By Friday night, photos of me with Reid outside LAX were plastered all over the Internet, along with rampant speculations about our possible relationship. “I figured that this crap falls under need-to-know,” Emily sighed, turning her monitor to face me. The time of day he dropped me off, some sites insisted, confirmed the probability of our having spent the night together.
I texted Graham so he wouldn’t be caught unaware, again, of a seemingly intimate photo of me with Reid. He texted back: Vultures. Thanks for letting me know.
Emily wasn’t the only one who kept an eye out for incriminating photos of me. I should have known right away from Chloe’s patronizing questions over dinner last night that she’d discovered them, too, but my mind was so occupied with thoughts of Graham and his promises for our Skype-time later that I was running on auto-pilot answers and all but ignoring her.
When she passed the vinaigrette, she said, “Emma, you sneaky thing … how was LA?”
I dribbled dressing over my salad, vowing to squeeze in a long run in the morning. “It was fine. Pretty clear this trip, actually,” I said, alluding to LA weather and the always-welcome lack of haze.
As I passed the bottle to Dad, Chloe gave him a self-satisfied see there? sort of look, which made him frown.
“Everything is definitely clearer lately.” This was a Chloe attempt at being cryptic, but nothing about my stepmother is ever obscure or even vaguely mysterious. Her thoughts and designs are transparent, unconstrained by silly social constructs like tact or poise. I’ve learned to count this as one of her positive traits, in the same way you know a shark is capable of biting your arm off because you can see the teeth.
First, I registered the fact that she called me sneaky. And then the clearer comment.
Recognition dawned. “Ah. You’ve seen photos.” I turned to Dad’s concerned eyes. “You know how Dan said that the studio wants Reid and me to look like a couple until the premiere? Well, that’s what we’re doing—just so you know. Nothing is actually going on between us.”
“Why in the world not?” Chloe was incredulous. “He’s gorgeous!”
Dad’s frown turned into a scowl. “For God’s sake, Chloe, I don’t want my daughter hooking up, or whatever, with that adolescent Casanova.”
I almost choked on a tomato hearing my father say hooking up, which he air-quoted.
Chloe sighed heavily and rolled her eyes like she was twelve. “I’m just saying that since she’s abandoning the film industry, she’s not likely to get a shot at anyone like him ever again.”
“All the better!” Dad countered, following that with a harrumph as he stabbed a forkful of salad and stuffed it in his mouth.
I glared at both of them. “Excuse me. I’m sitting right here. And in case you’ve both forgotten, I’m a legal adult, and I’m perfectly capable of conducting my own affairs… such as they are.” My face warmed, matched by Dad’s. Now probably wasn’t the time to bring up my new relationship with Graham. I cleared my throat. “I’m, uh, going to finish my salad in my room.”
Graham devoted time to me late each evening, but he was otherwise engaged in being a dad to Cara and studying for finals. He warned me that he’d be busy reviewing for exams and finishing up final edits on research papers over the coming week, and then his mouth quirked adorably. “But as of Friday, I’m all yours.”
***
I’m content to have something to distract me, even if it means hotel rooms, getting up before dawn, and spending time with Reid, driving around LA and the surrounding areas. There are a lot of hours to fill outside of the hour or so I’ll spend each night, swapping life stories with Graham and asking him in whispers to compose his alternate stories of us—fairytale lives we would have had if we’d met under different circumstances, or if we’d never been actors at all.
The story he devises tonight, my first night back in LA, supposes that we’d met as regular high school students—something neither of us had ever been.
“I’d have been a senior at seventeen, instead of a college sophomore. And you’d have been fourteen—so, a freshman—wide-eyed and innocent. Though I guess that sort of describes you now, too.” His smile is teasing, but warm. “So maybe it isn’t so difficult to imagine.”
I lean my head in my hand, my eyes drinking in his face on my laptop screen. “You would have been popular, though. Why would you be interested in a freshman when you could have had your pick of any girl in the school?”
He shakes his head. “I would have seen you the first day, trying to get your locker open.” He’s referring to the first time he saw me, in the hallway of the hotel in Austin. “Immediately intrigued, I’d have walked over, acting all cool but shaking inside, thinking who is this beautiful girl? ‘Need some help?’ I’d say, and you’d look at me, all suspicious. I’d brush your fingers aside, gently, and say, ‘What’s your combination?’ but you’d be too smart for that.”
“I would?” I laugh. “I think maybe I’d just forget it on the spot, if you talked to me.”
He laughs, too. “Nah, you’d say, ‘But I’m not supposed to tell anyone my locker combination.’ And then I’d say, ‘Don’t worry, I’m safe.’” His smile is positively wicked. I’d have melted to a puddle on the floor if he’d said any such thing to fourteen-year-old me.
“After more assurances and against all better judgment, you’d give me the combination and I’d open the locker for you. Then I’d lean on the adjacent locker and say, ‘I require a small fee for damsels in locker-opening distress, you know.’ Your suspicion would come back full-force, your eyes narrowing, waiting for me to tell you this supposed fee. I’d tell you that you had to go out with me Friday, because there’s a mandatory orientation party. And since you have to go, so you might as well go with me.”