“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine as long as I don’t move at all.” He takes my hand and pulls me closer, so that I’m kissing him. “Mmm, better.” His blue eyes open and he lifts a hand to my face, fingers coaxing me forward, into another kiss. “Much better.”
Chapter 35
REID
I move back to the hotel to recuperate while everyone else continues filming around the scenes I’m supposed to be in, leaving me bored as hell. I’ve never had to sit out before—no illnesses, no injuries. Dad would be shocked to know I’m losing it over not being able to work.
Everyone drops in occasionally to hang out, and Emma keeps me company whenever she’s free, which isn’t often on filming and class days. Having her near naturally results in us getting physical, but there’s only so far I can go without pain. For days now, we’ve been kissing and touching for one or two hours straight. Emma is leaving my room more breathless after these restrained makeouts than she ever has.
Today I went on location to watch her film a scene. My leaving the hotel room caused Andrew so much stress that we thought his head would explode. He threatened to call my doctor, my father and George. I glared at him and suggested a cigarette break. He spun on his heel and stomped from the room.
Emma has been anxious about this scene, which includes Leslie and Tim, both Oscar contenders, as well as Jenna, the perpetually self-confident fifteen-year-old. The majority of primary dialogue is Emma’s, though, and the timing has to be perfect for all of them. They get the scene done in only two takes plus some set-ups. Richter, ecstatic, lets all of them go for the day, leaving Emma feeling a little smug. Of course I’ve witnessed her acting ability firsthand, but observing from the sidelines is different. Filming a scene, you pay the most attention to your own performance; everyone else’s performance is secondary. Today, I had nothing to do but watch her.
In the car back to the hotel, I raise the privacy glass between us and the driver, settle her legs across my lap carefully, stroke my fingers over her knee, teasing under the edge of her skirt. Her eyes are heavy as she waits for what I’ll do next. “You’re a natural, you know,” I say. Her brows rise and she colors deeply. I laugh, squeezing her leg lightly and kissing along her jaw. “A natural at that, too, and I’ll convince you of it soon. But I mean—you’re a natural on film.”
She scowls and I run my finger over the spot between her eyebrows. “Don’t do that, you’ll get a frown crease.”
“What do you mean—‘natural on film’?”
Why this observation would insult her is beyond me. “Your stepmother told me you’d wanted to do theatre at one time, not film. I can relate—I did some community theatre when I was a preteen. It was fun. But we’re both naturals on film, that’s all I’m saying.” The scowl increases at mention of her stepmother. I’ll have to remember not to bring her up again.
“I did want to do theatre; I do want to do theatre. But if it has to be film, I’d prefer something more serious than, you know, what we’re doing now.”
“Serious, like, limited run, indie stuff?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Except in extremely rare cases, independent films make little to no money, and hardly anyone sees them. They’re the film version of literary fiction. “Why would you want that, when you can do something that will be wide-released into hundreds of theaters across the country and across the world, will make you crazy famous, sell a ton of DVDs in a few months, and when all is said and done will earn you a ton of money?”
“So, crazy famous and disgustingly rich is worth more than doing something that might have a social impact or garner critical acclaim.”
“Hell, yeah. It’s not like we’re doing porn.” She blanches and I laugh. Oops. “God, you should see your face.”
“Yep, I’m a riot.”
“Look, I get what you’re saying, I’m just happy doing what I’m doing, that’s all.” I pull her closer and kiss her. She hesitates for a moment and then sighs, kissing me back. My hand inches up her thigh under the skirt until my fingers graze her hip.
The car comes to a stop in front of the hotel and Emma scrambles to pull herself out of my arms before the door opens. Bob and Jeff are waiting, as are a few photographers and fans. I wave and smile, giving her the chance to smooth her skirt back over her legs. I tuck her arm through mine as we walk into the hotel, people calling, “Reid! Emma! We love you!”
Independent films my ass. Who wouldn’t want this?
Emma
I’ve sort of neglected studying for the SAT until tonight, when Emily mentions it right after she tells me the latest rumors—about myself.
We agreed a couple of weeks ago that Emily will check fansites and inform me on a need-to-know basis only. Before she took over researching the dirt about me, I occasionally read through it. Bad. Idea. For instance, some fansite declared that I’m the most unattractive star in Hollywood and I have no right dating someone as “hot and delicious” as Reid.
Definitely not need-to-know. Emily is my first line of defense.
“There’s a photo of you and Graham running… And several sites are arguing whether or not he’s coming between you and Reid. One suggested that you guys go for runs right after you roll out of bed… together.”
“Wow, great. So now I’m sleeping with two guys. What, they couldn’t get a photo of me and Quinton? Or hey, how about me and Brooke? I mean who cares what’s true or not.”
“Did you get that SAT prep book I suggested?”
I’m thrown by the sudden change of subject. “I got it, but I really haven’t had time to go through it.”
“Emma, I know in your world the SAT doesn’t seem like a major deal, but it can determine where you go to college. You should already be halfway through the guide by now.”
“I know it’s important, but I’ve been really busy…” (My world? What does that mean?)
“Busy making out with Reid Alexander, hanging out all day and every night with all the other celebrities, you mean?”
“Emily, really?” I think I’ll wait to tell her about the increased makeouts… and the fact that I think I’m almost ready to sleep with him.
“You’re always complaining about being busy, but you’re all over Austin—shopping here, drinking and partying there, visiting Reid a dozen times while he was in the hospital—”
“I visited him twice, not including that first night, besides which, what is your deal?”
“What is my deal? We haven’t talked about my problems with Derek at all, and you aren’t here to help me find a dress for homecoming, which by the way is like four days away and I’m royally stressing over it; all we ever talk about is you and your issues with this hot guy and that hot guy and it’s like I don’t have a best friend at all.”
“Emily, if you want to talk about something just talk about it, and it’s not like I can just drop my life because you need a dress—”
“I haven’t even bought a dress since I was ten or twelve—”
“You got one for Grant’s graduation from Penn State! That was like two years ago!”
“Whatever!” she huffs, cutting me off. “That’s not even important!”
“What the hell is important? Emily, I can’t believe you’d do this to me right now.”
“You can’t believe I’d do this to you? Classic. Because you’re the one who needs the attention, right? And I’m the one who gives the attention. You’re the one with the spotlight, and I’m the one to the side. And who gives a shit about my problems? Clearly not you. You know what? Nevermind. I don’t need your help or your support, I have Mom.” The line clicks, and she’s gone.
I sit on the bed in my hotel room, staring at the phone in my hand, my breath coming thin and shallow, tears welling up and spilling over. There are too many things to feel at once, and all of them are bad. I’m an attention whore, and she doesn’t need me? She has a mom, and I don’t? Is that what she actually meant to say? I feel my heart pounding, hard and fast, hear it echoing in my ears. My face feels hot and I think I might be sick.
And then all I can think is: did Emily just break up with me?
Several sleepless hours later, I don’t mention my fight with Emily to Graham during our run, though he notices something is wrong not long after we start out.
“You okay, Em?” This is the only time he’s ever called me by the nickname Emily and I have called each other since we were five, and it’s all the push my emotions need. My eyes water and I dash tears away, mumbling some excuse about pollen counts and allergic reactions.
I’ve never had allergies a day in my life, but this week I appear to have the worst case ever. I don’t think he’s buying it, and after a couple of days, I text him that I should probably avoid the pollen and take a break from running. He texts back, asking if there is anything he can do. All I can say is no. Which is utterly true.
I alternate between wanting Emily to see nothing but pictures of me smiling and having a good time plastered all over her damned browser, and not wanting her to see photos of me at all because it would justify what she said. While everyone else goes out to unwind after long days of filming, I stay in and order room service, study the prep book, work the practice tests, and blame the SAT and fictitious allergies for my reclusive behavior and constant sniffling. Brooke offers her prescription allergy meds while Meredith pushes the holistic cures her homeopathic doctor recommends.
Emily’s homecoming comes and goes, and she never calls.
I don’t know if she found a dress, or if Derek convinces her he doesn’t want her to change who she is, or if she misses me at all.
I’m spending an hour every morning pressing ice cold rags to my eyes, trying to get the swelling down from crying myself to sleep.
I’m equal parts broken and mad as fuck.
Emily would know what mad as fuck is.
Chapter 36
REID
I’m supposed to start filming tomorrow, though my doctor and production are only allowing a few hours per day. I’m ready to get back to it, and it’s beyond frustrating. “Half a day is better than no day,” Richter tells me. “I’m happy I can use you at all.”
Emma sits next to me, translating a passage from a French novel. Or I think she is, until she says, “Eww. Did you just… kill that thing… with a skillet?”
I bury an ax in the shoulder of the next zombie and lop off an arm. “Damned… undead.” I meant to nail him in the head. “Technically, you know…” I sever the next zombie’s head from its body with the ax and she makes another disgusted sound, “…it was a frying pan.” I glance at her again, laughing at the revolted look on her face—one side of her upper lip raised like a sneer. Pausing the game, I lean into her line of vision. “I have to be ready to protect you, since you suck so bad at killing zombies.”