Between the Lines (27 page)

“I visited him
twice
, not including that first night, besides which, what is your deal?”

“What is my deal? We haven’t talked about
my
problems with Derek at all, and you aren’t here to help me find a dress for homecoming, which by the way is like four days away and I’m royally stressing over it; all we ever talk about is you and your issues with
this
hot guy and
that
hot guy and it’s like I don’t have a best friend at all.”

“Emily, if you want to talk about something just talk about it, and it’s not like I can just drop my life because you need a
dress
—”

“I haven’t even
bought
a dress since I was ten or twelve—”

“You got one for Grant’s graduation from Penn State! That was like two years ago!”

“Whatever!” she huffs, cutting me off. “That’s not even important!”

“What the hell
is
important? Emily, I can’t believe you’d do this to me right now.”

“You can’t believe
I’d
do this to
you
? Classic. Because
you’re
the one who needs the attention, right? And I’m the one who
gives
the attention. You’re the one with the spotlight, and I’m the one to the side. And who gives a shit about my problems? Clearly
not you
. You know what? Nevermind. I don’t need your help or your support, I have Mom.” The line clicks, and she’s gone.

I sit on the bed in my hotel room, staring at the phone in my hand, my breath coming thin and shallow, tears welling up and spilling over. There are too many things to feel at once, and all of them are bad. I’m an attention whore, and she doesn’t need me? She has a mom, and I don’t? Is that what she actually meant to say? I feel my heart pounding, hard and fast, hear it echoing in my ears. My face feels hot and I think I might be sick.

And then all I can think is: did Emily just break up with me?

***

Several sleepless hours later, I don’t mention my fight with Emily to Graham during our run, though he notices something is wrong not long after we start out.

“You okay, Em?” This is the only time he’s ever called me by the nickname Emily and I have called each other since we were five, and it’s all the push my emotions need. My eyes water and I dash tears away, mumbling some excuse about pollen counts and allergic reactions.

I’ve never had allergies a day in my life, but this week I appear to have the worst case ever. I don’t think he’s buying it, and after a couple of days, I text him that I should probably avoid the pollen and take a break from running. He texts back, asking if there is anything he can do. All I can say is no. Which is utterly true.

I alternate between wanting Emily to see nothing but pictures of me smiling and having a good time plastered all over her damned browser, and not wanting her to see photos of me at all because it would justify what she said. While everyone else goes out to unwind after long days of filming, I stay in and order room service, study the prep book, work the practice tests, and blame the SAT and fictitious allergies for my reclusive behavior and constant sniffling. Brooke offers her prescription allergy meds while Meredith pushes the holistic cures her homeopathic doctor recommends.

Emily’s homecoming comes and goes, and she never calls.

I don’t know if she found a dress, or if Derek convinces her he doesn’t want her to change who she is, or if she misses me at all.

I’m spending an hour every morning pressing ice cold rags to my eyes, trying to get the swelling down from crying myself to sleep.

I’m equal parts broken and mad as fuck.

Emily would know what mad as fuck is.

Chapter 36

REID

I’m supposed to start filming tomorrow, though my doctor and production are only allowing a few hours per day. I’m ready to get back to it, and it’s beyond frustrating. “Half a day is better than no day,” Richter tells me. “I’m happy I can use you at all.”

Emma sits next to me, translating a passage from a French novel. Or I think she is, until she says, “Eww. Did you just… kill that thing… with a
skillet
?”

I bury an ax in the shoulder of the next zombie and lop off an arm. “Damned… undead.” I meant to nail him in the head. “Technically, you know…” I sever the next zombie’s head from its body with the ax and she makes another disgusted sound, “…it was a frying pan.” I glance at her again, laughing at the revolted look on her face—one side of her upper lip raised like a sneer. Pausing the game, I lean into her line of vision. “I have to be ready to protect you, since you suck so bad at killing zombies.”

She rolls her eyes and I kiss her, pushing her book off of her lap and ignoring her feeble protests. I slide an arm around her. “Makeout break.” That’s all the warning she gets.

I press her back into the pillows, following her carefully, because stretching at the wrong angle still hurts like hell. “Are you sure you’re okay to… you know…” she says.

Leaning above her, I smile. “To what? Kiss and touch you until you throw me down and have your way with me? Yes, I’m plenty up to that.”

She sighs and laughs, and I figure at this point we don’t need to talk anymore.

***

One thing that doesn’t happen often is finding myself alone with Graham Douglas. Most people are fairly uncomplicated, once you know their motivations. I was certain one of his was Brooke. But even though he stays near her, he watches Emma as well. I’d be stupid not to notice. And I’m not stupid.

At the moment, he and I are standing next to each other, waiting to film the only scene featuring just the two of us in the entire movie. I’m wondering if he’s doing Brooke, if he has plans to try with Emma as well.

“How’s it going?” His expression is relaxed, but tension runs between us like a taut wire. I wonder whether plucking it would disclose where we stand more clearly.

“Good.” I nod. “Emma says I should thank you for summoning the doctor the other night. I was too out of it to be aware of anything.”

He half-shrugs. “Yeah, I noticed. Glad I could help.”

I’m trying to find the condescension I expect from someone who hangs out with Brooke and might have plans to bang the girl I intend to hook up with, but I can’t find it. Either he’s
really
good at hiding it, or it’s not there. The PA calls us to our places.

“Yeah, well, thanks.”

 “No problem,” he says.

*** *** ***

Emma

I’m running with Graham this morning for the first time in a week, and he hasn’t mentioned my allergy Armageddon. We’ve discussed auditions at Julliard and studio placement at NYU, but there’s something unsaid under the college talk, and I wait for him to sort out whatever’s weighing on his mind. He pretends not to notice the one time I say “huh,” which seems like a clue. Like he’s afraid to upset me.

“So, is everything okay with you and Reid?” he finally asks as we hit our turnaround point.

“Yeah. He’s definitely feeling better.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Um… I mean between the two of you… is everything okay.”

I blink up at him and realize from the way he
isn’t
looking at me that he’s uncomfortable asking this question, that this is the thing he’s been withholding for twenty minutes. I think about what Reid and I have been doing lately and feel a trace of guilt, even though what Reid and I do is no more his business than what he and Brooke do is mine. “Um, yeah, it’s fine. It’s great.”

“Oh. Okay. Good. I’m not trying to pry—I just wanted to make sure. You know, that you’re okay. And you know you can talk to me, if you need to talk, vent, whatever.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.” I can’t imagine talking to Graham about Reid.

Our kiss on my bed has never been mentioned, or repeated, or even nearly repeated. It’s as though it never happened at all. I wish I could forget it as easily as he’s been able to, and most of the time the memory of it is neatly filed away—zip, zip, gone—but every so often I think about it and
God
.

We’ve also never talked about Reid kissing me in front of hidden-camera-wielding, photo-uploading Reid Alexander fans. So I have no idea if the reason Graham withdrew was because I kissed Reid the next day, or because of Brooke, or because kissing me simply didn’t do anything for him. I guess in the end it doesn’t matter which reason it was.

I consider asking for his advice concerning my fight with Emily, but just thinking about her makes me tear up, and I’m determined not to start crying again while I’m out in public. So I don’t say anything. And after a few minutes, he mentions something about filming tomorrow and the moment is past.

Today is the one week anniversary of our fight. Emily and I have never gone more than three days without talking or texting each other, usually not twenty-four hours. I’ve begun texts and emails to her at least fifty times, I’ve clicked her speed dial number and
almost
hit talk, but I don’t know what to say.

How do you apologize for living your life?

***

Reid started short stints of filming this week, though his doctor limited him to three hours per day max. The problem is, there are a lot more hours remaining in his day, and not a lot to fill them. I have several hours of filming daily, plus class work, plus studying for the SAT. By Sunday afternoon, I’m playing catch-up before beginning another week of filming.

“Tell me again why you’re taking the SAT?” He stretches, pauses the game and reaches for me.

“College?” I shove the math prep book off of my lap as he kisses me. We’re sitting in the middle of his bed, remnants of our room-service lunches on trays at the foot of the bed, game controllers and study implements surrounding us.

He takes the pencil from my hand and tosses it onto his bedside table, his brow furrowed. “Yeah, but, why?”

Meredith and Brooke asked the same question, with the same perplexed look. Our kind tends not to pursue higher education. What reason is there, when our career paths are right in front of us, and time off would result in forfeited film roles and lost momentum? Both of them dismissed Jenna as some sort of oddity because of her academic family.

Is it enough to say that it’s what normal people do? (Probably not, because all of them would ask me why I’d want to be
normal
.)

“I don’t know, Reid. I just want to go, all right?”

“Okay, I’m just curious. Seems like a lot of work.” He pulls me onto his lap.

“Be careful,” I say, uneasy, but he only shrugs.

“I’m fine. My doctor said I’ll be able to start some light workouts with my trainer next week.” He tips my chin back to kiss my neck. One arm supports me as the other unbuttons the top buttons of my shirt, his mouth following his fingers. Nudging the fabric aside, he runs his tongue over the upper curve of my breast, and I close my eyes and try to breathe.

Fifteen minutes later, his shirt is off, mine is completely unbuttoned and I’m straddling him. He runs his hands up and down my back before nudging the straps of my bra off of my shoulders. “God, Emma, you’re so hot. I can’t take this anymore.” His kisses my shoulder, moving towards my throat. “Do you want me to beg? I’m begging. Jesus Christ, you’re killing me with wanting you.”

“But your incision,” I say, gasping at what his mouth is doing—soft little sucking bites along the curve of my neck.

“Fuck the incision, I’d gladly go back in and have it sewn up again. I want you, and I don’t care about anything else.” He pulls me tight and kisses me, almost too fiercely.

“But…” I’m caving—oh, boy am I caving. My brain casts around for an excuse. “I’m supposed to meet Meredith in half an hour to do econ homework, and after that everyone is going out...”

“Tonight, then.” His tone is resolute, his hands gripping my hips. “After we come back from whatever we’re doing, and everyone is safe in their rooms, I want you, back here, in my bed.” He stares into my eyes. “Say yes, Emma. Please.”

I tell myself that I’m only scared because I’ve never done it. Maybe once it’s over it won’t feel like such a big deal. “Yes,” I answer in the smallest possible voice.

“That’s my girl,” he says, kissing my now-bruised lips more softly, and a thrill runs through me at his words. And then I want to run to my room and hide in the closet. I knew this was coming, we were getting closer every day, but suddenly it’s here and I’m petrified.

He laughs softly. “I can wait. What’s another—” he looks at his watch “—four or five hours.”

***

Every time I think about tonight I break out in a cold sweat, so any distraction is good, even homework. Meredith and I spend an hour on economics (“I fail to see why I will
ever
need to know this stuff,” she says) before we give up and decide that supply and demand can wait. We have to dress for a cast field trip to a new dance club.

“Reid’s looking restored to almost full health.” She gathers her hair up at the crown and lets it fall, draws it up and lets it fall again. “What do you think—up or down?”

“I like up. It’s different for you.” I don’t reply to her comment about Reid, though thanks to that my hands are shaking just enough to make applying mascara dangerous.

“I agree. Up. Robby likes it down, so whenever we go out I don’t get to put it up.”

I stand there watching her in the mirror, holding the mascara wand aloft like I’m about to conduct with it. “Robby
likes
it down?”

“Yeah… um, we got back together last night.” She smiles mischievously, examining her own reflection. “He’s coming down this weekend.”

I barely manage to keep from blurting
What the hell are you thinking?
“So he’s going to be less possessive, and stop accusing you of stuff you aren’t doing?”

“He promises to trust me more.” She begins to pin locks of her hair up. “He knows he was being jealous for no reason before. He’s going to change.”

“Hasn’t he said that before?” Somehow she missed my cynical tone.

“I really think he means it this time,” she says, utterly blissful and trusting.