Not in the Script (43 page)

I walk away, but I hear a slap seconds later and glance over my shoulder to see Brett rubbing his cheek and cursing at Kimmi. She shakes out her hand and says, “I don't mind breaking a nail for a good cause.”

My only true friend here turned out to be Kimmi. How ironic.

I grab my handbag from my dressing room and race down the hall toward the parking lot, fully aware that McGregor may not let me return. But what is there to come back to, anyway?

Just as I reach the exit, footsteps pound down the hall after me. “Emma! Stop!”

Security rushes the set with McGregor blasting in with them, demanding that I explain what happened, or I would have already caught up to Emma.

I didn't stick around for the fallout, but can hear McGregor shouting at Brett halfway across the studio. When I finally hit the hallway with our dressing rooms, Emma has just reached the exit to the parking lot. I beg her to stop, but it isn't until she's only a few steps from her car that she even acknowledges me. “Please, Jake … don't,” she says. “Just let me go.”

“I screwed up, okay? I'm so sorry.”

“Want to know what I've done this past week?” Emma asks, reaching the driver's side just as I jump in front of her door. “I fired my mom, told my best friend to get a life of her own, felt ridiculously guilty over a kiss I was tricked into, and cried my eyes out while I
prayed
that you would call. What a complete waste of a sunny week in Tucson!”

“Emma …” I reach for her arms, but she takes a step back and then another—almost as if she's afraid of me. I realize then that this situation is way too similar to the one she'd been in with Troy last spring, so I stuff my hands into my pockets and give her some space. “I just assumed the worst because Brett had already been messing with my head,” I say. “And you didn't tell me about the kiss, so I figured that you … wanted it. Picked him over me.”

“That's insane, Jake,” she says. “And when did I get a chance to tell you what Brett did? This wasn't a one-minute phone call I could sneak in. But I said I needed to talk to you, remember? I just didn't expect StarTV to get involved before we had some time alone.”

“I get that now. I should've listened to your messages.” The setting sun behind her sends me back to the first time we were in this parking lot together … the day that started it all. It can't end like this. “Look, as today went on,” I say, “I realized I might be wrong and wanted to ask if we could talk after work.”

“I needed you to believe me
before
today,” Emma replies and steps closer, but only to go around me to open her car door. “I can't stop the press from broadcasting my mistakes to the world, so you'll always have reasons to doubt me, no matter what I do.” She sits behind the wheel and fastens her seat belt. “It's never going to work, Jake. It just isn't.”

I hold on to the top of the door so she can't shut it, understanding for the first time how Troy could've felt desperate enough to slam his fist through her window to stop her from driving out of his life. But I'm
not
like Troy. And yeah, I've cared about no one but myself this past week, but ultimately, I'm not like my character Justin either, who would also
make
Emma hear him out. I'm better than that.

After just one tug on the door, Emma looks up with pleading eyes.

I step back and watch her drive away.

The blowup on set happened at about six o'clock Friday night. By Saturday morning, the first day of our two-week hiatus, online gossip sites have already spread the story, and stunned fans everywhere light up the Internet—all taking sides: Bremma vs. Jemma.

By Saturday afternoon, we're breaking news on StarTV and I've been cast as the villain: “Brett Crawford accused fellow castmate, Jake Elliott, of borrowing his truck to romp around with Emma Taylor, who Crawford was seen kissing as recently as last weekend. Can you say
scandalicious
?”

There's no telling who leaked the explosion on set. It's all twisted to sound as juicy as possible, and missing the only details that really matter to me—that Brett is much more of a master manipulator than an actor, and that at some point in the past week, Emma and I broke up.

At least I think we did.

Liz says I have one week to hire a publicist, or she's forwarding all calls directly to my cell. So now I have to shell out some serious cash to have a publicist say just two words: no comment. I can think of a few short phrases I'd like to tell the press myself. For free.

I'm staying in Phoenix during our hiatus, and when my mom needs groceries on Wednesday, I make the mistake of thinking I'm still an anonymous nobody and head out. But the second I leave
her community, I'm chased by a literal motorcade of random cars with their windows rolled down and cameras flashing.

I race into the store, but the freaks follow me. The management does nothing to stop them—I'm not even sure they can—they just get into the excitement like everyone else as photographers throw out questions like, “How did you get Emma to cheat on Brett?” When I don't respond, they get downright dirty, trying to provoke me into a response—
any
response. And if that includes me shoving one of them into a shelf full of soup cans, all the better. They'll have premium pictures, a killer front-page story, and an even better lawsuit.

These scumbags have nothing to lose, and the only choice
I
have is to ignore them.

What kind of story could they possibly make up from a grocery trip, anyway?
Jake Elliott was seen Wednesday morning buying milk and butter, confirming the rumor that he and Emma Taylor are hiding out in Phoenix together, since she's also known to like dairy products. We expect to catch them buying cheese any day now. Fruit and vegetables are sure to follow
.

It's Thursday night now—nearly a week after I last saw Emma—and I'm on my mom's couch flipping through channels while I wait for Devin to show up to watch the Suns game. It was his idea. He's been dishing out nonstop apologies—for not believing Emma, or even telling me that she called him—and a truckload of pity.

But my mom … not so much.

She comes out of her room and notices I'm not studying for a test like I'm supposed to be doing. My economics textbook is on the floor, well within reach, but I've already read three hundred pages in the last few days, and I can't recall a word of it.

“Has lying on the couch all day made you feel any better?” Mom asks.

“Nope,” I reply, ditching my usual front of being
fine
. “I can't study. I can't sleep. I hate being stuck inside, but going out is a death sentence. Anything else you want to know?”

“Yes, actually,” she says, maneuvering her wheelchair right up to the couch. “When do you intend to talk to Emma? I'm sick of watching you mope around.”

“Thanks. That's just the shot in the arm I needed.”

Mom is quiet for a sec, and then she releases a long sigh. “I knew falling for Emma would have its complications. I just hoped it wouldn't hurt so much.”

“Well, it does.” I've only told my mom enough to get her to stop bugging me every five minutes. “But I blew it, and she doesn't want me back. End of story.”

“And you're okay with that?”

I sit up in a flash. “No, I'm not
okay
with it!”

“Then what are you still doing here? You've been talking up your big life plans for several years now, but it wasn't until you met Emma that you actually did something about them. So I think a girl who inspires you to go after what
really
makes you happy, and not just fame and fortune, is well worth fighting for.”

I run a hand through my messy mop of hair. “I'm past debating that. It's just … I don't know. It all seemed too perfect, and whenever I feel that way, things fall apart. Always. So I guess I just jumped ship at the first sign that it might be sinking. It was stupid.”

Mom puts a hand on my knee. “Your ships don't always sink. Yes, you once had a great dad who changed after making some bad choices. But that was his fault, not yours. And it's time the two of
us accept my fate as it is now, bound to this wheelchair. My stroke was rotten luck, that's all. But I've hated how significantly it's altered your own life. So seeing you get back to doing what
you
want to do has been very healing—for both of us, I think.”

She's never let me give up on anything. “Does that mean I have to stop pouting?”

“To be honest,” Mom replies, “your smirk is cute enough to sell suits, but your pout couldn't sell socks. Groveling, however, might look good on you.”

“Groveling,” I repeat, a word I've been thinking about all day. “Right.”

That will take a lot more than a phone call.

I've been lying flat on my bedroom floor in Fayetteville—wearing a bathrobe and a towel wrapped around my head—for over an hour. I was already living in L.A. when my parents bought this house, so without my collection of teddy bears in one corner and my movie memorabilia covering the walls, this bedroom wouldn't feel any more personal than my whiteout bedroom in Tucson.

The real difference is the
Star Wars
theme music booming from the main floor below me. Along with all the movies, my dad brought home plastic lightsabers a few nights ago, so Levi and Logan are now Jedi freaks. Mom is probably thrilled, though, since the boys have a few days off from school this week and their new fascination is keeping them busy.

Dad is always at work, so he isn't much help. And I'm pretty much worthless too.

I had stayed in bed longer than usual this morning, reliving a
dream—the kind where you keep closing your eyes again, trying to slip back into it. Jake was there, as usual, but neither of us were actors, and we were perfectly happy together. My first thought when I woke was,
See, you just need to leave the industry, and things will be much better
. And I was satisfied with that. But then I had this thought:
You were happy with Jake. Tabloids and all
.