I nod. “I’ve been to Griffith, but not for years. My family used to go hiking there.”
My memories of hiking in Griffith have been augmented with photos my parents took there when I was very young. Some are from weeks—days perhaps—before Mom began to get sick. To be honest, I’m not sure if my memories of Griffith Park—or my mother—are genuine. Almost every clear recollection I have of her was caught on film. Perhaps the real memories faded away long ago, supplanted by the unchanging photographs.
“If you climb high enough, you can see all of Hollywood,” I say. “And the sign.”
My childhood scrapbook contains a series of photos Mom took of me near my birthday every year, standing in the same exact spot on some unspecified trail of Griffith. In each of these, the Hollywood sign is stark white against the hill in the background, my own personal growth chart. In the last one, I’d turned six. Her quick downward spiral didn’t allow her to return, and Dad either forgot the tradition or didn’t have the heart to keep it up.
“That’s what I read—sounds cool. I’ll rent a car and have it brought around at, say, 5:30? We can pack coffee thermoses and catch the sunrise.” He takes my hand in his, fingers stroking the back of my arm. His eyes catch and hold mine. “Unless it would be too painful for you to go there.”
I shake my head, twisting my mother’s ring around and around on my finger. “No. I’d like to go with you.”
When Jenna starts to get in, I straighten from leaning against Graham, my hands folding primly in my lap. I feel more than hear him chuckle at my suddenly proper posture. Just before Jenna sits down, I hear Reid’s voice. “Hey, Jenna—Brooke wants you to ride with her. Wanna switch?”
“Oh. Okay, sure.”
I’m wondering at the oddity of Reid delivering a message for Brooke as he slides in next to me. Graham’s thigh tenses against mine.
“Hey,” Reid says, sticking a hand out to Graham. “How’re you doing, man?”
“Good,” Graham answers, reaching over. I sit for two surreal seconds with their hands clasped just above my lap, tension radiating from them both, though neither one’s expression betrays it.
Swinging his hair from his eyes, Reid glances at me and winks before returning his attention to Graham. His knee presses against mine as he leans forward. “Got any new projects lined up?”
My face warms as Graham’s fist clenches and unclenches once before settling on his leg. “Not right now. I’m finishing up my last semester at Columbia. You?”
“Nothing ’til fall—just trying to get into decent shape before then. I’m supposed to do some of my own stunts in the next flick. Hopefully the ones that won’t kill me.” One side of his mouth turns up and he glances at me again.
“Cool,” Graham says.
Reid clears his throat, looks back at Graham. “So—theatre degree?”
“English Lit.”
“Ah.”
Having reached the end of conversable topics, Reid sits back and they both fall silent while I sit mutely between them, contemplating how the hell I got myself into this incredibly awkward position.
When we reach the hotel, Reid slips out, turning and offering his hand. Without thinking, I take it. Pulling me alongside him, he places his opposite palm at my lower back as he smiles for the paparazzi gathered around the entrance while our bodyguards ensure that we get to the door unmolested. I have no chance to look back for Graham until we reach the lobby, at which point Reid drops his hand from my back. “We’re all meeting in my room in a little while—you’re coming, right?”
Before I reply, he turns and looks past Graham, whose eyes connect with mine. Our hours to be alone are dwindling down. Brooke walks up behind Graham, her hand coming to rest on his arm, arguably unintentional, if she didn’t do it so habitually. “Hey,” she says.
“Brooke, you told Emma and Graham about tonight, right?” Reid asks no trace of the hostility—let alone the desire to maim each other permanently—that usually colors every word they say to each other.
Graham appears as astonished as I am at this friendly exchange, especially when Brooke replies, “Oh, shit, I forgot,” without biting Reid’s head off first. Linking her arm with Graham’s, she smiles up at him, her perfect faux-tan and red-nailed talons standing out against his paler skin. “Mixer in Reid’s room! You have to come.” She turns her toothpaste-ad smile on me, saying, “Oh, and you too, Emma,” like an afterthought.
The desire to stomp on her foot returns, a hundred times stronger than it was this morning. Worse, her calculating smile says she’s more than aware of it.
*** *** ***
REID
Watching Brooke and Emma face off is possibly the most involuntarily hot thing I’ve ever witnessed. They’re subtle, and perfectly civil to each other, while under the surface lurks a murderous biting, kicking, hair-pulling, bitch-slapping violence. The only thing that would have made it better—much better, in fact—is if I was the inspiration for those vicious feelings. But no. It’s all for Graham.
I sort of get it. I mean, he’s good-looking. And he’s got that mysterious element about him that chicks are drawn to. I know his protectiveness is attractive to Brooke. When she and I were together and I got the slightest bit possessive of her—which, granted, has never come naturally for me—she loved it. In fact, the more jealous I was, the more controlling I acted, the more she liked it. Kind of freaked me out a little, actually.