Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  I only skim the story because I already read it at a grocery store on the way home from work. I hand the tabloid back to Emma, never wanting to touch it again.

  “Want to know how much of that is pure garbage?” Emma asks. I nod, grab my running shoes by the door, and sit on one of my massive beanbag chairs. “In a nutshell: most of it’s true,” she goes on, sending a shockwave through me. “All but the important parts, which is usually the case with stories like this.”

  “Okay. Which parts?” I ask.

  Emma sits next to me, but on the floor. I don’t have a couch in my living room. Just two beanbags, a pimped-out entertainment center, and a single lamp—everything is pretty much black.

  “I’ll explain using these pictures,” Emma says. She points to one from the motocross where she’s facing Brett and he has his hands on her arms. Her smile explains enough. “This photo actually features a cameo appearance by you, because I’d just read your text about your invisible brother Charlie, and it made me laugh. Brett didn’t know we were texting and was only asking me about dinner plans. But you know him, he can’t talk without touching.”

  “Oh,” is all I say to that, lost in thoughts about her massive smile in the photo being because of me, not Brett. I point to one of the shots from Club 99. “What about this?”

  Our arms keep brushing when we move. Her skin is warm.

  “We weren’t even close to kissing in that booth. From any other camera angle, that would’ve been obvious,” she replies. “But there isn’t nearly enough sting in a caption that says, ‘Brett and Emma were whispering.’ We were trying to decide if Kimmi had tipped off the photographer at the race so she could be seen with our group and get some personal publicity.”

  This detail alone gives Emma’s story more credibility. “Do you think Kimmi could’ve been one of the sources for the article?”

  “It’s possible.” She looks up at me with those eyes that could make me believe anything. “But some reporters attach any label they want, to quote practically anyone. Like a ‘source close to the couple’ could mean someone who just happened to be sitting a few tables away from us—not an actual friend. And a friend could mean someone who ‘seems to have our best interest at heart.’ Oh, and my favorite: the insider. I swear a person can be anywhere inside the state of California, but tabloid reporters make it sound like a stranger is living inside my own head because he’s so well informed. It’s a stupid play on words.”

  “But still a lie.” There’s something more important I want to know. “Did you really talk to Troy? I’m guessing he might be a … jealous, possessive creep?”

  Emma bites her lips together, but doesn’t look away. “With a very short temper,” she finally says. “I didn’t see it at first—not at all. But then a couple of months into our relationship, he started acting all broody if I said anything more than hello to another guy. Then that turned into accusations, and then after the beach bimbo stuff happened and I wouldn’t take him back, it got … scary, if you want to know the truth.”

  She eyes me as if she’s trying to gauge my reaction. I wonder if she can tell my gut is twisted into a knot. “How scary?”

  Emma takes a breath, exhales. “I need to keep this a secret, all right?” she says, and I offer a solemn nod. “The last week of filming, Troy lost control outside my trailer and wouldn’t let go of me until he’d said every cruel thing he could think of—he actually left bruises on my arms. I finally broke away and took off in my car, but he followed me. And … long story short, it ended when Troy shattered my driver’s-side window, with his fist.”

  “He … what?” I don’t know what I’d expected to hear. “Did he hurt you?”

  Emma shakes her head. “I was okay. Better than he was. And I told everyone that someone shattered my window at the beach—apparently trying to break in to the car. But after the fight at Club 99, I threatened to make all of this public, and more, if Troy doesn’t leave me alone. I wish I would have done it sooner. It felt great.”

  My tension eases a bit. “What made you confront him now?”

  “Kimmi, if you can believe it,” Emma says. “She told me I was pathetic for hiding under that table, and I thought, ‘Yeah, I am pathetic.’ So I finally decided to stand up for myself.”

  “Good.” I feel an urge to hug Emma—more like keep her safe or something—but decide I better hold off. “Thanks for trusting me. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

  “I didn’t even tell Brett what I said to Troy,” Emma reveals with a smile. She then lifts the tabloid again. “This full-page photo was taken of a brief hug I gave Brett when I saw that he hadn’t been arrested. So I didn’t go back to his ‘waiting arms’ like the article says, and I never cried on his chest. I left the club, stayed with my aunt, and flew home the next morning. Since then, I’ve been on the phone with my mom and my publicist, trying to clean up the mess.” Emma sighs. “In summary, Jake, there is no Bremma—just a touchy-feely friend who risked a lot to kick someone’s butt for me. Brett definitely has his faults, but I’m grateful for what he did.”

  “Me too,” I reply. But why did Brett himself tell me they were “getting cozy” in that booth? I stand and help Emma off the floor. We leave through the front door and head toward the running path. “So, let me get this straight,” I go on. “As long as guys agree to your just friends clause, like me, you’ll … cuddle with them?”

  She laughs. “No! Brett only had his arm around me for a few seconds.”

  “And his hands all over you too. But,” I say before she corrects me again, “I’m not the kind of guy who passes out affection like samples in a bakery. So if I ever act the way Brett does, you should know that it actually means something.”

  Emma smiles, then whips her head in the opposite direction like she hadn’t meant for me to see her reaction. Now I know for sure: she likes me.

  We reach the paved trail and pick up our pace.

  “I’ve already figured that out about you,” she replies. “But as far as hanging out goes, this tabloid crap with Brett makes everything more complicated.”

  “Why? Brett shouldn’t care if we’re all just friends.”

  “Brett isn’t who I’m worried about,” Emma says. The rush of the river is loud, so we have to run only a foot apart to hear each other. “With the media saying I’m with him, imagine what would happen if I’m seen with you—out dancing or something.”

  On Emma’s side of the path, we’re approaching a full-grown tarantula resting on a boulder. I try to calculate the odds of her: 1) screaming and jumping into my arms, or 2) never running with me again. I play it safe and distract her before she notices the spider. “Even if you were dating both of us,” I say, “it’s normal to play the field, like everyone else our age.”

  We pass the tarantula without incident, and Emma shakes her head. “Normal girls can date lots of guys at once, but not me. Tabloids can’t make money on innocent stories. In their world, no one goes out just to have fun. There has to be a scandal involved.”

  “But you can’t cheat on someone if you’re not even together,” I say. “And if you’re so worried about that, why’d you just knock on my door?”

  Emma grabs my shirt and jerks me to a stop. “Because …” She faces me and takes a moment to slow her breathing. “Maybe I like hanging out with you. So if you’re still cool with that—and not dating, or cuddling, or anything in that category—then we just can’t be seen together.”

  I am, without a doubt, the biggest sucker on earth. “Okay. I’m in.”

  I wonder how long it will take Emma to notice she hasn’t let go of my shirt yet. In fact, both of her hands are now holding onto me. She drops them seconds later. “Good,” she replies as she glances down the running path, lit only by scattered landscape lights. “How about a race?”

  “Seriously?” I ask. “You really think you have a chance?”

  “Heck yeah. But I’ve gotta tie my shoe first.” She leans over for a sec, then shoots back up and ta
kes off. “Or not!”

  I start after her, but almost fall on my face. Emma untied both of my laces. It’s pretty fair to say I’ll be chasing her for a while.

  Emma

  Within minutes of leaving Club 99, I had called my publicist to tell her almost everything that happened—nothing about what I said to Troy. But even then, she kept saying, “We need your mother in on this.”

  My impulse was to shout, “No way!” But I knew that “I’ll tell her tomorrow morning” was as much as I could delay it. First, I’d wanted to see how the story unfolded on the gossip sites, which often hint at the direction the tabloids will take. And before ten that night, news about the fight was everywhere—and the bottom line? Brett and I are “in love.”

  Unfortunately, Rachel saw the gossip site stuff pop up at the same time I did and immediately told her mom, who then sent a text to my own mother, who then called me at my aunt’s house at midnight. She was crazy mad because I had not only put myself in a situation to make it even look like I was dating Brett and—just slightly worse—incited a fight, but because I’d also committed the cardinal sin of calling my publicist first. As Mom reminded me, it’s her job to discuss damage control with my publicist, not mine.

  Mom calls all the shots. She gets to decide how stupid or innocent I come out looking. If I had another manager, I’d surely have more say in this. And I’m sick to death of my opinion being so irrelevant. I want to be more than just the face of Emma Taylor, Inc.

  But how can I fire my manager without losing my mom too?

  After a few weeks of lecturing me, she finally chills about the events in Los Angeles. And the tabloids continue to spin the story in a way that brings positive attention to Coyote Hills—making McGregor happy—so in a backward sort of way, Brett’s plan to promote the show has been a huge success. And he’s more than a little pleased with himself.

  “All right, you two,” McGregor says, speaking to Brett and me on the library set. “I need some steamy chemistry in this shot. Your fans are expecting sparks, so let’s see ’em!”

  In a cast chair to the side of me, Kimmi laughs and whispers something to Jake. He then whispers something back, and I can only imagine what they’re saying. Jake finished his last scene a while ago and is heading to New York on a red-eye flight later on, but he’s had to stick around for a meeting we’re having once we wrap.

  If I can only make it through this last camera angle, we can get out of here. The crew is currently testing some rearranged lighting on the stand-ins.

  “You ready for some more fun this weekend?” Brett asks me. McGregor suggested earlier this week that Kimmi and I go back to L.A. with Brett for a Dodgers game. “We’ll be with an even bigger group this time. And no hand-to-hand combat, I promise.”

  “You’ve also promised that your hands won’t be all over me.”

  “Right, but I’ve conveniently forgotten that,” he says. “Fair warning.”

  “Last looks!” Tyler calls.

  Within seconds Brett and I are being poked and prodded by vanity weapons. I have no idea how anyone in show business can possibly be arrogant when it takes a full squadron of hair and makeup artists to hide their flaws.

  “First team, back to one!” Tyler says.

  Brett and I return to our starting positions, and the stand-ins leave the set. I try to regain my focus, saying the first line in my head over and over. If I can get that out right, the rest usually flows with ease. But I’m doing some serious come-hither stuff in this scene with Brett, while Jake is sitting just twenty feet away.

  Acting or not, it all feels awkward. And I can’t stop asking myself why.

  “I’ll give you a million bucks if you wear that shirt this weekend,” Brett whispers, referring to the ultra-low V-neck I have on. I only roll my eyes at him. He pokes my stomach. “Just trying to get a sign of life from you. Any reaction at all.”

  “I could break a few of your ribs,” I reply. “How’s that?”

  “Picture’s up!” Tyler says.

  “Picture’s up!”

  “Quiet on set!”

  Tyler scans the set. “Rolling!”

  “Sound speed!”

  “Camera speeding!”

  The boom mic is lowered to right above our heads, and a slate is held in front of me. “Scene four Delta, take one.”

  The slate is clapped. “A mark.”

  “B mark.”

  “And … action!” McGregor says, and I summon my inner temptress.

  For at least the tenth time, I circle the back of Brett’s chair—all sultry-like—trailing a finger over his shoulder blades. “Bryce, if you study for that biology test any longer, Mr. Adams will think you cheated. You can’t get every question right.” I push his books aside and sit on the library table in front of him. “Live a little. Come to the party.”

  “Uh … maybe?” Brett says, sliding down in his chair and darting his eyes away to look at his rich-boy loafers instead of my legs. Costumes has me in another short skirt. “But you need to study for the test too. So just come to my house instead, and we’ll, um, yeah … study.” He adds an uncomfortable sigh, squirming in his seat as I lean forward to weave my fingers through his hair. I have to fight back laughter every time we get to this part—Brett is so great at playing a good boy; being a good boy is a different story.

  A few lines later, McGregor yells, “Cut! Cut! Brilliant! Let’s go again, just like that.” He gives me a playful shake of his finger. “Naughty, naughty girl, that Eden is! She needs someone to buy her presents now that Daddy is broke. And Brett, way to play the loser, lad.”

  “Going again. Back to one,” says Tyler.

  We do this same shot three more times, then McGregor wraps filming for the week. “Now, first team, gather round,” he adds. “And anyone else can listen in if they’d like to. We’re one big family.”

  We all settle into our cast chairs—Jake’s almost always ends up next to mine, and we’re not the ones making the arrangement—and McGregor is joined by a woman in a gray pantsuit and a stack of folders under one arm. “I’d like to introduce you to our publicist, Vicky,” McGregor says. “She has some exciting news.”

  Vicky tells us she works directly for the network and will be launching a major Coyote Hills campaign next week. “With the curiosity that has followed recent events, we need to strike while the iron is hot,” she says, sending a cheerful glance my way, on one end of the row of chairs, and a smile to Brett on the opposite end. We obviously aren’t a real couple, but Vicky couldn’t care less. I know that look: Keep stirring up that gossip, kids. Stir, stir away.

  “The hits on the network website have tripled over the past few weeks, and we’ve received thousands of e-mails asking about the series,” Vicky continues. “So we’ve decided to launch the official Coyote Hills website a bit earlier than anticipated, and we need your immediate help.” She has a folder for each of us. “A copy of everything here has been sent to your managers, but I’d like to personally explain our plan.”

  I open the folder and flip through the contents. Brett seems as surprised as I am by the top page—a question and answer form. “I’ll be happy to tell you my favorite foods,” he says. “But what I do in my spare time is hardly a secret.”

  Vicky nods. “That may be true, Mr. Crawford, but we only know what the press tells us, don’t we? We want these cast spotlights to be in your own words. Your fans should feel as though they’re having a personal conversation with you.” She turns to McGregor, who is beaming proudly. “The network executives all agree that Coyote Hills has the potential to be our highest-rated show, and we’re planning some special events to give it a gentle shove in that direction.”

  Brett laughs. “There’s no such thing as gentle promotion. You just shove.”

  “Quite right,” McGregor says, then raises his hands as if parting the Red Sea. “Our premiere at The Sonoran Events Center will be spectacular! As you know, we’ll be inviting Hollywood to us—giving them a taste of the au
thentic environment in which Coyote Hills takes place. And the weekend prior, rather than holding a typical press junket, we’ll be having a day of food and fun with the media. They’ll get to know each one of you as a best friend, at my ranch!” He waits for applause.

  “Yeeee-haaaw!” Brett says, twirling an invisible lasso above his head.

  Kimmi’s sour expression doesn’t change. “Let me guess: we’ll be posing on horses.”

  “Forget horses,” Jake says. “I want to ride one of your bulls.”

  He looks entirely serious, which makes me smile. Big time. Stop it, Emma.

  McGregor’s brows pinch together. “Sorry, lad. I can’t risk your handsome face.” His arms fly back into the air. “But! We’ll have all sorts of glorious entertainment—the screening of the pilot being the main event, of course. And by the time the press leaves the junket, they’ll be so enamored with the series and its actors, they’ll spread your praise from here to Moscow. Now, please, get these packets to the production office by Monday. Busy, busy weekend for us all—which reminds me …” McGregor turns to Brett. “Did you pull something together for the Dodgers game?”

  “Oh yeah! Watch for us on the jumbo screen.”

  “Excellent! Look cheery for the cameras, will you?” McGregor’s eyes shift to me. “It doesn’t matter if the two of you aren’t the lovebirds they make you out to be—quite relieved that you’re not, honestly—but you’re attracting some wonderful attention for the show. And you as well, Kimmi. I must say, Payton Wilson was a fine pick. Buzz, buzz, buzz!”

  “Jake won’t be there,” Brett says, throwing a wad of paper at him. “Again.”

  “Mr. Elliott does enough promotion by donning cowboy chaps—and little else, mind you—in ads throughout the world.” McGregor grins at Jake, who then hurls Brett’s paper cannonball at him.