There’s more to my recuperation plan than ditching the lingering headache. My father and Chloe are arriving tomorrow and will be in Austin for five days. I’ll need my strength to deal with both the grueling filming schedule and the stress of having her that close at the same time. It’s too much to hope that she’ll recede to the background. Chloe doesn’t do background.
I’ve excused myself from tonight’s Austin nightlife tour—guys in one group, girls in the other. Room service delivers a spinach salad and the television plays music videos, volume low. Feeling restless, I wander onto the tiny balcony that overlooks the street and lean on the stone railing, staring at the big black sky, where I can only make out a few of the brightest stars. Downtown is too illuminated for star-gazing. People mill around below, and even this far up, I catch jumbled bits of conversation and laughter. And a trace of tobacco?
“Emma, hey.” Graham is two balconies over, straightening from the railing, smoking. His eyes, meeting mine, are black with the darkness and distance. He takes a drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing red near his silhouette in the dim light from the streetlamps and headlights below.
“Hey, yourself. I assumed you’d gone out with the guys.”
A momentary breeze kicks up, and he shakes the hair out of his eyes, exhales a trail of smoke that dissipates in all directions. “I decided to opt out tonight.”
I nod. “Me, too.”
He takes another drag and resumes his posture of leaning on the railing, staring down at the swirls of color and noise at street level. He doesn’t speak again, and though I’m curious about the call that interrupted our earlier conversation, I can’t think of a casual way to ask about it. I walk back into my room without interrupting his thoughts. I consider hauling one of the cushy chairs out onto the balcony to read, but if Graham is still outside, it might be awkward.
After perusing the dessert menu and convincing myself not to order a slice of double chocolate cake, I grab the novel I bought this morning and settle on the bed. My stomach growls in protest, unshushed when I mumble, “Shut up.” Opening the book, I feel the familiar brush of pleasure—the crackle of the pages and the binding, the inky smell. And then I nearly jump out of my skin when the phone on the nightstand rings at full volume.
“Hello?” I answer, heart pounding, looking for the sound control switch.
“Emma? It’s Graham. I, uh, don’t have your cell number…”
“Oh.”
“So… I ordered this chocolate cake from room service, and it’s even more monstrous than it looked in the menu… and I was thinking we could share it. If you want. I understand if you’d rather be alone, though.”
I smile, having planned for an evening of precisely that, just as I’d originally planned to run alone every morning. “I just convinced myself that I didn’t need that cake... But I guess if I share yours, it won’t really count.”
“Exactly. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I could order up coffee?” Because that’s what I need at nearly 10 p.m. when I had intentions of going to bed early—coffee.
“Sounds good.”
I call room service and then run to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I have just enough time to sweep on lip balm before Graham taps lightly on the door. When I unbolt and open it, he’s holding two forks and the most massive slice of cake I’ve ever seen. “Wow. That thing is enormous.”
“Yeah. It’s basically an entire cake.” He runs a hand through his hair and a couple of strands towards the middle stick straight up. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a worn t-shirt inscribed with the name of an indie band I vaguely recognize. Emily would know it.
We drag the chairs and one nightstand out onto the balcony, where we sip coffee and eat from opposite sides of the cake without dividing it. The muffled din of Saturday night floats up from the street below. After a few minutes of clinking forks and sighs of contentment, Graham asks what made me want to play Lizbeth Bennet, returning to this afternoon’s conversation as though the interruption occurred moments ago, rather than hours.
“What girl wouldn’t want to do an adaptation of Pride and Prejudice?” I hedge.
“She said mysteriously,” he returns, one eyebrow raised. He takes another sip of coffee, waiting, slouching into the chair, turning more fully towards me, his long legs extended.
I pull my knees up into my chair, angling to face him. “Well, like most girls in the English-speaking world, I adore Elizabeth Bennet. She’s the ultimate heroine, strong-willed and independent, intelligent, loyal, but at the same time, she’s not flawless, she’s not above mistakes, or falling in love.”
He nods. “So as soon as you knew about the film, you wanted to do it?”
Wow, he’s good.
“Not exactly. I mean, it isn’t Elizabeth Bennet, after all. It’s Lizbeth, this Americanized version. And some of the screenplay lines… I guess I’m a purist about some things, and Jane Austen is one of those things.”
“Fair enough. So when did you first read Pride and Prejudice?”
Here we go. “I don’t know. It was my mother’s favorite book. I remember her reading it aloud to me when I was very young.” My stomach pitches and I blame the sugary cake and caffeine-laden coffee, when the origin of this uneasiness is all too familiar. I evade this discussion whenever possible. I could do that now, with Graham, but I’m not going to. I want to tell him.