by Amy Finnegan
I offer a courtesy laugh and stack three thousand calories onto a small plastic plate. The ice has melted in the punch, watering it down, so I head for a drinking fountain instead. Brett waits until I pretty much drink the thing dry before he speaks again. “You’ve gotta see this cool room I found—it’s an atrium, filled with huge fruit trees. It’s crazy.”
The band is still playing the slow song Jake and Rachel are dancing to, so I shrug and head down the hall. Me, my cookies, and my fake ex-boyfriend.
The atrium is brilliant white, the lights so intense that it takes my eyes a minute to adjust. The peaked ceiling and three exterior walls are made almost entirely of glass. The windows look out to mostly darkness now—except for a silhouette of what appears to be hedges—but the daylight view is probably of the courtyard where we walked the red carpet.
“Check these out,” Brett says, motioning to the massive lemon, orange, and lime trees that are scattered around the atrium with their vibrant-colored fruit nestled in large canopies of leaves. The scent of citrus is almost intoxicating. And it’s quiet in here, perfectly calming.
Brett was right about this being a good place to escape.
He ignores a DO NOT TOUCH sign and wraps his entire hand around an orange. I laugh, the sound echoing a little, and say, “I bet they put that sign there just for you.”
He pulls his hand back as if it requires all of his effort. “I’ve never been good at following rules. Until lately, I guess.” Brett turns to me, his eyes looking their brightest blue with this white room as a background. “I’ve changed a lot since we met, don’t you think?”
Overall, he really has chilled out. “You’ve been calling girls by their right names all night. So that’s something to be proud of.”
I pop a bite-size cookie into my mouth and wait for his reply, but Brett just drops his head and sweeps away a fallen leaf with his shoe. Maybe he’s being serious.
“Emma, my friends in there, acting like that, being so stupid … that used to be me,” he says, his gaze still on the floor. This is such surprising sincerity coming from him that I step closer, kind of puzzled. “I was the guy in the center of it all, partying harder than any of them,” he goes on. “You don’t know how bad things got … I wouldn’t want you to know. But I’m done. I’m sick of it. And my friends are just getting worse—getting into stuff even I wouldn’t have tried. Dangerous stuff.”
He raises his head, and I get a shock down my spine when I see tears in his eyes. He’s truly worried about them, which he should be. I’ve just never seen him this concerned about … anything, really. “Brett, you’ve made a lot of good choices lately, so maybe you—”
He cuts me off. “Payton is like my brother, you know? And Kimmi brings out the worst in him. He needs to grow up, like I’m trying to do. He needs someone … someone like you.”
I hold up a hand. “Whoa, um … no. Definitely not me.”
Brett finally smiles. “Nah, I didn’t mean it like that. Payton just needs to find someone like you, to give him a reason to change. Because … well, you’ve gotta know this by now … because that’s what you’ve done for me. I’m crazy about you.”
I wait for him to laugh, but after a few seconds of staring at his hesitant smile, I glance away, stunned and embarrassed that I hadn’t listened to Jake—to McGregor, to anyone. I look back up at Brett to apologize for misleading him, but his lips suddenly press into mine, and I can’t talk … I can’t move.
My arms drop and my plate falls to the floor. “Brett … stop!”
I sink to the floor to pick up my cookies, to get away.
Brett stoops too, and takes one of my hands. “Oh man,” he says. “I didn’t think you’d freak out like this. We kiss all the time.”
I pull my hand back. “Only on set, where it’s fake.”
“It hasn’t felt fake,” he replies, sounding desperate to explain himself. “And your friend, I just heard her say that you … that you’re in love with me.”
The bright room seems to twist around us. “But I’m not. And you’ve told me all along that you didn’t want to date me.”
“Yeah, I know things started out that way,” he says. “The more I was with you, though, the more I liked you. But I knew you’d never want me the way I was.”
“Brett, I’m … I’m sorry …” I can’t finish, so I just leave the atrium, my legs moving at a much slower pace than my racing heart.
Jake
No girl should ever look as good as Emma does at the premiere if she expects a guy to keep his distance. But once we’re at the after party, her smiles seem forced. I thought we were past this, but has Rachel still found a way to make Emma feel guilty about us?
When Sophie doesn’t have enough sense to push away a couple of Brett’s lowlife buddies, I have to go over like a protective big brother and snatch her off their menu. And while I dance with Sophie, Rachel just stares at me—her shoulders rising and falling as if she’s about to bawl. So for my best performance of the night, I ask Rachel to dance. But instead of getting a wink of approval from Emma, she spins around and leaves the ballroom.
Things actually go downhill from here. I prefer the deathly nervous Rachel I met at the limo to the Energizer Bunny mouth she turns out to be. And one dance isn’t enough, oh no. She talks me into another. When she tries for a third, I tell her my mom is tired so we have to leave. Then on my way out of the building, I catch a glimpse of Emma racing into the women’s bathroom, but she doesn’t see me.
Brett is right on her heels before she enters the door, so as he passes me, I ask, “What’s up with Emma?”
He whips back around, his face red. “You know chicks. I can’t give her enough of what she wants, so she’s hitting the stalls to cry about it.”
What does that mean?
With Rachel staying at Emma’s, I don’t dare call or text, so I spend a long, sleepless night trying to figure it all out.
When Devin and I pick up the girls the next morning, Rachel already has the whole day planned out at Old Tucson Studios, which is famous for Western films. In Rachel’s seemingly rehearsed words, “This will give us a chance to walk in the legendary footsteps of Jimmy Stewart and Ingrid Bergman.”
I’d rather walk in the legendary boots of Harrison Ford and Bruce Willis, but whatever.
Emma had her sunglasses on when I first saw her today, and she doesn’t take them off a single time during our hour-long drive. She won’t even speak unless she’s directly addressed, which leaves me to deal with Rachel on my own.
As we approach the gates to the studio, Rachel whips out her phone and says, “Okay, guys, I’m live tweeting this whole day, so let’s pose here at the entrance!”
“No way,” I reply before I can stop myself. And then I scramble for a polite explanation. “Sorry, but I’m really uncomfortable with social media. And I’ve already posed for a truckload of cameras this past week. Can’t we just … I don’t know, relax today?”
Rachel laughs, then suddenly realizes I’m serious. “Oh my gosh, really? But I told my followers—I have like, ten thousand now—that I’d share every little detail, so …”
She shrugs, and I feel like I’ve been hit in the stomach by a wrecking ball. I don’t want this day to suck for her. I turn to Emma for help, but she’s gone off to the ticket booth.
“Jake’s just being modest,” Devin says, and I give him a look because this isn’t a good time for his jokes. “You know my sister is his agent, right? Well, she’s really protective of Jake’s face—something to do with … the more it’s seen, the less it’s worth? Anyway, he’s gotta be careful or my sister gets ticked.”
“Ohhhh,” Rachel says. “All right. That makes sense. Then I’ll just have to take photos of everything but Jake. Which is … darn.” She glances back to me. “Can I take just a few pictures of you, if I don’t post them?”
I’m about to agree, even though I think she’ll likely burn the photos later, but Devin scrunches up his face, and replies, “That
might be okay, but you’d probably need written permission from my sister, and she’s out of the office right now. In Milan, I think.”
“Yep, Milan,” I say, which is the only true detail about this story. How could I have forgotten that my wingman is a Level-Five Master of BS? But Rachel buys all of it, so once we begin our two-hour tour of the studios, she’s happy again. She snaps photos like crazy and her fingers are flying to get every little detail up on Twitter.
And I’m being nice to her in every way I can, without flirting.
I actually would have enjoyed the tour if I wasn’t dying to know what was wrong with Emma. Devin is confused too, so once we’re on our own for a sec, about to eat lunch, he says, “You told Emma I know about you guys, right? She’s sorta brushing me off, like she wants to make it clear that she isn’t interested.”
“Yeah, she knows,” I reply. “It’s gotta be something else. I need to get her alone.”
That’s all I have time to tell him before Emma and Rachel join us with their food. A dramatized shootout has just started on the other side of the studio grounds, so the lunch crowd has pretty much cleared out. The table we’re sitting at is a tight fit—half the length of a regular picnic table, and on its own behind an old wood-planked restaurant called The BBQ Shack, where we’ve just snagged some ribs and fries.
The weather is nice today, not too hot, and trees shade the table—but Emma still doesn’t take off her sunglasses. Maybe she just wants to watch my reactions without Rachel noticing? I put my own sunglasses on so I can do the same thing with Emma.
Devin and I devour our barbecued ribs and fries in five minutes flat, leaving us to sit and watch the girls pick at their plates. “I know who Jimmy Stewart is, but who’s the Bergman chick?” I ask, just to make conversation.
Rachel looks at me like I’ve grown a third eye.
Ten minutes later, I’m well educated on all things Ingrid Bergman, and Rachel caps off her lecture with, “Basically, anyone who hasn’t seen her in Casablanca should be shot.”
Devin coughs, and I almost say, “Casa-what?” but I’m afraid Rachel will make me watch it with her tonight, snuggled on a couch with a box of tissues.
Rachel’s next party piece is even worse. “Let’s play movie trivia!” she says. “Jake, who won the 1972 Oscar for Best Actress?” I only stare at her. “Oh, c’mon! Liza Minnelli. This one’s easier: what film won Best Picture for that year?”
Seriously? “Sorry,” I say, “but you’ve really gotta dumb this down for me.”
Emma laughs, which snaps me out of my stupor. “Maybe something more on this level,” she says. “What classic movie is about a theme park with dinosaurs?”
“Jurassic Park!” Devin and I reply together.
“Lucky guess,” Emma says. “Which species of dinosaur ate the lawyer?”
“T. rex!” I tie with Devin again, and we high-five like we’re brilliant.
Emma’s face has life in it again, and she’s about to say something else when someone kicks me—making me jolt—so her focus goes to my reaction instead.
“Oh my gosh!” Rachel says, apparently the one who delivered the deathblow to my ankle. Her hands are all over me now. “I’m so sorry! How did I kick you?”
Emma and I straighten up at the same time. I’ve been trying to cheer her up by playing a game of footsie, so our feet were twisted together like pretzels when Rachel apparently tried to kick her, not me. “It’s okay,” I reply. “I was just … stretching my legs.”
“Oh, cute!” she says, looking at me as if I’m a newborn kitten. “Anyway, I was about to tell you that if I had little brothers like Emma does, I’d watch more adventure shows. But my acting coach encourages a study of serious films I can benefit from. You know, professionally.”
“Jurassic Park made a serious load of cash,” Devin says. “Doesn’t that count?”
“I guess, if you’re only concerned about the bottom line,” Rachel replies. “But I just remembered something super funny! Emma had the biggest crush on a boy in fourth grade who was obsessed with dinosaurs. She made me sit through a full day of dinosaur movies so she could impress him with prehistoric talk. She even took notes.”
Emma buries her head in her hands, laughing, and I bust up too.
It will be a few days until I can see her again so it’s killing me to be on the opposite side of this table. Devin brought my mom down here for the premiere, but I’m taking her back to Phoenix tonight and staying there until Rachel leaves. Then we only have five working days left before a two-week hiatus, when Emma is going home to Arkansas.
“Emma’s parents would’ve died if they knew she liked this kid because he was such a troublemaker,” Rachel says. I laugh even harder now, imagining Emma studying about dinosaurs behind closed doors to impress a pint-size punk. “But she’s always had a thing for bad boys—it’s that wild streak in her, which is why McGregor hired her. Only, McGregor thinks it’s more dormant than it really is.”
“Whatever,” Emma says, forcing a laugh. “His ‘second nature’ casting is loony.”
“You told me just a few months ago that you thought the theory was brilliant,” Rachel says. “That it explains why you always go after guys you should stay away from.”
Since I’m one of the guys Emma has tried to stay away from, I’m curious to see where this topic will go. McGregor is definitely right about me. I do wish, at least sometimes, that I could listen to the devil on my shoulder and not care about anyone but myself.
And every once in a while, that’s exactly what I do.
“I don’t go after bad boys,” Emma tells Rachel. “I don’t,” she adds, and looks at me. Then, as if she suddenly remembers who her real date is, she turns to Devin. “I just happen to find out they’re wild after I start dating them. So … um, Devin, is there anything dangerous I should know about you?”
Devin glances at me. “Jake and I accidentally started a field on fire once, with a stray bottle rocket. Is that dangerous enough?”
I’ve already told Emma that story, but she smiles big anyway and starts to say something else, when Rachel cuts her off. “Sorry, Devin, but accidentally doesn’t count. You pretty much need a Surgeon General’s warning slapped on your chest to turn Emma’s head. I mean look at the list …” Rachel ticks off a few of Emma’s pre-Hollywood crushes, then moves on to the two jerks she dated before Troy. Then she says, “Troy was a total player too, and now there’s Brett—well, sort of. Emma’s already liked him forever, but she’s playing hard to get now. She’s a real tease when she wants to be.”
There’s a whole lot of crap for me to process in that last part, and I’m not the only one at a loss for words. Emma’s mouth is half-open. “Rachel, can you, um … come with me?” she finally says, sliding off the bench. “Please.”
“Why? Ten-one-hundred?”
“Ten-what?” Devin asks.
Rachel giggles. “That’s set talk for using the bathroom.”
She’s been spouting off industry terms all day, and I haven’t understood half of what she’s said—how could Devin? “Darn it, Dev,” I say, pushing my hands down the sides of my jeans. “I forgot my Movie Star Pocket Dictionary, or I’d let you borrow it.”
“I doubt even that would help me understand what’s going on here,” he replies.
Emma ignores both of our jabs and speaks to Rachel again. “I just need more ketchup, and it looks like you do too.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Rachel says. So without another word, Emma leaves the table.
I gulp down the rest of my drink. “Dang, I’m out of water. Keep Devin company, will ya, Rachel?” I take off before she can reply.
Devin covers for me as I walk away. “Yeah, tell me more about Stars in Their Eyes.”
I find Emma inside The BBQ Shack, looking into a plastic tub of identical ketchup packages as if she isn’t sure which one she wants. Besides a woman who’s scrubbing a grill with her back to us, we’re the only ones in here. When Emma notices me, she look
s around, all panicky. “What are you doing?”
I step up to the soda fountain beside her and refill my cup with water. “Devin just asked Rachel about her new show. That will buy us some time.”
“She isn’t always this obnoxious. She’s nervous, so she’s saying stupid things.”
“Forget what Rachel said,” I reply, telling myself the same thing.
“You were so right about this,” Emma says. “It was a dumb, dumb idea. I don’t want to go back out there.”
I set my drink down and turn her toward me so the lady cleaning the grill can’t see her. Then I take off my sunglasses as a hint for Emma to do the same, and wait until she catches on. She looks away as soon as her glasses come off, but not fast enough for me to miss how bloodshot her eyes are. She obviously didn’t sleep last night either.
“What happened at the premiere?” I ask. “I thought if I danced with Rachel it would take a bit of pressure off you, but—”
“Jake, it wasn’t just her.” She swallows. “I can’t do this any longer. I’m telling Rachel everything tonight, and she’ll probably leave. Then … I need to talk to you. So can I meet you in Phoenix sometime tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I glance around before giving her a quick kiss. “That’s a yes.”
We return to the table separately.
Rachel gets a call during our drive back to Sabino Canyon, which she relays to the rest of us one line at a time: Her mom is flying to L.A. in the morning to find them a place to live. She’s already put their house up for sale. Rachel has to cancel her spot as an extra on Coyote Hills and leave tomorrow, instead of Tuesday, because she has too much to do for Stars in Their Eyes.
Emma has to be as happy as I am to hear all this, but it also means that she’s cornered into doing what she told me she’d do—tell Rachel about us tonight.
Once we enter Emma’s community, Rachel starts talking about the “next time” we go out—yeah, right—and Devin and Emma say their good-byes when he parks in front of her town house. He keeps the car running and walks around it to open the door for Emma. I’m about to do the same, but Rachel stops me. “Stay a minute, will ya?”
