by Celeste, B.
Why wouldn’t River mention it to anyone? Meeting her birth mother had to be hard, she shouldn’t have had to go through it alone. If it happened after our fallout, then I wasn’t going to be the person to be there, but she had Bridgette, Robert, and Oliver.
“She must have had her reasons, Oliver. What if this Savannah person came up to River in the same state she did Bridgette? It could have freaked her out, maybe embarrassed her. You don’t know what went through her mind, so I wouldn’t question her strength.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his jaw ticking like I hit a nerve. “You’re right.”
Nodding once, I sit back in my chair.
He studies me like he’s trying to figure something out, eyes roaming over my blank expression, until he shifts where he’s sitting.
“You know,” he murmurs, “if the circumstances were different, I would have congratulated you two. River deserves someone with a head on his shoulders. And you deserve someone who acts like they care about more than what money can buy. But I swear to God, man, if this does become something more then you need to cut ties with Isabel. For good.”
“I’ve already cut ties,” I assure him. “In fact, the last time I saw River I was going to tell her that I was ending it for good. We just never got to that point before—”
“Stop,” he groans, holding up his hand. “I really don’t need the details of you and my little sis. That’s just … weird.”
Now I roll my eyes, chuckling softly. “I wasn’t going to say anything bad, but fine. Point is, it’s just River. It always has been.”
Seriousness takes over his face. “If you really mean that, then fine. But I won’t hesitate to punch you if you screw up, Rhett. I mean it.”
Tipping my head once, I say, “I promise not to hurt her any more than I have.”
He knows what promises mean to me, so he tips his head once and moves on. “Speaking of punching, there’s somewhere else I need to be. I came right here after getting off the plane.”
Pushing himself off the chair by the wooden arms, I stand and watch him walk toward the door. “Is that all I get? You don’t hit people, I do.”
Asher Wilks wasn’t the first person I lost my shit with, just the one I got the most satisfaction from.
He glances over his shoulder. “You really aren’t keeping tabs on River, are you?” When I shake my head, he sighs and pulls his cell out of his pocket. “Stephanie has been posting pictures of them doing stuff in Cali, and Peter York likes to run his mouth and comment on some of them. I took a few screenshots before they got deleted and told Steph to block him, so he couldn’t keep doing it.”
Passing me the phone, I suck in a sharp breath when I see River. Her hair is purple, pin-straight and falling longer than I remember past her shoulders. She’s wearing makeup that makes her look older. Her eyes appear golden brown and her lips seem fuller from the pink color on them.
“She looks …”
“Different, I know,” Oliver says.
“I was going to say beautiful.”
He scoffs. “Jesus.” Ignoring the comment, he gestures toward the bottom of the image where a peter_york_ny commented using less than respectful words about River’s appearance.
My fists clench.
Oliver deposits his phone back into his pocket. “You’re more than welcome to come. I know where he is right now. But let me do the punching. I’ve been waiting a long time for a chance to knock him on his ass.”
Laughing, I tell Leigh that I’ll be away for the next two hours and to take messages if anyone calls for me.
“I always thought you liked the asshole.”
He snorts as we leave my office, my door locking behind me. “I wanted to make sure I kept an eye on him. He was after me and the position for captain. Couldn’t let him have it, so I needed to make sure he wouldn’t sabotage me.”
Considering he finished the season as Captain of the Freemont Patriot basketball team, I’d say it worked. York threw a temper tantrum and dented a few lockers in the main hall as he stormed out of Coach’s office after the news.
“Nobody messes with my little sister,” he tells me as we step into the elevator. “That means you, too, just so we’re clear.”
Oliver James, always the protective older brother. I’m glad River has him. I just hope she’ll have me.
38
River / 23
The indie film Through with Heartbreak has only one more month of filming left, which means four more weeks of working. I don’t mind, even though Bridgette and Robert told me I should be having fun instead. Working is fun, even if it’s slapping red paint on a wall or touching up something in one of the set designs.
Briggs isn’t a fan favorite among the rest of the set crew. I heard Olivia, one of the few girls who also works set, tell one of the guys that she thinks Briggs was part of some scheme at a different location, which is why he was shipped to work on a B-list movie.
I’m not sure why everyone hates him. He doesn’t say much, but he isn’t afraid to hold back criticism either. Last week, he told me that I’m not painting a mural, so I should have been done long before he came over. It didn’t bother me, maybe embarrassed me a little. A few people near me snickered, which made me blush, but Briggs told them to keep working.
I spend a lot of time watching the actors and tend to get lost in the scenes. Everyone says it won’t get any buzz because of the budget, but the story is captivating. Half the time, it’s why it takes me twice as long to finish painting something. I’m too enamored with what’s going on in front of the cameras.
During lunch break, Steph meets me outside the makeup trailer with salads she bought down the street. When Emily, one of the makeup artists, sees my hair, she gasps.
“Who did that to your precious locks?”
My roots have grown out so much that my natural auburn tone is shining through, and the purple has faded to a lackluster gray. Steph tried getting me to redo it, maybe pink this time, but I told her I wanted my old hair back. She got to play around, but changing my hair won’t actually change me.
“Steph did,” I answer, pointing my plastic fork at my best friend.
Steph sucks in a sharp breath. “Traitor!”
Emily turns her narrowed eyes on Steph. She can’t be much older than us, maybe thirty. The other makeup artist is almost forty and very sensitive about it, as we learned two weeks ago when one of the personal assistants asked her what cake she wanted. She broke down crying and locked herself in her trailer.
“Do you like it?” Emily asks me, sitting down next to Steph at the picnic table.
Taking a strand of hair and examining the bland tone it has faded into, I shrug. “It’s okay, I guess.”
Emily snorts. “Loyalty.” She eyes Steph. “I should wallop you for ruining such beautiful hair! Do you know how rare it is for people to have that color naturally?”
“Ruining?” I squeak.
Steph waves at me. “Your hair is fine. Emily is just a drama queen. I think this is her way of asking if you want your old hair back—which, by the way, I was going to ask her to do anyway when the color faded.”
I know Steph has been busy. She’s been working longer hours because costumes have needed to be tweaked for reshoots and final scenes. Sometimes she gets home later than Mason, so he and I will watch television and either order dinner or I’ll cook something for all of us. I’m no chef, but I don’t burn toast like they do. Mason has deemed me safe to use the kitchen.
Emily claps. “I have time after four-thirty. Do you want me to do it then?”
I’m done at four, so I give her a tiny nod.
When Emily is satisfied, she pops up from the table and saunters away.
Steph laughs. “She’s been wanting to mess with your hair since you started. I can’t say I blame her, even I have hair envy.”
Frowning, I touch my wavy tresses. “It isn’t that big of a deal. In fact, having this much hair has been awful in this heat. I don’t know how you do
it.”
I’ve always had long hair. It’s nearly halfway down my back now, and even longer when Steph straightens it. The problem is, it’s also thick and heavy, which is not a good combination in the high-ninety heat we’ve been experiencing.
Steph fluffs her golden locks. “It takes dedication, babe. Plus, my hair isn’t as thick as yours. Emily could totally cut it for you if you want. It doesn’t have to be super short, like to your shoulders or something.”
The idea causes me to freeze for a moment. My hair has always been a safety net for me, and even though shoulder-length is still long, it would be a huge step. I don’t really need a safety net anymore—I haven’t for years.
Going back to my half-eaten salad, I blow out a small breath. “You’re right, maybe I’ll have her cut it.”
We finish eating in silence.
By the end of the weekend, I feel like a new person. Emily said that happens when you reinvent yourself in the simplest ways; like chopping almost seven inches of hair off. The wavy tresses of auburn now rest just below my shoulders in a new layered style that makes tolerating heat easier.
I decided that having my old hair back meant having my old face back too. Steph complained all morning when I wouldn’t put makeup on. The faded scar on my bottom lip is noticeable, and my pale skin isn’t as smooth or hidden by pink blush.
Mason notices me first the first day I’m back to old River. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you really smile, River.”
The comment makes my cheeks heat, because that’s sad. It isn’t like I’m unhappy here. But playing dress-up and trying to let loose by being someone else didn’t feel right. Steph dragged me to three different clubs, where I wore a different tight dress and styled hair each time. I wouldn’t dance with anybody but her, and that became hard when guys would come up behind us and grind like their lives depended on it. Mason threatened to punch one of the jerks who came onto me and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so we left.
“I feel like me again, whoever that is.”
He watches me fill a bowl with Froot Loops that I bought yesterday at the store. “So, does this mean no more clubs?”
Shuddering, I shake my head and pour some milk over the sugary cereal. “No more clubs.”
Steph walks in the room. “You two are so boring. Why do I love you?”
“Sex,” Mason replies.
His reply makes me laugh, though my face is probably red. I don’t really care about PDA or sex jokes. I’m no prude, obviously. But sex is still a weird topic, especially because the last time I had it was with a man in a relationship. Mind-blowing or not, it was wrong. It’s never something I talked about with him before, it just sort of happened. And before him was my lackluster experience with Asher Wilks, and I prefer not remembering that giant mistake.
“Anyway,” Steph directs, looking at me devouring my breakfast, “I should have an early day today since they’re finishing up final scenes before the reshoots. Since Briggs will probably do the same with you, I was thinking we could hit some local stores. I have an extra paycheck I want to spend.”
Mason groans. “Babe, last time you said that you brought home enough clothes to fill another closet.”
She pats his clean-shaven tan cheek. “At least I didn’t buy the goat that old man on the corner was trying to sell me. It was super cute.”
He grumbles out something sounding like an agreement. Steph pecks his cheek and turns to me expectantly.
“So?”
My shoulders rise. “Sounds fun to me. I think Briggs mentioned to the crew yesterday that we were stopping at one because we’d be busier next week when they start re-filming.”
She jumps and claps, her bouncy white blouse exposing her trimmed stomach. I remember when she first moved to Los Angeles to attend UCLA. She was approached by an agent who told her she had the perfect figure to model, which fed into her teenage dreams. But after one photoshoot for some fancy clothes designer, she decided she hated it and kept studying design at college.
Work goes by quickly, and while I wait for Steph to finish up some last-minute adjustments on an outfit, I hang out outside her trailer.
Briggs is sitting at a picnic table eating, so I wander over and sit down. I know him well enough not to be scared. In fact, I like Briggs and his no-bullshit demeanor. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I appreciate people who don’t hide behind masks and lies.
“What do you want, kid?” He says it with a mouthful of food, but it doesn’t bother me. Oliver used to do the same thing when it was just us.
My stomach grumbles when I smell the peanut butter coming from the potato bread he’s holding. It makes me want apples, but I tell myself to let it go. At least for now.
He gives me a funny look then reaches into his lunch pail and pulls out another half. Passing it to me, he tips his chin at it. “Anyone tell you that you’re too skinny?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” He bites into his PB&J. “Not sure if you like peanut butter and jelly, but I noticed you didn’t eat earlier with the others.”
My mouth waters. “I don’t want to eat your lunch. Plus, one of my friends and I are going out. I thought maybe we’d get something to eat then.”
He studies me for a second with an expressionless face. There’s no confusion, interest, or anger. Just … indifference. “You should probably eat to tide yourself over. I heard the lead had a meltdown over her outfit for the last scene, so your friend is going to be in there for a while.”
To make his point, he pushes the sandwich bag closer to me. “Why are you being nice to me? I mean, thanks, but why?”
“You don’t annoy me … much.”
His response makes me crack a smile, and it’s all I need to pull the sandwich out and take a bite. The creamy peanut butter hits my tongue and makes my stomach sing in praise.
I heard about Jasmine Phillip’s breakdown, but didn’t realize Briggs paid any attention to cast drama, much less that Steph is my friend. We’re kind of alike, both wallflowers noticing the little things most others don’t.
“So, what’s your story?” he asks, balling up his empty sandwich bag and stuffing it back into his lunch pail. He opens a bag of potato chips and dumps it onto an unused napkin between us.
“What do you mean?” I reach for a chip and bite down onto it.
He leans back, folding his arms onto the edge of the table. “Everyone comes to L.A. for a reason, but you’re not like half the wannabes that show up here. You have a story.”
Staring at the sandwich, I think about my little story and how much I don’t want to talk about it. “Um … I came here to get away for a little while. Steph—Stephanie is my best friend. We grew up together in New York. She offered me a space to escape, and here I am.”
He accepts the answer and continues eating, not bothering to ask questions. Instead, he says, “I came here when I was twenty-three for a girl. That was, what? Over thirty years ago now. Shit, I’m old.”
He’s over fifty, hardly old. But I guess in this world it is. I’m glad I don’t live in it fulltime, because there’s no way I’d fit in or survive.
“Did it work out with the girl?”
He laughs, but it’s dry. “Nah. She entertained me for about a year before she met someone bigger and better. You know how it is, kid. People around here want success, not love.”
That’s so sad. “You really loved her?”
“Sure did.” He brushes off crumbs from his hands and sits back. “But it wasn’t real love or she would have stuck around.”
I frown, suddenly worried over what Everett must think. I’m no expert on love, but I don’t want him to think that I’m not in it with him. “What if she didn’t stick around because she needed space?”
He eyes me, head tilting. “Ah. I see.”
He sees what?
He nods, crossing his arms over his chest like I’ve seen Robert do when he gets all serious. “The escape you came here for is from a guy
, huh? Well, let me tell you something, kid. Laura, that’s the girl I followed here, has always wanted to be famous. When she met a rising star one day in town, it didn’t matter that I came hundreds of miles to be with her. I thought she’d come back because that’s what people in love do. But love isn’t that simple, there are all different kinds. I suppose we were in lust, or some lower level of love that made it easy for her to leave when the moment suited her.”
My chest feels heavy.
He nods toward my food as if to say, eat up, so I take another bite. “Was it easy coming here and leaving him?”
“No, of course not.”
“That’s a good sign then.”
“Do you believe in that? Signs, I mean.”
His lips press together in contemplation. I’m surprised he hasn’t told me to go away yet or to stop talking. Briggs is a cool guy. He reminds me of Robert, and it makes me homesick.
“Signs are what people bank on when there’s too much doubt in something they want to believe,” he tells me slowly. “I looked for signs that would tell me Laura was coming back and dumping the tool she left me for.” He shrugs loosely, like he doesn’t care. “You can ask the universe for a sign or guidance, but it won’t do you a lick of good, kid. We see what we want to when we’re good and ready.”
Playing with the crust on the bread, I contemplate his answer. He’s not wrong, I guess. I used to rely on signs all the time when I was younger and waiting to be saved. Nothing ever happened and the hope fizzled out.
“Did you see what you wanted?” My voice is quiet, unsure. It’s none of my business what happened to him, but he’s still here after moving for somebody that didn’t love him back. It seems like there’s a reason he stayed behind and maybe it’s a good one.
“I found love in other things. Work.”
