“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.