Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  McGregor clutches his chest, mortally wounded. After a quick recovering breath, he says, “All right, have a great time in L.A. this weekend, but I’m begging you, please behave.”

  I’ve never been put into the please behave category before.

  Los Angeles won’t be half as scary now that Troy isn’t an issue. Both his manager and attorney called me at the studio a few days after the Club 99 fight to apologize on behalf of Troy. It’s a major relief to know he’s taken me seriously, and more so to know that he feels desperate enough to involve his management team. They’ll have a bigger influence on him keeping his cool—at least for the sake of his career—than I ever could.

  “Can I just double-clarify something?” I ask McGregor. Then I turn my head in the direction of the crew members standing behind us because a few of them have admitted to getting calls from tabloids. “Brett and I aren’t even close to really dating, so if anyone contacts you for some sort of inside scoop, please share that with them.”

  “In other words, Emma is in love,” Brett quips, and I shoot him a look that implies the opposite. “So just say ‘no comment’ and they’ll get the picture.”

  “But the wrong one, I’m afraid, because I don’t even like Brett at the moment.”

  Everyone laughs. I’m sort of faking it.

  “Oh, you two are just so cute.” Vicky literally giggles. “Which brings us to our next item of business. Our research shows that the target audience for Coyote Hills is more involved on Twitter than any other social network, so we’d like to ask that every cast member becomes involved there. A tweet or two a day would be just fine, perhaps a little teaser about your character, or a humorous anecdote that took place on set. And we’d certainly like to see our cast interacting with one another. Some witty banter would go a long way in providing a glimpse of the genuine chemistry that exists among this cast.”

  “Here, here!” McGregor says. “Now one of you, I’ve noticed, is not yet on Twitter.”

  Jake, who’s been slowly sliding deeper into his chair, says, “Ugh.”

  I throw a hand over my mouth to stop a burst of laughter. Jake hates social media.

  McGregor tips his head as if he’s considering something. “You know, Mr. Elliott, your delivery of that line just convinced me that you’d play a fine caveman if I ever have a need for one. Meanwhile, I expect to see you on Twitter.”

  Jake’s chin is still dropped, but he turns toward me just enough to furrow his brows and whisper, “Maybe modeling isn’t so bad.”

  I can’t stop laughing.

  Vicky then lays out the promotion schedule between now and the premiere, and we’re finally dismissed. I stand, but Jake stays in his chair next to me, so I plop back down. When everyone else has scattered, he tells me, “I’ll be back from New York Sunday night. Want to … teach me how to tweet?”

  We’ve gone running a few times now, so getting together outside of work isn’t such a surprising request, but it’s usually more of an impromptu thing.

  “Sure,” I reply. “I need to talk to you about something, anyway. An idea that I’d like your opinion on.”

  “Hmm.” He waits a moment before adding, “Then maybe you should make dinner for me too. I think better on a full stomach.”

  Miraculously, I keep a straight face. “Can’t you just eat before you come over?”

  “Why would I do that if you’re gonna cook for me?”

  Sheesh. I’m in trouble. “The only thing I’m good at is spaghetti. Which is pretty dull.”

  “Not if you top it off with … let’s say, peach cobbler? I’ll bring the ice cream.”

  “Oh! So now it’s dinner and dessert?”

  “And I’m sure I can think of something else,” Jake says, and walks off.

  I’m left in my chair staring straight ahead. Something else?

  There are ten of us at the Dodgers game the next day—a few who are friends I haven’t seen in forever—and I get the chance to casually ask about everyone’s managers. When it comes time to make the change, I’ll have to do it fast. I can’t be calling around Hollywood saying, “Hey, I’m ditching my mom. But don’t tell anyone, ’kay?” The news would make it back to her in less than an hour.

  Best-case scenario, I’ll have a chance to discuss this with my mother civilly before I officially hire someone else. Worst case? She’ll never talk to me again.

  Even Kimmi and I get along pretty well on game day. Payton pays plenty of attention to her this time, so she’s in a great mood. And Brett sits next to me during the game, but he’s flirting up a storm with my friend on the other side of him. At one point, he turns to ask me, “She’s kinda hot, right?”

  I have to laugh. “Yes, Brett, she’s actually beautiful. And she’s also a very good girl. So if you ask her out, behave yourself.”

  “Yeah, she’s definitely giving me those ‘behave yourself’ vibes,” he says. “But … I kinda like that sometimes. What’s her name?”

  “You’re joking, right?” I don’t know how Brett keeps shocking me this way, but his density is astounding. “Look, I could either tell you who she is, or there’s a thing called con-ver-sa-tion, which is what normal people do when they want to get to know someone. So turn back around, formally introduce yourself—yes, even though your cute little face is hard to mistake—and ask who she is and where she’s from. It’s a great starting place.”

  Brett smiles. “And then I can hook up with her?”

  I want to pull out a chunk of his hair. “Your Prince Charming lessons are over. I quit.”

  Paparazzi follow us everywhere once we leave the game. They throw out comments like, “C’mon, Brett and Emma, just one kiss!” But Brett handles it perfectly. He only laughs and says, “You’ll have to watch Coyote Hills if you want to see that kind of action.”

  I just smile and wave.

  The idiots still get everything wrong. Not only did they miss Brett’s flirting marathon with someone else at the game, but he bounced between calling me “Taylor” and “Dude” the entire day, not “Emmalicious” and “Babe,” which is what one online gossip site reports on Sunday afternoon—a site that Rachel reads constantly.

  On a phone call that evening, I try to explain things to her as they really are, but she thinks the tabloid version of my life is more exciting. “I’m telling you, Emma,” she says, “you guys would make the perfect Hollywood power couple. Just go for it.”

  “Um, no. How about we never discuss that again?”

  “Fine,” she says. “But speaking of men …” She giggles, and I tense up because I’m currently making dinner for the boy who’s about to be the focus of this conversation. “Jake is on Twitter now! Brett started following him, and I totally freaked out when I saw who this new only-here-for-the-food guy was. But why did he choose that handle? What does it mean?”

  I’m a little confused because I thought I was supposed to help Jake set up his account tonight. “Give me a sec,” I say, and open my app. Yep, it’s Jake all right: @onlyhre4thefood. I laugh because his profile photo just shows the back of his head. “Well, he was kind of forced into the whole Twitter thing, so I think he’s saying, ‘I’m only here because I have to be.’ ”

  “Oh. Well, I want to direct message him, but he isn’t following me yet,” Rachel says. “So do you think it would be, like, really forward for me to text or even call him, or just kinda forward?” During my three seconds of silence, Rachel groans. “Okay, I won’t. I just thought he might want to talk about what we should do on our date.”

  “He’s not really the plan-it-out type,” I reply. “So maybe I could send you some links to cool stuff out here, and you can decide what we should do. I haven’t seen much either.”

  “All right. Thanks,” Rachel says. “But while we’re on the subject of what type he is, I went to your parents’ house like you told me to and tried on a few of your dresses for the premiere. And none of them really … well, I want to look gorgeous when he meets me. So when you work with a designer
this time, could you maybe say you can’t decide between two dresses and borrow both? I would love something in gold.” I drop my spoon into a bubbling pot of spaghetti sauce and splatter it all over myself. “They won’t get too mad, will they?” she goes on. “If I wear one and you wear the other? Because that would be twice the red carpet advertising.”

  She can’t be serious. The dresses usually cost at least twenty thousand dollars apiece, which Rachel knows as well as I do. I’m lucky to be offered just one.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say, “but I can’t do that. And I thought you wanted to wear my dress from the New Year’s gala.”

  “Well, I tried it on and my butt looks flat,” Rachel replies. “And my chest does too. So how would you like your dream guy to see you and be like, ‘Whoa, is she ten years old?’ Because that’s exactly what he’s going to think, and he’s The Bod. He’s perfect, so I’ve gotta look perfect too. Like a model. With a nice round butt.”

  I’m already at a loss for words when The Bod himself knocks on my back door. We’ve been meeting there at night because the running path goes behind both of our communities, and the fewer people who see us together, the better. At least the majority of my neighbors are nice retired couples who don’t seem to have a clue who I am, which suits me just fine.

  I race to the door so Jake won’t knock again, but only part the curtain and motion for him to wait a minute. “I understand that, Rachel, I do,” I tell her. “But I can’t do any more about the dress issue. I have some good news for you though! You ready?”

  “Yes! Always! What is it?” She’s probably already guessed.

  “While I was at the game yesterday, I talked to a friend, who has a friend who’s on the crew for Stars in Their Eyes.” Rachel screams, and I feel slightly less guilty for smiling at the faces Jake is now making through my kitchen window. “Anyway, this friend of mine is going to make some calls, and hopefully we can get you a foot in the door at the auditions. And you’ll be amazing! I totally know you’ll make it on the show.”

  A few minutes later, Rachel likes me again, and we say good-bye.

  I throw the back door open. “Ever heard of Windex, buddy?” I ask Jake. “ ’Cause you’re about to wipe off every one of those blowfishes you just put on my window.”

  “You’re the one who left me standing out there,” he says. “For like, twenty minutes.”

  I laugh at his pouting. “Five. I was talking to Rachel. And if you can put the water on the table without making another mess, you can clean the window later.”

  Jake heads over to my fridge, sets his small carton of ice cream in my freezer, then takes out some bottled water. He juggles the bottles in the air a few times before sliding them across my small round table, narrowly missing the salad I already placed there.

  He’s in a plain white T-shirt. Yummy.

  Food, Emma. Focus on the food.

  I return to stirring the sauce, but he’s suddenly right behind me. “What’s next?”

  “Can you grab the garlic bread out of the oven?”

  “Garlic?” he asks. “So much for that something else I thought of.”

  “Exactly why I made it,” I say, but have to tell my imagination to stop drawing that picture for me. Erase it. Now. “You’re here because we need to talk about a business proposition and tweet—nothing more. Well, maybe one or two things more, but not … that.”

  Jake peeks over my shoulder, and I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck. Why is he teasing me like this? “Dang,” he says. “I even brushed my teeth.”

  I push him toward my oven mitts. “Are you ready to hear my idea?”

  “Yep, shoot.”

  I’ve been excited out of my mind to talk to him about this. “Do you remember our first day on set, when I awkwardly announced that I was starting a charity foundation?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He slides the garlic bread onto a plate. “What’s it for?”

  “Well, it’s taken a while to figure that out,” I reply, “but your mom was the one who put me on the trail of a solid idea. And you were a lot of help too.”

  Jake raises his brows. “Interesting. So … you’re setting up a support group for friends and family of chronically arrogant boys?”

  “No, you dork! Though that isn’t a bad idea either.” I hand him the bowl of spaghetti and shoo him toward the table. “Okay, now sit down and act like a guest.”

  He relaxes into a chair and, in a formal tone, says, “Jake Elliott will now be playing the role of the guest, which he’s very happy about since takeout is getting old.”

  Wanting to get settled before I dive into the foundation, I hurry and place everything else on the table and sit across from him. I scoop a mountain of pasta onto his plate, but he sneaks even more when I turn away for the sauce.

  “Back to the foundation,” I say when our plates are full. “I hope this isn’t too nosy, but suppose you didn’t have the money to pay for your mom’s medical care and rehabilitation. Would her insurance and other benefits be enough to cover the expenses?”

  Jake leans back in his chair. “Not even close. She was self-employed before her stroke, so her insurance was minimal. And government programs never provide as much as you think.”

  “So without the job you have, how do you think things would be for you guys?”

  He considers this. “Well, I’d still be working just as hard somewhere else, but for a lot less money. There’s no way I could’ve bought her a new house. And her home care and rehab bills alone are in the thousands every month. So if I couldn’t pay for all that, things would be very different. Especially for her.”

  “That’s what I figured,” I say, “which is why I’m starting a foundation that will not only offer financial aid to the physically disabled, but social support as well.” Jake’s eyes are wide open now. “It will provide funds for motorized wheelchairs, prosthetics, physical therapy, home health care—things like that. And I’m also hoping to organize a network of volunteers who are willing to help these people learn new hobbies, or continue old ones if they can’t do them on their own anymore. Like quilting or painting, or whatever.”

  I’ve been doing tons of research on this and even used it for a sociology paper.

  Jake doesn’t say anything. He just smiles and moves a hand across the table … then slowly lifts my own hand and slips his fingers under my palm. A shower of chills races through my body. We’re both quiet.

  “You blow me away sometimes,” he finally says, and lets go. He’d only held my hand for about five seconds, so maybe he didn’t mean to hold it at all. Maybe it was just meant to be a long sort of touch. Or maybe a nudge? Like when you’re telling a friend she did a good job, and you nudge her. But with your hand?

  No, that’s stupid. He held my hand.

  There’s a slight possibility that I might have a goofy grin on my face. “Well, as I said, you and your mom were the ones who gave me the idea. And I know the foundation can’t help everyone, but I hope it can at least do some good.”

  Jake takes another slice of garlic bread. “It sounds great. But you’ll eventually need more money than your own for this, right?”

  “Right. That’s where you come in,” I say. “Once the foundation is up and running, I’d love it if you could help me get a good start on the donations, because you like the business side of things. I figure that between the two of us, we know a lot of deep pockets with big hearts.”

  “Yeah. I’d like that,” he says.

  “Thanks!” Gosh, I’m smiling a lot. I take a bite of spaghetti.

  “Just let me know when you’re ready.” Jake leans back in his chair again, his hands behind his head. “Emmalicious.”

  “Ugh. You read that?”

  “Just trying to keep up like everyone else.”

  I pluck an olive out of my salad and throw it at him. “You’re officially banned from reading tabloids, paper or otherwise. That crap was only posted online a few hours ago.”

  “But you see, m
y friend Sophie reads all that stuff,” Jake explains. “And she called me as soon as my plane landed tonight. She thinks since I know you guys, I should be obsessed with Bremma too.”

  Sophie?

  “When, really, it makes you less interested because you know the truth?”

  “Sure. Whatever,” is all he says. He takes a bite of spaghetti and chews as he smiles. I chuck another olive at him, and he swallows. “You don’t have to get violent! I just think you’re blind to what’s going on: I’m pretty convinced that Brett really likes you.”

  I laugh. “No way! Don’t tell me you’re buying into this too! Brett doesn’t like me that way at all. In fact, yesterday at the Dodgers game, he wanted my help to hit on one of my friends. And by the end of the game, I was like, ‘Stay the heck away from her!’ because he told me all sorts of sick ideas he had to make this good girl turn bad. Does that sound like something a guy would do if he was interested in me?”

  Jake hesitates before he answers. But why? What is there to hesitate about?

  “No. Not usually,” he says. “But that bum just became my worst enemy. Look at this.”

  Jake hands me his phone with his Twitter app on the screen. “I thought we were setting up your account together,” I say in a teasing tone. But I’m sort of wondering if someone else helped him. Not that he actually needed help. It’s just … who is Sophie, anyway?

  Jake shrugs. “My flight was delayed today. I was bored.”

  I turn my attention back to his phone. “Whoa. You set this up today? But you already have over three thousand followers.”

  “Yeah. Scroll down and you’ll see why. All the way to the beginning.”

  It takes me a while to get through hundreds of tweets—99 percent of them from women. I can’t help but pause on a few because some are very … suggestive. Then at last, I reach the conversation between Jake and Brett that apparently started this landslide of female charm:

  Brett Crawford @actorincognito

  @onlyhre4thefood #WTH man?! Your profile pic is of the BACK OF YOUR HEAD!