“So what does she think? Did she want you to do the film, or is she a Jane Austen purist, too?”
Here we go, here we go, here we go. I pick at a fingernail, staring at my hands. “She died when I was six.” The words spill out quickly, but softly, and I want to tell him everything, all of it, though I can’t say any more because I can’t quite face the bits and pieces I always fold away and shove under the surface. My father and the way we haven’t connected since we lost her. My inability to have a normal childhood because I’ve been in front of a camera, pretending to be someone else, since before she was gone. Chloe and the way she always expects to be the center of every universe near her. And I’m okay, I really am, most of the time. But sometimes, I’m just not.
Graham doesn’t speak until I look at him. His eyes hold mine, and they don’t slide away, uncomfortable with the fact that mine are brimming with tears. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he says.
I nod, take a breath, and pull a napkin from under the nearly-empty plate, pressing it under my eyes. “Thanks.”
We sit outside for a while longer, eventually talking about other work we’ve done. I tell him about the Nazi director of the grape juice commercial, and he tells me about the attractive forty-something star of an art house film he did a few years ago who showed up at his trailer door wearing a robe and nothing else.
“Do I want to know how you found out about the ‘nothing else’?”
He grimaces. “The exact way you’re thinking.”
“Eww… so did you—?”
“Um, no. I told her I had to get up early, and she said, ‘you don’t have to be scared, Graham,’ and I just blustered through it, of course, something like, ‘oh, no it’s not that, I’m just really tired.’ And then I didn’t answer my door after that. She got the idea eventually.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “I may still need therapy over that night.”
We end up sitting on my bed, six or so inches of space between us, watching a movie on pay-per-view. I fall asleep about halfway through it. When I wake up just after 4 a.m., he’s gone. The chairs are back inside, the balcony door closed and locked. The comforter is folded over me like a cocoon, and there’s a note on the nightstand.
Thanks for helping with the mountain of cake.
I’ll be downstairs at 6 if you want to run.
Graham
I set the alarm on my phone for 5:40.
Chapter 16
REID
I should be asleep until noon. Instead, I’m wide awake and staring at the ceiling by nine a.m., deciding how pissed I should be.
Between the late dinner and the martini bar last night, we drove past Brooke, Meredith, MiShaun and Jenna going into a club. Tadd pointed them out. “There go the girls—small world, huh?”
“I didn’t see Emma,” I commented.
Quinton yawned, glancing back at them through the rear window. “Yeah, I talked to Meredith earlier, on the way to the elevator. She said Emma was wavering over whether to go or not tonight. Apparently she had a monster hangover this morning.”
Meaning Graham and Emma both ditched.
“Son of a bitch,” I swore.
“What?” Quinton asked as Tadd grinned at me and shook his head. He’s always been a big fan of any girl who gets under my skin.
We were three-for-three last night, soothing the annoyance somewhat—at least until this morning. There was a bachelorette party at the bar—nine girls and three guys, and all of them looked hot. Quinton was ready to lead the offensive, but Tadd cautioned that when encountering a group like that, you have to watch out for the Cheerleader Effect: the inexplicable consequence of a few extreme hotties in a group bringing less attractive friends up to par. Possible hazardous situation. As a man of action, Quinton was skeptical.
Tadd glanced at the group surreptitiously. “Okay, look. At first glance, all three of those guys are candidates. But in reality, only one of them is one-nighter material.”
Quinton and I checked them out. “I don’t see it,” Quinton said.
“Easy—it’s the blond guy,” I said.
Tadd sighed. “Reid, you obviously have a blonde predilection—”
My palms turned up, shoulders shrugging. “Blondes are my gold standard.”
“Don’t get distracted by hair color.” He shook his head, hair falling perfectly around his face, and leaned closer. “Dudes. It’s obviously the Hispanic guy. Look again.”
Quinton stared, frowning. “I still don’t see it.”
Tadd rolled his eyes. “That’s because you are disproportionately straight.”
“Excuse me! Unless disproportionately means all—then guilty as charged. And BTW, Reid, dibs on the sister who looks like Halle Berry’s reincarnation.”
Tadd pursed his lips. “Dude, Halle Berry isn’t dead, thus she can’t be reincarnated.”
Quinton emptied his drink and got to his feet. “Whatever, man, I’m going in.”
Tadd and I each grabbed an arm and sat him back down. “Hold up, noob,” Tadd said. “Let’s get Halle and Mr. Tall Dark and Gay to bring their most attractive girlfriend and trot over here.”
Quinton sat, still unconvinced. “We can do that?”
“Watch and learn.” Tadd turned to me. “Reid, you’ve just said something incredibly amusing.” And then he laughed his patented Tadd-Wyler-Sexy-Laugh while I smiled and chuckled along.