by Amy Finnegan
Emma tosses me her familiar smirk. “Prison, huh?”
I nod solemnly. “You know those tags on mattresses that say it’s a crime to cut them off? I got a bit carried away one day.”
“I see,” Emma replies. “Then that explains why McGregor felt you had that America’s Most Wanted look he was after.”
Emma
“America’s Most Wanted,” Mrs. Elliott repeats, her laughter more robust than I expected. Her appearance is almost the opposite of Jake’s; she’s petite—and looks even more so in her wheelchair—with fair curls that rest on her shoulders. She definitely gave Jake his green eyes, but his height and dark hair must’ve come from his dad, who I don’t see any hints of around the house. “Jake is always needing new friends to put him in his place, so I’m glad you met.”
Mrs. Elliott seems far too young, maybe fifty, to have had a stroke. The left side of her body seems fine—strong, even—but the right side has very little movement. When she smiles only half of her face responds, but both of her eyes totally light up. And even though her speech is slow and a bit slurred, I can understand her okay.
I’m guessing Jake got his wit from her too. She seems like one of those cool moms.
“We all do our best to keep Jake humble,” I say. “It isn’t easy, though. Not many actors walk into a studio with the natural talent he has. The whole crew has been talking about that.”
“What set are you working on?” he asks me. “Pretty much all I’ve heard is, ‘You’re looking straight at the camera again. Watch that cord. Missed your cue.’”
I shake my head in his mom’s direction. “Maybe for the first few days, but he’s caught on really fast. It’s kind of confusing for a while and there’s a lot to get used to—stuff all over the floor that you have to watch out for but not notice, and crew members everywhere that you can’t look at. Then there’s a boom mic right above your head that you have to ignore. And sometimes you’re even saying your lines into thin air, pretending that someone’s actually talking back to you. It can make you feel kind of psychotic, having conversations with invisible people.”
“I can’t understand why. I do it all the time,” Mrs. Elliott says. “Oh! Hello, Charlie!”
I turn around to see who she’s waving to, and Jake laughs louder than I’ve ever heard him. “Did you really fall for that?”
“Jacob!” his mom says, obviously trying to hold back her own laughter.
I throw my hands over my face. “I thought that, you know, you must’ve had a brother named Charlie.”
“Sorry,” Jake says, still laughing. “I only have a sister.”
“Well, I don’t see her anywhere, so she must be invisible too.”
“Amber is in a study-abroad program in Italy,” Mrs. Elliott explains. “She came straight home after my stroke, but when I regained my senses enough to realize my kids had put their lives on hold for me, I snapped the whip and sent them away again.”
I’m convinced now that there isn’t a father in the picture. But where is he?
Jake’s more somber eyes meet mine, and he says, “Amber applied three times for her art program in Florence—it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing. She’ll be there for another year or so.”
“Yes, and she wouldn’t be there at all if it wasn’t for her younger brother,” Mrs. Elliott says, and Jake freezes, his hamburger halfway to his mouth. “I won’t allow you to be humble about that, Jacob. Her scholarship doesn’t cover even half of her expenses, and she’d never stay put if you weren’t constantly convincing her that you’re taking care of me. Which you are.”
“That’s … um, wow,” I say. If Jake is trying to pull off some elaborate hoax—to fool me into believing he’s the best guy on the planet—his mom is in on it.
Jake’s attention lingers on his mom for a second; then he shifts it back to me. “I only help Amber out because she drives me nuts if she’s around here. There’s some of her work, though.” He motions to a pair of paintings behind the sofa. “Pretty good, huh?”
“Amazing, actually.” I leave the table to take a closer look at two oil paintings of shorelines, each with a lighthouse. If I didn’t know they were painted by Jake’s sister, I could’ve easily assumed they were from a seaside gallery in Santa Barbara or Monterey.
Hanging between the paintings is a matching quilt. “Oh my gosh,” I say, noticing how complicated the pattern is, almost like a glass mosaic with tiny pieces of coordinating fabrics pieced together, but it’s done to perfection. “Did Amber make this too? Quilting is a big thing back home, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“My mom made it,” Jake says, and I turn around with a grin. It’s hard to hold this expression, though, when I see that Mrs. Elliott’s smile has a hint of sadness in it—she can’t quilt anymore. “She’s made a hundred or more quilts as cool as that one, mostly for others.”
“I had another one three-quarters done when this darn stroke happened,” Mrs. Elliott says. “And as soon as I get my right arm working again, I’ll finish it.” She looks over at Jake. “I go to a terrific physical therapist a few times a week.”
“Mom likes PT,” Jake says, “because she thinks her therapist is cute.”
Mrs. Elliott doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. “And he’s single, and always easy to talk to,” she says. “Which reminds me, I should increase my visits.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” Jake replies. “He seems a little too serious for you.”
“Son, at my age, I’m lucky to meet a man with his own teeth and hair.”
Jake laughs. “Then I guess you better grab him before anything falls out.”
I take another look at the wall and say, “I’ve never quilted, Mrs. Elliott, but I do know how to sew a bit. So if you wouldn’t mind teaching me the basics, I’d love to come another time and help you finish the quilt you’re working on.”
All she needs is an extra hand, right?
“Would you really?” she asks in a tone of disbelief. “It’s an awfully long way to drive.”
“No problem,” I reply.
I turn back to find Jake staring at me, a slow smile developing on his face. “I, uh … I’m gonna load up my boxes,” he says. “You two can talk about quilting, but not about me. Don’t talk about me.”
“So, about that time he spent in prison,” Mrs. Elliott says as Jake walks off. But we really do end up talking about quilting, and she glows as she explains the process. From choosing fabrics to cutting each tiny piece and setting up the frame, to threading needles and stitching one careful stitch at a time—it all sounds exhausting. But it’s clear that quilting means as much to Mrs. Elliott as acting does to me.
It isn’t just a hobby, it’s part of who she is.
How would I feel if by some bad twist of fate, I couldn’t do what I love most? The thought makes me a little sick inside, and I have to swallow down a lump in my throat so I can talk again when Jake returns. “All right, we’re ready to go,” he says.
Mrs. Elliott and I express how nice it was to meet each other, and I tell her that I’m entirely serious about helping with the unfinished quilt. Then Jake and I head for the front door.
“It was good to meet you too, Charlie,” Jake says with a cheerful wave to the invisible man behind his mom. “I always wanted a brother.”
I smack his arm. “That’s the last time you’ll ever tease me about Charlie.”
“I seriously doubt it,” he replies.
Once we’re in the car, Jake tells me how much he wishes his mom could at least quilt. He says he’s hired a housekeeper who not only cleans, but prepares meals that Mrs. Elliott can just heat up, as well as two home health nurses who alternate days caring for her physical needs—including taking her to appointments—and Jake has promised extra pay to all of them if they’ll help his mom quilt once or twice a week. But so far, nobody has.
No wonder he gave me that smile when I offered.
The longer we talk, the more I realize how expensive Mrs. Elliott�
��s care has to be. I also try to imagine how things would be for her if Jake didn’t have the job he has. How many people in her situation need long-term nurses or someone to make them meals or clean their house? Let alone a friend who can help them enjoy activities they can’t do on their own. Are there enough organizations out there that provide services like this?
Hmm … a cause that matters to me. I’ll have to think this over.
“You know,” Jake says, “there’s a club down the street from here that’s so dark and crowded, no one would recognize you—if you’re in the mood for some fun, that is.”
I don’t smile and nod on purpose. It just happens.
We pull up to a dance club a few minutes later, and I scan the square three-story glass building and the massive crowd waiting to get into The Cage. “Do you think we could use a back entrance?” I ask.
Jake opens his door. “I’m way ahead of you.”
While we walk through the parking lot, just a few inches apart, I put my hands in my pockets because I’m suddenly hyperaware of them swinging by my sides. Jake does the same thing at exactly the same time, and we both laugh.
“Awkward much?” I say.
“No, actually.”
We stop short of a back entrance, guarded by a bouncer. “Wait here and keep your head down,” Jake tells me. “Let’s hope I’m a better actor than I think I am.”
In L.A. I can sneak into a club without much fanfare, but I doubt Phoenix has a lot of people trying to avoid recognition.
Jake pays the guy, and when he returns, he whispers, “All right, I told him that my bitter ex-girlfriend is standing at the front entrance, and he totally understood.”
I smile and drop my head as we pass by the bouncer.
We have to feel our way down a pitch-black hallway and keep bumping into each other. The club music is our only compass until we find the dance floor. It’s jammed with bodies, and the flashing colored lights make it impossible to get a clear picture of anyone. “Great place, huh?” Jake says, leaning down so I can hear him over the booming hip-hop.
“I love it.” The tempo is so intense my heart feels like it’s pumping with the downbeat. Jake takes my hand—only so we won’t get separated—and we weave through body after body until we find a small space to dance. It doesn’t take long for me to loosen up because Jake isn’t too touchy at all. And whenever a slow song plays, we always take a break.
I shake off all thoughts of this being a bad idea and just have a good time.
We’re there for about two hours before we both show signs of being too tired to stand, let alone dance. Jake asks me if we should leave after the next song, and I agree.
But the next song starts, and it’s a slow song. I take a step to go get some water, and I guess end the night a few minutes early, but Jake hooks a finger around one of my belt loops and pulls me back. “Hey, we’re just friends, remember? I think we can handle it.”
He’s right. I’m being ridiculous.
“Are you sure?” I say as he settles his hands on my waist. I move mine to his shoulders and try to ignore my racing pulse. “I’ve heard that nine out of ten girls pass out when they get this close to you.”
He holds me a bit tighter. “Even if that were true, you’d still be the one who didn’t.”
In different circumstances, he might’ve been wrong about that.
When the tempo picks up again, he takes my hand and leads me through the crowd, into the dark hallway, and out the back door. He lets go when we reach the parking lot—sort of abruptly, in fact. I take a deep breath while a fresh breeze cools me off.
As far as I could tell, not a single person recognized me.
Jake seems to be distracted by something and keeps glancing toward the club entrance as we walk. Maybe he really does have a bitter ex-girlfriend waiting in line now.
But it doesn’t matter. Just before we reach his car, a smile takes over my entire face, and I tell Jake, “I’ve had more fun tonight than I’ve had in forever. Thank you.”
Jake
“Elliott!” My name echoes across the parking lot. I knew it. I had thought I saw Devin pull up to the club just as we walked out of it.
“You better hide or things might get crazy,” I tell Emma, hurrying to open my car door. Her eyes widen, and she jumps inside. I shut the door and lean against it.
“Jake, my man!” Devin says, coming over with Mark. “You said you wouldn’t be up until tomorrow.” He motions to Emma, who I hope keeps her face hidden. I shift, trying to block the light from the street lamps. “But no wonder you didn’t call.”
“It was a last-minute thing,” I say, unwilling to share Emma. Not tonight. “I have to make another trip for my stuff anyway.”
“I don’t get you,” Mark says. “You’re loaded. Hire some movers.”
“It’s only boxes,” I tell him. “I bought my furniture in Tucson.”
Devin cranes his neck for a better look. “Who’s the chick?”
I don’t budge. “No one you need to know about.”
“It never is,” Mark says with a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve done all we can for you.”
“Yeah, everything but take a hint when I want you to get lost,” I say, and they laugh because they think I’m joking. I promise to call when I’m back in Phoenix tomorrow, and we part ways. I have some explaining to do.
“Cute friends,” Emma says once I’m in the car. “I could see them in the mirror.”
“Sorry I had you hide, but those guys have been bugging me nonstop to set you up with them. Especially Devin, the one with the brown hair.” I drive toward the main road. “So imagine what it would’ve looked like if they’d seen us together—in Phoenix.”
A date, for one thing. Which is exactly what Emma wants to avoid.
“Got it.” Emma glances out the window, and there’s silence in the car for about ten seconds before she adds, “Setting me up might actually be a good thing, though. When Rachel visits me for the premiere, I was hoping you could take her out. So I guess we can double that weekend, and you know, I’ll go with Devin.” She looks back. “Is that okay?”
Is she freaking kidding? No, it isn’t okay. “Sure.”
Silence again. Then, “You’d tell me if you didn’t want to do that, right?”
“I always say what’s on my mind,” I lie.
“Just checking,” Emma says. “The premiere is, like, ten weeks away though, so if Devin starts dating someone, or whatever, it wouldn’t be a big deal.” Was there some subtext in there? “But don’t get me wrong. I’m sure he’s cool.”
Nope, no subtext. She’ll go out with Devin, but not with me.
Devin pretty much lives the life of my dreams anyway, always has. Perfect family with plenty of money, and he’s flying through school and loves telling me about it. He’s been my best friend since junior high, but we’re still big-time competitors when it comes to just about everything. I would have rather set Emma up with Mark, who’s a bit of a goofball.
I turn on the stereo. “Yep. Devin’s the coolest guy I know.”
“Is he the one whose sister is your agent?” Emma says, still talking about Devin.
I just nod and focus on the road again.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you! McGregor let some interesting news slip.” Whatever it is, Emma sounds excited. “You and Kimmi have a big make-out scene coming up!”
No way. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
She smiles up at me, the joke obvious now. “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
“Not bad at all. For Kimmi.”
Emma laughs and my tension eases. “Oh, please. You can’t be that good.”
There’s a glimmer in her eyes that makes me want to say, Try me.
“With a room full of people watching, screen kissing is far from romantic, anyway,” she goes on. “My first kiss happened on camera, and it took about a dozen takes and four camera angles to get right. I was so nervous that the director had to close the set.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “How many guys have you kissed since then?”
Emma about jumps out of her skin. “Excuse me? That’s a little nosy!”
“On set, of course. That’s all I meant.” I flip on the car light to get a better look at her. “You’re blushing.”
Emma checks in the visor mirror. “Nuh-uh.”
She is blushing. “I’ll guess. One … two … three … am I getting warmer? Four …”
“Oh, fine!” she says. “Eight.”
“I figured you’d know. Girls always count—we’re nothing more than numbers.”
“Whatever! That’s such a guy thing.”
“Really?” I ask, feigning shock. “So, how many guys have you kissed off-camera?”
Emma covers her face and neither of us can stop laughing. “You’re cruel.”
“And you’re trapped in a car with me, going …” I look at the speedometer. I’m only at fifty so I speed up. “Going sixty-five—for another two hours—and I’m a pretty patient guy. So just get it over with.”
She keeps laughing and shaking her head. “All right, but you’ll be in the hot seat next.”
“Fair enough.” I don’t have anything to hide.
“Dang.” Emma draws a long breath. “I ended up dating three of those eight guys I had to kiss at work, and thanks to the tabloids, it isn’t hard to guess who. But the first time I kissed any of them was on set. So that kind of took away from the real sparks.”
“No sparks, huh?” I say, feeling a few sparks myself. “That’s sad.”
“I guess so,” she replies. “Okay, my turn to pry. Kimmi is all over you, but I can’t decide if you’re playing hard to get or if you’re really not interested. Which is it?”
This is easy. “I can’t stand snobby chicks. Too high maintenance.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t dated any of the models you’ve worked with.”
“Of course I have, which is exactly why I avoid girls like Kimmi.”
Emma looks out the window again. “You never know. You can’t help who you fall for.”
