Famous in Love

by Rebecca Serle

  “Paige Townsen on Locked, Becoming a Movie Star, and Those Rainer Rumors.”

  I scan through the article quickly. It seems harmless enough. I remember them asking me about how I got the part, what working with Wyatt Lippman was like, whether I liked living in Hawaii. Then they’d asked me about Rainer.

  Scene: “What’s it like working with Hollywood heartthrob Rainer Devon?”

  PT: “It’s great. He’s been so key in helping me adjust and understand this business. We’re really good friends.”

  Scene interviewed both Rainer and Jordan, too. Jordan is brief and professional. He talks about the film, his respect for the books. He refuses to comment on his “family drama” or the rumors about Britney. His reserve is impressive. He doesn’t hint at anything, not even slightly. His answers are crisp and clean and completely one-dimensional.

  Rainer’s are about the same until the last question.

  Scene: “Who is your celebrity crush?”

  RD: “Paige Townsen.”

  It should make me smile. The guy who likes you says in a national magazine that you’re his crush—that’s swoonworthy, I think. But it doesn’t make me feel weak in the knees. It makes me feel annoyed. The entire crew already knows, but is it too much to ask not to involve the world as well?

  Every girl would kill to be with him. You actually are. What’s the problem?

  Jordan. Jordan is the problem. This interview, this photo shoot, feels like it took place years ago. I remember the feeling of having their eyes on me, both of them. Rainer and I were hovering on the edge of something, but we weren’t there yet. So much has happened since this shoot that it might as well be someone else in the pictures. I’m not the girl who answered these questions anymore because Rainer isn’t just a friend now. Maybe Jordan isn’t, either.

  I leave the magazine on the couch and go into the bedroom. It’s only nine AM, and the book probably won’t be here for a few hours. I pull out the first book and flip to the first page. The last time I read it I wasn’t August. I was just a girl from Portland going to an impossibly improbable audition. Now everything has changed. Now I’ve kissed two movie stars, and Rainer Devon has told an international magazine that he has a crush on me.

  I start to read. It’s strange to see scenes in my mind’s eye now. What we’ve filmed, what we’ve left out, and what we still have to cover. It’s a little like being thrown into your own diary—and I find, as I read, that something has happened over the last few months: This book has become personal. It holds the key to my future. Whatever is dropped off on my doorstep in a few hours will most probably determine how I spend the next two years of my life. Like the hands of fate—something greater, higher, deciding the course my life will take. And it’s already been written.

  I keep reading until a knock comes at my door. When I open it, Jessica is standing there, a package tucked to her chest.

  “You ready?” she asks. She hands it over.

  I take it, and when I do, I notice my hands are shaking. All of a sudden, I don’t want her to leave. “Are we still going tonight?” I ask, trying to keep the interaction going.

  She nods. “Be ready at eleven,” she says. “We’re planning to get there at midnight and stay for an hour. You’ll sign books. You okay with that?”

  “Sure.” I shift the package under my arm and pull my hair over my shoulder, twisting it around my thumb.

  “I saw Scene,” Jessica says, changing the subject. “Great interview. It’s going to fly off the stands.” She smiles at me, a warm, bright, open smile, and I’m met with the desire to pull her inside, sit her down on my couch, and beg her to tell me what she thought of Rainer’s answers, whether people are going to make a big deal out of this—to make her my friend.

  She squints at me for just a moment, and I think maybe I’ve said something in my head out loud. But then she turns to go. “Enjoy!” she calls over her shoulder. “I’m actually going to try to get to the beach!”

  I close the door and toss the package on the counter. I pour a glass of water and stare at it. Then I set the water glass down and pick the package up. I flip it over. I wiggle my finger along the edge, just enough to break the seal. It reminds me of my mom at Christmas. How she always opens her presents end-first, peeling the tape back carefully, never ripping the wrapping paper. “We can reuse it,” she says whenever we complain she’s taking too long.

  But now I just want to prolong the process. I don’t know what I’m going to find in here, but I’m not sure I want to know. Whatever happens to August is going to happen to me.

  When the cardboard comes undone, I survey the cover. It’s a forest, tall oak and pine trees, and in the middle is a group of people. One I clearly recognize as August. I notice immediately that she has more of my features than the girl on the cover of the first one. Her hair is redder, her forehead higher. She is flanked by Ed and Noah, who bear a striking resemblance to Jordan and Rainer. In the background there are three people I don’t recognize: a woman, a man, and a girl about my age.

  I flip open to the first line: “If it is in forgetting that we forgive, then we are brought back only by ignorance, and never by love.”

  I flip back to the inside cover, pick up a pen, and write down two lines. I know that I should say them out loud, but I’m still not sure how.

  I’m sorry. I love you.

  Then I snap the book closed and put it back in the packaging. I’m grateful I was so careful in opening it—it fits back in exactly.

  I mark down the familiar address, the one where I’ve spent most afternoons since I was five. The one I know by heart.

  Then I tape the ends of the package, sling it under my arm, and race out the door in search of a post office. She was a fan first; she should read it first. If it weren’t for Cassandra, I wouldn’t even be here.

  Jordan is sitting next to me in the back of the car. His manager, Scotty, is driving. Scotty is about sixty-five and looks like he just stepped out of an investment bank. He’s professional, curt, and totally unchatty… which I guess fits Jordan perfectly. He doesn’t seem like he wants to talk to anyone, least of all me.

  Unlike Sandy, Scotty hasn’t been popping in and out, which makes sense. Jordan isn’t the kind of guy who would like to be babysat. But Scotty showed up today for the book release.

  There are two town cars behind us with Wyatt and Jessica and a couple of public-relations women I haven’t met and two bodyguards. I don’t think a few teenage girls are really something to prepare an army against, but I don’t ask. I don’t say anything. Jordan and I are sitting so close I can feel the static between us, but we still haven’t spoken. He’s gotten more and more distant since that day on the beach. He keeps pulling back.

  I clear my throat. It’s been sixteen minutes, someone should say something. “Did you get the book?” I ask.

  He inhales. “Yes.”

  “Have you started reading?” I turn toward him. He’s still facing front.

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t look at me, but I can see his eyes dart slightly, the gold in his pupils shooting to the left.

  “Okay.” I sit back and stare out the window, away from him. I feel him shift next to me. “Do you think there will be a lot of people there tonight?” I push on.

  He clears his throat. “Probably.”

  We sit in silence for another few minutes, the questions building up in my head like water bubbles, ready to burst: “Why does it have to be this way? Why won’t you talk to me?”

  What ends up coming out is “I miss you.” It sounds so stupid. How could I miss him? I barely even got to know him. But still, I do.

  He exhales. “Paige…”

  “Please,” I say. I’m completely facing him now, my seat belt jumbled. “Just talk to me.”

  He turns to me then, his expression dark and solid, like a piece of clay baked in the oven—he’s no longer pliable. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want to pretend that what happened at the beach didn’t.”r />
  “And how would that help things?” His tone is cold, sharp. It feels like his words could stab like icicles.

  “Should I remind you that you kissed me?” I bite my lip hard. I taste blood. It doesn’t matter who kissed who, and I can tell by the look on his face that he knows it.

  He surprises me when he says, “I know. And I’m sorry for that.”

  “I’m not.” I can feel something blaze up in my chest—that stubborn streak.

  Jordan shakes his head. “You gotta stop, Paige. It was a mistake. That’s it.”

  And just as quickly, that thing in my heart deflates. “Jordan, please. Don’t shut me out.”

  He looks at me for a beat so long I swear an entire song goes by on the radio. Then he says, “You’re lonely. Your boyfriend is gone. I’m sure once Rainer is back, things will return to normal.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Trust me, it’s easier this way.”

  “For who?” I ask. “It’s not easier for me. It’s awful.” I can hear myself pleading, my voice cracking. I’m distinctly aware of Scotty in the front seat, but I can’t help it. Something about Jordan makes me incapable of acting like a sane, rational person. Not the most awesome influence when you’re supposed to go to a very public event in about five minutes.

  “I told you. I’m not getting in the way of anything.”

  “But we can try,” I say. “Can’t we at least try to be friends?”

  His black eyes flash. “We were never just friends, were we?”

  I open and close my mouth. “No.”

  Jordan’s eyes soften, for just a moment. “Things are hard enough. You know how much Rainer hates me… what he thinks about Britney.” He’s whispering now. “I can’t be close to you. That’s just the way it is.”

  “What happened between you two?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does,” I say. I can feel the edge in my voice. The pleading. I don’t care. “It matters to me. Why do you guys hate each other so much? Is it really all about her? I won’t take sides. I just want to know.”

  I realize that I’ve moved closer to him, so close that I’m inches from his face.

  “What happened?” I say again. My hands become disconnected from my body, or my brain, and the next thing I know my fingertips are tracing the line of his scar, just like when we were at the beach. They brush over his ear and down his neck.

  “Stop,” he says, but his voice is breathless, soft. I can tell they’re just words, that they don’t mean anything, not even to him.

  “Please,” I say again.

  He looks at me, the same look he had in the beach tent. The one that makes me want to take his hand and press it up against my heart right here in the backseat of this car. “No,” he whispers. He brings his hand to my cheek. My eyes reflexively close.

  “Why?” I whisper back.

  I open my eyes and see his spark. They’re gold in the center, bright—like a camera flash. “Just trust me,” he says.

  We’re pulling into Barnes & Noble now. I can see the lines of people twirled around the shopping center like a long, sleeping snake—ready to rear its head awake at any moment and swallow us whole.

  Jordan unsnaps his seat belt and moves away from me as we pull forward. I open my mouth to argue, but Scotty turns around and gives us a pointed look. “You guys ready?”

  Jordan doesn’t respond; he just opens the door. One of the guys who works security at the hotel meets him outside. “This way, Mr. Wilder.”

  That’s when I hear it—the screaming. It’s sharp at first—a few voices—and then louder and louder, like a stereo system that’s been cranked up to full volume. But it’s not melodic. It’s manic. Loud and shrill and high and raging. I suddenly have the desire to jump under my seat and beg Scotty to turn the car around. But he’s outside, too, and before I can dive into the trunk, my door opens.

  I was once on a trip to New York with my mom—the second and only away audition we ever went on together. It was for a role on a soap opera—and after a lot of negotiating, I convinced her to go. I saved up all my summer money and worked straight through winter break to pay for it, too. We went in February. I had never experienced cold like that, ever. I remember walking out of our hotel room and being blasted by it, so overwhelming that it knocked the wind right out of me. That’s how it feels now. When I step out of the car, I can’t breathe.

  The first thought I have is to look around and see what all the fuss is about. It’s ridiculous. I know what all the fuss is about—it’s about us—but I still turn my head and glance behind me, like maybe it’s John Lennon, back from the dead.

  But no, there is no Beatle. One Direction isn’t here, either. These are Locked fans. Our fans.

  They seem to be everywhere, and when they spot Jordan, then me, it’s like they multiply. I imagine those scenes from movies where ants or spiders or cockroaches come crawling out of the walls and cover the characters in a prickly, suffocating mass. A different security guard leads me over to the line where fans are waiting to get into the bookstore. They chant our names like they’re war cries.

  “We love you!” they yell.

  How can that possibly be true? They don’t know me.

  One girl hands me a photograph. It’s of me, some promotional pic I don’t recognize. I guess they’ve been taking stills from the set and releasing them. I kind of just stand there, holding it. I feel like a complete idiot. I should sign it. I should do something. A pen materializes out of thin air, and on autopilot, I sign the photo and hand it back to her. She presses it up against her chest when I do, and I have the fleeting hope that it’s not permanent ink. I hope my words are not scrawled across her shirt, smudged and unreadable.

  I wish Rainer were here. He would know what to do. He would whisper something funny in my ear, make a joke to the crowd. He’d wink at me or catch my hand, and I’d feel centered somehow, tethered to something.

  Jordan may have saved me on the beach, but right now, in this tsunami, he is totally content to let me drown. I can’t see him from where I am, but I know he’s in front of me somewhere, winding his own way through the crowd.

  I’ve been a total fool. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s the classic bad-boy appeal. The same thing that got my sister into all that trouble. And I’m not her. I’m not willing to give up what I love for someone else. This job is what’s important to me. This opportunity, screaming fans and all. And Rainer is someone I can navigate all this with. Someone who will hold my hand and stand by me. Not someone who puts me in danger of losing everything I now have.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Close your eyes.”

  I’m sitting with Rainer on the living room floor of his condo. I managed to avoid Jordan almost entirely yesterday. Once we got inside the bookstore we took pictures with people and signed books for an hour, and then we were whisked back to the condos—this time in separate cars. Now Rainer is back, and things feel as they should. I told him about the book release, and he told me that next time he’d be here to do it with me.

  “Just give it to me.”

  He shakes his head, his golden-blond hair falling into his eyes. “Nope. Closed.”

  “Fine.” I close my eyes, and when I do he takes my hand. He holds it for a moment and then uncurls my fingers one by one. I feel it then—a cool piece of metal. Like a raindrop in my palm.

  “Okay, open.”

  I look down. Inside my hand is a cowrie charm. It’s almost identical to the one we’re using in the movie. The one August wears around her neck. The one that Noah gave her.

  “It’s beautiful,” I murmur.

  “So are you.” Rainer holds his own hand out to reveal a thin gold chain. “Do you want me to put it on for you?”

  I nod, and Rainer lifts the charm from my hand and strings it onto the chain. It slides down and then dangles, dead center.

  “Here.” He brushes my hair back and loops the chain around my neck. He fiddles
with the clasp until it catches, and I feel the gold shell cold against my chest.

  “Looks good,” he says, letting his fingertips graze my neck.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles, tucking some of my hair back behind my ear. “I had it made. I’m glad it came in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  Rainer frowns. There is something written on his face, but when I try to read it, it’s gone. “Just in time for this.” He kisses me gently, his fingertips brushing my shoulders.

  “Okay,” I say when he pulls back.

  “I can’t believe we’re almost done here,” he says. He pulls me into his arms and runs a hand through my hair. I snuggle down into him.

  “I know. Only a few days left—it’s weird.”

  “I’m sure they won’t wait too long between movies. I bet they give us four months off, at the most.”

  I loop my arm around his neck. “But the second movie isn’t even guaranteed yet.”

  Rainer looks at me and laughs. “You really need to call your agent more,” he says.

  I shove him back. “I call her,” I say. It’s just that every time we talk, she wants me to get a manager, and I’m just not sure how I feel about that. I know Sandy can’t keep doing everything forever, but I don’t know if I’m ready to commit to someone else yet. I don’t know who I trust.