by Amy Finnegan
He shoots down one of two main wings at his usual breakneck speed, and I follow. We reach what must be his office, but find a throng of reporters and cameramen in front of the doors. McGregor groans and snatches his radio. “Send Miss Taylor to my study instead,” he says into it, and a missile hits me square in the chest. McGregor notices my reaction and arches a knowing brow at me while he waits for a radio reply. “We can’t even go in the study?” he asks the radio now. “Fine. Direct her to the kitchen.”
We continue farther down the hallway, passing one elaborate room after another, all packed with people. Emma is already waiting in the kitchen when we arrive. Her mouth parts when she spots me behind McGregor, and I confirm her concern with wide eyes and a small nod.
McGregor waves for her to follow, and we keep walking, straight out a back door and toward his glass pool house. Once we’re all inside, swallowed up by warm chlorine-infused air, McGregor points to yet another door. “In there, please.”
It turns out to be a bathroom—large, and apparently used for changing too—but still a bathroom. At least one of us should laugh, but no one does. McGregor shuts the door behind him and looks at each of us with his piercing, analytical squint. “My, my, I didn’t see this coming so soon,” he says. “But mind you, I did see it coming, didn’t I?”
His focus falls on Emma who takes a step away from me, obvious as it is. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but we’re just—”
“Good friends, are you?” McGregor says. “You forget, my dear, that I’m hailed as one of the best producers in show business for a reason. We considered over a hundred seasoned actors for the role of Justin, but no one, Miss Taylor, was a match to play opposite you until I happened upon this young man.” He gestures to me, staring at him like an idiot. “I knew you two would sizzle on screen before you even met. And upon learning more about your personal lives, I also realized the chemistry might find its way off set. But that was a possibility I had to accept.”
“Right, well … um,” is all Emma says.
“It’s only the timing that surprises me,” McGregor tells her. “I’d expected to have a while longer before I had to deal with this—given your recent dating debacles. But Jake is a far cry from the numbskulls you’ve been linked to in the past, so I doubt that you personally have reason to worry.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, also at a loss for an intelligent reply.
“However, let me make one thing perfectly clear.” There’s a definite change of tone in McGregor’s voice. “The only drama I allow on my set is when cameras are rolling. So with Brett in the middle of this, it had better not get ugly—especially not today—which is why I called this urgent meeting.”
In a bathroom?
Emma shakes her head. “There’s never been anything real with Brett.”
McGregor sighs. “When it comes to the heart, lass, things often seem more real to one than to another,” he says. Why has everyone but Emma noticed that Brett’s feelings for her have changed? “And Mr. Crawford had quite an interesting story to tell today. You see, he arrived an hour early to spend time in my game room with some of the most influential members of the press. And while I happened to be present, a cell phone jingled in his pocket—yours, he announced to everyone. He then pulled me aside a few minutes later to admit the ‘humorous’ circumstances in which he had found your phone in the back of his truck.”
I see right through this: Brett had only told him why he had Emma’s cell phone so McGregor would either confirm or dispute my lie about how I’d ended up with it.
“I knew your side of the story had to be a fib, Mr. Elliott,” McGregor tells me. “If a PA on my set found a lost phone, no matter who it belonged to, he would forfeit his job if it was delivered anywhere save the production office. But for the sake of peace, I chose not to expose your lie to Brett, which now makes me part of it. So I expect that the pair of you will at least have enough respect to be honest with me.”
Emma and I exchange glances. She surprises me by stepping closer and latching onto my hand. “Okay, you’re right,” she says. “But we wanted a chance to figure things out for ourselves before everyone else offered their opinion. And I especially don’t feel like I owe the press an explanation. They’re the ones who got it wrong about who I liked.”
McGregor folds his arms and smiles. “Well said, Miss Taylor. Now let’s hope you can show that sort of strength when the real storm comes for you, which will no doubt happen. And it certainly doesn’t help that we’re on the cusp of introducing a story arc that might hit a bit close to home. Perhaps Jake told you about the snippet we filmed after you left yesterday?”
Emma turns to me. “No, actually. He didn’t.”
And for a good reason. “It was foreshadowing,” I say. “That’s all.”
“Foreshadowing of what?” Emma’s eyes widen and shift to McGregor. “A love triangle? No … not now. Please. There wasn’t even a hint of that in the script.”
McGregor taps the side of his head. “No there wasn’t, lass, but it’s been in this script for over a year now. You see, Justin and Eden are destined to become the true epic romance of this series—the setup of Bryce and Eden as a couple is only to create future tension. We have years ahead of us to entertain our audience with the ups and downs of it all. So yesterday, I had a spark of inspiration to tease the idea using a bit of close-up work, just a faint smile on Jake’s face as you pass him up on the track. Only a few takes and a simple editing job, and it’ll be perfect.”
Emma expresses her opinion by shutting the lid of the toilet and taking a seat.
“The plotline won’t be in full swing until the end of the season,” McGregor says, “but what would a teen drama be without a heart-wrenching love triangle?” Neither of us answer, so he opens the door. “All right, stay put until I give you the go ahead. I’ll have you leave one at a time.”
The moment McGregor is gone, Emma says, “He’s wrong, you know—about Brett. But this will be a mess once news of what’s really been going on leaks. Everyone will think McGregor developed the love triangle plot straight from our real lives.” She finally takes a breath. “Why didn’t you tell me about that impromptu shot you did yesterday?”
“I guess I thought you’d overreact,” I reply, hoping to charm her with a smile. “I just didn’t expect it to happen in a bathroom.”
“Me, overreact?” Emma stands, latches onto my belt loops, and pulls me toward her. My knees give out when she goes up on tiptoes and kisses me before I’m ready. I consider locking the door, ditching the junket altogether.
“Are you two done fooling around?” McGregor asks, knocking just half a second before cracking the door open. He peeks inside, gets a look at Emma’s mortified face, and chuckles. “Kidding—only kidding. You first, Jake. Go.”
Emma
This isn’t a good day for me to speak in public, let alone have my comments recorded for worldwide distribution. I am much too giddy and can hardly focus on anything but Jake. Every thirty seconds or so, I have to remind myself that I’m sitting at a long banquet table covered with live microphones, and am surrounded by dozens of cameras and reporters.
Seated from left to right are: McGregor, Brett, me, Jake, and Kimmi. We’re each a few feet apart—close enough that if I stretched out my arm, I could touch Jake, but too far away to be sneaky about it. That doesn’t stop me from an occasional sigh, though, or laughing because Jake also keeps grinning for no apparent reason.
I’m sure we both come across as being very excited about Coyote Hills.
A female reporter asks, “I’m curious, Mr. Elliott, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Well, that depends,” he says. “Are you free tonight?”
The reporter, who is at least in her fifties, turns a bright shade of scarlet while everyone else laughs and claps. Kimmi even makes a convincing cougar sound into her mic.
She had thrown me off with the Miss Texas stuff yesterday, but I still gave her advice on handling the media. I’d also tossed in
a few tips she didn’t ask for, such as: “If you want lasting attention in Hollywood, you can’t blend in with the rest of the starlets—the ones who are trying too hard to be famous. You have to let your talent speak for itself. And if you can manage it, Kimmi, stop being such a diva. It’s annoying and makes work miserable for the rest of us.”
“So,” was all she said. She might have pretended like I hadn’t told her anything useful, but she still follows my advice to the letter at the junket, acting gracious, approachable, and as if she’s generally a pleasant person to be around. The reporters seem stumped, hopefully thinking—as Kimmi wants them to—that the tabloids are wrong about her.
When I’m asked about my relationship with Brett, I speak into the mic with confidence. “We’ve never been more than good friends,” I say. “A few photographers have just caught moments of us laughing or goofing around and made us into some kind of grand love affair. I guess people just see what they want to see, no matter what you show them. It’s sorta funny!”
I don’t find tabloid stories the least bit humorous, of course, but I smile through my answer anyway, and glance over to see that Brett looks like I’ve thrown him under a bus.
He grabs his microphone without even being addressed. “Show me some love, guys! I’ve just been dumped during a press junket!”
Brett gets all the laughs and fake expressions of sympathy he hoped to solicit with that comment, so in the end, it turns out okay. We really have become good friends, so I hate keeping the truth from him. When I first saw Brett today, and he returned my phone, he was his normal, goofy self. If he suspected Jake and I were together, wouldn’t that have been the perfect time to say it? What could he possibly gain from—for the first time ever—not speaking his mind?
Jake and I do a great job making up for lost time following the junket. And on Sunday too, until he flies out to Texas. He returns late Monday night, and between then and Thursday—the day of our premiere—we’re together every spare second.
And it isn’t close to enough.
All of this is something a girl would usually be dying to tell her best friend about, but when Rachel arrives Thursday morning, I have to keep it all locked inside. The moment she sees me in the airport baggage area, she runs up and without any sort of hello, says, “Did you see those pictures of The Bod with Miss Texas? He was all laughy and smiley.”
Yeah, I noticed. But what was he supposed to do? Glower and scowl at the cameras? “Jake just smiles a lot. You’ll see,” I tell Rachel, throwing my arms around her.
She looks darling in a white flouncy shirt, light-blue skinny jeans, and high-heeled leather boots. “Miss Texas posted the photos online, like they were a couple or something,” she says, practically wiggling out of my grasp. “What if he likes her, Emma? My life is over.”
Ugh. There are worse threats to your happiness than Miss Texas.
As we gather her luggage, I try to calm Rachel down, but it’s pointless. “Let’s go shopping and forget about him for a bit, okay?” I finally say, desperate to do anything but talk about Jake. So straight from the airport, I drive to La Encantada and distract Rachel with my credit card. I feel sick, trying to buy her friendship, her forgiveness, her silence—all of it. But is this really so different from what I’ve been doing for the last six years? Always wanting to make up for what I have that she doesn’t? Will it ever be enough?
I don’t know. But tonight, I want Rachel to feel like the star she deserves to be.
I’ve hired Donna and Madelyn to get us ready for the premiere, and we need time to shower before they arrive, so Rachel and I only have a few hours for lunch and shopping. During the drive to my town house, renewed chatter about The Bod takes up 99 percent of our conversation. “Does he look the same in real life as he does in pictures?” Rachel asks. “Does he look older, younger, thinner, or what?”
I’m tempted to remind her that The Bod has a real name too, but letting her call Jake by her pet name for him makes everything feel less real for me. “Flesh, paper, or plastic,” I say, “he’s pretty much got the same bod.”
“Ohhhh! I can’t wait until he comes in plastic!” Rachel squeals. “I bet when he does a big blockbuster, they’ll make an action figure of him. Then I can have an entire shelf in my room with cute little Bods on it.”
I wouldn’t mind a miniature Jake for myself, to be honest.
“I have so much in common with The Bod,” Rachel goes on. “We’re both actors, have December birthdays, green eyes, and our parents are divorced. Are we meant to be, or what?”
Rachel only knows about Jake’s parents because a reporter who interviewed him at the junket did some pretty invasive research beforehand and asked Jake to confirm that his parents are divorced, which ended up in a well-circulated article. The question wasn’t malicious, really, but why was it relevant? This has been Jake’s first exposure to his private life going public, and it’s made me feel very defensive, wanting to protect him from what I know will only get more intrusive as he becomes better known.
“I think divorce is one of those topics you’re supposed to avoid on a first date,” I tell Rachel, hoping to wipe that off her list of things to probe Jake about. “Maybe you should stick to things like his favorite movies, or the classes he’s taking.”
“Well, movies, duh. But charm him with talk about school? Really?” She says this like it’s the lamest thing I could ever suggest. “Whoa! You just ran a stop sign.”
“I did?” I glance back. The sign was right in front of Sabino Haven, and I guess I had just wanted to get past Jake’s condo. “Oh, no worries. That stop sign is actually out of order.”
“Everything has been out of order since you moved here,” Rachel says, missing my joke. “I feel like we don’t really talk anymore—like you hardly call me. It makes me sad, you know? I’ve really missed you.”
It’s true that I’ve been calling her less and less, especially these last few weeks. But the more I talk to her, the more I have to lie, and I hate it. “I’ve missed you too.”
Just after my community guard waves us past the gate, Rachel’s cell rings. She answers the call, listens for only a few seconds, then screams, “I got it! Stars in Their Eyes! I got it!”
I scream then too. Things had worked out great getting her in front of the right people who make the casting decisions for the reality show, and that was all Rachel had needed. Famous actors and coaches are mentors on the show, doors will now be opened for her at feature film auditions, agents will take serious looks at her … this is huge!
I pull my car over by the pool so I can pay closer attention and cheer along with Rachel in earnest, as she’s told all the details and passes them along. I feel a bit selfish for also celebrating the moment for my own reasons: not only will Rachel have something to think about besides Jake this weekend, but I will no longer have to be the constant medium between her and Hollywood. That will only matter, though, if our friendship survives this whole Jake thing.
I’ll know soon enough.
My dad texted me a few times when Rachel and I were talking, so while Rachel showers, I step out my back door and call him. He says he’s with my mom at his campus office—the boys are at soccer practice—and they want to wish me luck for tonight.
Ever since I told Mom about what happened with Troy, Dad feels he should be more involved in my life. “I sure wish I could be there,” he says. “You know how much I love those Hollywood egofests.”
He’s missed more of my events than he’s made it to, but Mom usually comes to everything. This time, I told her I would rather her make a fuss over my brothers instead, who have a tournament starting tomorrow. Besides, having her in town right now would have complicated things even more.
Dad passes the phone to Mom, and I tell her Rachel’s news. “It’s about time she found something of her own,” Mom says. “She’s been living through you far too long.”
We talk about Rachel for a few more minutes, and then I realize I’ve gone so far down the
running path, I’ve reached Jake’s condo. I take a deep breath and close my eyes against the high afternoon sun, its light a beautiful red glow. “Mom, can you put the phone on speaker?” I say. “I need to talk to both of you for a sec.”
“Oh, brother. What’s happened?” she asks, and I just wait, debating with myself. Should I tell them? “All right, you’re on speaker. Go ahead.”
“Okay,” I begin, still unsure. “I think you should be among the first to know that … well, I’ve been dating someone, pretty much since I moved here. And it isn’t Brett.”
Dad’s sigh sounds like relief. “It had better not be.”
“Who, Emma? Who is it?” Mom asks.
I catch a glimpse of a large white egg that Jake set near his front porch last night to see if a snake would come out from under a rock or wherever and eat it. My bet had been yes, so I’d insisted that the test happen at his place, not mine.
He’s such a boy. I love it.
“It’s Jake,” I tell my parents. “The guy whose mother inspired my foundation.” Mom knows at least this much about Jake, but I had previously made it sound like I’d just casually met Mrs. Elliott when she was visiting Jake at work. “I’ve had a lot of reasons to keep our relationship a secret, but I wanted to tell you guys before—”
“The one with all the college questions?” Dad asks.
I laugh at the excitement in his voice. “Yep, that’s him.”
“Then you certainly have my approval,” Dad says. “What are you all tight-lipped about, Judy? You said yourself that you think he’s handsome.”
I nervously kick pebbles around the riverbank, waiting for my mom’s reply. “How he looks has nothing to do with this,” she finally says. “There are other issues involved here, Bob, and you couldn’t possibly understand them.”
“Good grief, I have a PhD. I think I can—”
“The tabloids will go absolutely crazy with this, and Rachel practically expects to marry that boy,” Mom says. “This is bad, Emma. Haven’t you considered how Trina will react? She could make a fortune selling this sort of story to Celebrity Seeker.”
