John and I have been in tight spots before, but this is probably an all-time low. If this goes poorly, his father will torch him. I never could have imagined John throwing himself on that grenade for me. I can’t wrap my brain around it. “Look, you woke up in your room, I woke up in the guest room, and clearly she hasn’t budged from the sofa since she landed there. Maybe nothing happened.”
“Maybe,” he snorts. “Reid. Take that taxi and go home. And perform some sort of ritualistic sacrifice once you get there, man. I’ll call you later.”
*** *** ***
Emma
Derek and Emily picked me up at the airport Friday afternoon, and almost forty-eight hours later, they’re dropping me back off.
Riding in Derek’s Jeep gives me a déjà vu of my excursion to Griffith Park with Graham. I pull my hair into a ponytail and recall the pleasure of huddling together to watch the sunrise, and the feel of his mouth on my neck as he murmured you’re so beautiful. I’ve reread his note several dozen times, and only the fear of it being ripped from my grasp by a gust of wind keeps me from pulling it out now. Our three weeks are counting down.
I didn’t know, last fall, in my back-and-forth skirmishes with Reid, that this is how it’s supposed to feel. Not relentless internal questions of should I give in or am I ready yet, not a constant feeling of defending my borders—but yearning for this next step, this connection. An inherent trust that it means everything it should mean.
From the back seat, I watch Derek and Emily communicate without speaking, something they’ve probably learned to do of necessity in this open-air vehicle. Their hands are clasped over the center console—his strong, tan forearm brushing against her paler, fragile-looking skin. I can’t help but smile. Thanks to the Jeep and a host of new outdoor activities, Emily has actual tan lines. They’re the faintest tan lines ever, due to her liberal all-over use of sun block, but still.
Derek has gotten my best friend into rock-climbing recently—something that made Mrs. Watson stop speaking to him for a week except for under-her-breath asides about danger and her baby girl and imminent death. Emily says he finally made a concerted effort to explain all the details of the pulley system and the fact that as a novice Emily was always hooked up to it, in the end convincing her mother that he would allow absolutely nothing to happen to the girl he loved.
“It was all very sitcom-sappy,” Emily told me Saturday morning as we lounged in her bed. “I told Derek he wasn’t allowed to speak to my mother that way—all that mushy stuff—which of course bonded them immediately.” Her sly smile made me laugh out loud, and I wondered how Dad and Chloe would handle the news of Graham and me.
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.”