe a little drinking, a little dancing. Anyone following me into the cottage is subject to leaving all personal items with Jeff and Ricky. One girl objected, which was no big deal—Ricky just escorted her back to her friends’ campsite. Her friend, on the other hand, surrendered her bag and phone to Jeff and asked if she needed to give him her clothes, too. I told her no, she and I would take care of that ourselves.

*** *** ***

Emma

“So what, exactly, are the boys doing?” MiShaun asks over dinner Friday night.

“They went tubing.” Brooke answers.

“Pardon me?” MiShaun says, one eyebrow raised.

“A shallow, slow-moving river, inner tubes—like from tires—and a day of doing nothing but floating downstream. Add beer and girls in bikinis and it’s a guy’s wet dream. Ha, ha.”

“Sounds like a guaranteed sunburn to me,” Jenna says.

MiShaun agrees. “Richter will have their hides if they come back looking like well-done lobsters.”

“Excuse me, are you Brooke Cameron? From
Life’s a Beach
?” Two girls stand hesitantly by our table, apprehensive but determined.

Brooke turns, a wide smile replacing her blasé expression. “Yes, I am.”

“Oh, we
love
you!” the second girl says while the first nods. “You’re so bitchy and awesome!” Both girls blanch. “I mean, I know Kirsten is just your character, that you aren’t really, uh—.”

“Don’t worry—I
strive
for bitchy and awesome.” She laughs and they relax. “Would you like to take a picture or something?” A whirlwind of activity occurs as the two fans dig their phones out of their bags.

The rest of us slide looks towards each other that say
Who is this person?

While Jenna takes a photo of Brooke with one of her fans, the other girl glances around the table. “Ohmigod, MiShaun Grant! Wow, you guys are
friends
? That’s so cool!”

“We’re in Austin filming a movie,” Brooke says, motioning for the second girl to get into the photo Jenna is about to take.

“You
are
?”
That’s when they recognize
me
. I don’t know if they think they’re being subtle, or if they don’t care. They stare and whisper behind their hands. “Wait. Hold on. Are you talking about the movie with
Reid Alexander
?”
Both girls scan the restaurant.

“Yes,” Brooke says, a new edge to her voice. “And he’s not
here
.” Meredith and I exchange another look.

Their disappointment is palpable. “Can we at least get a photo with you, too?” one of them asks MiShaun, who flashes Meredith and me a smirk.

“Sure thing. Always happy to do impromptu photo ops with my
adoring
fans.” Her sarcastic tone is gently veiled by the words. Meredith bites the inside of her cheek and examines her silverware as I cough-laugh into my napkin. MiShaun leans towards the fans, smiling, while Jenna snaps the photos. The photo requests are repeated with me, and suddenly I can hardly wait to get back to the hotel.

“You girls have a nice evening,” Brooke dismisses the two girls and turns back to Jenna as though they’d been interrupted in the middle of a scintillating conversation.

“God,” Brooke says as they walk away, “Reid’s a pain in the ass even when he isn’t around.”

Chapter 24

REID

John’s CEO father called last night and ordered him home. Apparently he has orientation for college starting Monday morning, and he’s supposed to check in tomorrow. Oops.

No matter how loud and intimidating my dad is, he doesn’t compare to John’s dad, a CEO who handles everyone he encounters, no matter who they are, as though they work for him. That includes John, who nicknamed him the Dark Lord when we were sixteen. John doesn’t work and is completely financially dependent, so when the Dark Lord says jump, he jumps.

John and I are sharing one of the cottages, and he knocked on my bedroom door at, shall we say, aninopportune moment last night. The girl—let’s call her Macy because I like that name and I can’t recall her real name—shot up like she’d been hit with a jumper cable.

“Jesus.
What
?” I called, annoyed.

“Hey man, a minute,” John said on the other side of the door.

I glanced at Macy, who was mostly undressed but looked like she might bolt. “Don’t move.” I put one finger on her sternum and pushed her slowly back down, smiling. “It’s just my dumbass friend. I’ll be right back.”

I padded across the small room, shirtless, jeans unzipped, and cracked open the door. “What the hell do you
want
, man? I know you had more condoms that you could use in a week.”

“My dad just called. I, uh, have to be home tomorrow.”

“And?”

“On a ten a.m. flight.”

“What?
Why
?” I shook my head. “Nevermind. I’ll text Jeff—God knows I’m not disturbing
him
right now. He’d kick your ass, only because he’s not allowed to kick
mine
.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda why I didn’t knock on his door…”

“I’ll handle it. Now leave me the hell alone the rest of the night. Seriously.”

He smiled. “Don’t worry, man. Thanks.”

“Whatever.” I shut the door with a snap, locked it and turned, grabbing my phone from the rickety dresser and tapping a message to Jeff, Tadd and Quinton as I walked towards the bed, staring at Macy. “Where were we?”

***

There’s a flurry of activity this morning to get out of here before eight. Macy’s just been coaxed into one of three taxis, looking severely hungover and pouting that I’m leaving. There’s no reason to tell her that my leaving has nothing to do with putting her in a taxi this morning. No offense to hot girls everywhere—but newsflash—there are hot girls everywhere. I don’t do seconds.

I’m not including Emma with that—she’s not a one-nighter. I assume she’ll keep me happily occupied for the duration of filming. Maybe longer, who knows. If you mess around with costars, there’s generally an assumption of being a couple, at least temporarily. I don’t believe in love, and even though my parents have been married forever, I don’t believe in marriage either. They just exist and rotate around each other’s lives. There’s no emotional relationship there. It’s a social, fiscal relationship. That’s not for me and never will be.

I don’t lie to girls like Macy (whose name is Tracy, by the way—I was close). If she goes into something like last night assuming a relationship might come out the other end—and I don’t care if we’re talking about me or John or
any guy
—she’s fooling herself. It has nothing to do with a lack of respect or any of that shit they try to scare girls with. It’s way more simple than that.

If I met you last night, and brought you back to my place, or followed you to yours, and we had sex, that’s what we asked for from each other. It’s what I got, and what you got. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Thanks for playing, and we’re done. If by some fluke anything was said at some point during this entire exchange that made me curious enough to see you again, I would.

Has that happened before? A couple of times. Did it last? Clearly, no.

*** *** ***

Emma

Graham and I barely spoke yesterday morning while we ran, and at lunch he was running lines with MiShaun while I worked with Tim and Leslie. I don’t know what he did last night while the girls went out.

This morning, he hasn’t spoken since murmuring, “Good morning,” in the lobby, and we’re almost halfway through our regular trail. In contrast to our comfortable silences, this quiet is awkward, as though there are words in our mouths, trapped. There’s no sound beyond our separate strides synchronizing to a singular, rhythmic footfall, the reverberations from the engine of a small plane circling above—a car dealership ad promising
NO DOWN PAYMENT!
undulating behind, and the drone of cars on a nearby street.