by Amy Finnegan
When Emma is out, Devin closes the passenger-side door and traps me in the backseat with a stalker. It doesn’t help that the last of the sunlight gives the inside of Devin’s car a creepy orange glow. I keep my hand on the door handle.
Rachel sighs. “I’ll be living in L.A. now. Do you go there a lot?”
“No. Not really.” I don’t want to be rude, but this has gotta end.
“Oh … okay,” she says. “Then I’ll have to come here more often.”
This girl couldn’t catch a clue with flypaper.
I finally know what to say. “Rachel, I’m sorry if today wasn’t as fun as you’d hoped it would be. It’s just that … well, I’ve fallen pretty hard for someone else.”
Her eyes widen. “Um … all right. I asked Emma if you had a girlfriend, and she said you didn’t. Or I wouldn’t have … I mean … she should’ve told me. That’s all.”
“Don’t blame Emma, okay?” I ask. “She wanted this weekend to be perfect for you. It’s not her fault that I ruined her plans.”
A sharp breath later, Rachel says, “I feel so stupid.”
“No, please don’t,” I reply. “I just hope you realize that I’m not the same guy you’ve seen in all the ads—those smiles, the stupid smirks—they’re all fake. I never even liked modeling, and I won’t be acting long either. I’m in school now so I can move over to the business world. But Emma says you’re a great actress, so I’m sure you’ll do amazing in Hollywood. Good luck.”
Rachel takes in another shaky breath, nods at me, and exits the car. I would have followed her out, but what would be the point? I’ve already said good-bye.
Emma
Rachel storms past me on my front porch, and as much as I hope Jake hasn’t let something slip, I also wonder if it might be better that way. She’s done this type of thing before—torn me down to make herself look better—but she was especially ruthless today.
It’s been almost impossible to function since last night, and Rachel isn’t even the biggest reason. I didn’t sleep, trying to figure out what happened with Brett and what to do about it.
As soon as Rachel is inside my town house, she runs up the stairs. Then I sprint back to Devin’s car, and Jake tells me what he said to her. He had set up a good base for the truth, so I hope I’m ready to build on it. Rachel is about to learn a lot more than she wants to know about Jake’s girlfriend.
Once I’m in my living room, I can hear Rachel crying upstairs. I tiptoe up to my bedroom and change into pajamas—I’ll be sleeping on the sofa like I did the night before—then sit by the bathroom door for at least thirty minutes. She finally comes out with a roll of toilet paper, wiping her face. “You’re out of tissues.”
“Oh … kay,” I reply. “Sorry.”
Rachel leans against the wall opposite me and slides down it until she’s sitting. “While you’re apologizing, go ahead and explain why you made me look like an idiot today,” she says. My jaw drops, and she rolls her eyes. “Let’s skip right over the bombshell Jake just dropped on me, and start with the easy stuff: Did you know that Jake quit modeling and that he doesn’t even want to act much longer? He likes business, Emma. Business. Those little details would’ve been really great for you to tell me.”
I force myself to remain calm. “I told you to ask about his classes, remember?”
Rachel slams the toilet paper on the floor. “Only in a casual comment sort of way! You also told me to talk to him about the film industry, and hello! Jake doesn’t know an Oscar winner from Oscar the Grouch.”
Does she really think I wanted to sabotage her? “Rachel, I only said you should ask about his favorite movies, not quiz him on award shows from decades ago.” I’ll take the blame for keeping the truth from her, but I’m not responsible for her acting like a know-it-all. “Even I couldn’t have guessed that stuff.”
“You shouldn’t have to guess!” she says, jumping up and heading for my bedroom. “If you were as serious as you should be about acting, you’d study this industry as much as I do.”
Apparently the seven movies and two TV shows I’ve starred in don’t count.
I scramble to my feet and follow her. “Memorizing film facts and reading tabloids is a far cry from studying the industry,” I say, done with playing nice. “And nothing you’ve ever been taught in acting classes can prepare you for—”
“What? Hard work?” Rachel heaves her hot-pink suitcase onto my bed. “Try mopping floors at Papa’s Pizzeria sometime, for minimum wage! It probably takes me a full year to earn what you’re paid for a single day of sitting in your cast chair and sipping bottled water!”
I grab Rachel’s other suitcase and throw open the top; the faster she packs, the better. “Oh yeah,” I say. “ ’Cause it’s always that easy! You know those mindless things I say and do when I’m … um, what did you call it? Acting? Well, that stuff just magically pops into my head. I mean, with all the water sipping I have to do, how could I have time to study a script?”
Rachel tugs her clothes off hangers. “You think that justifies all the money and attention you get? Today was supposed to be my big chance with Jake, and you did all the talking! But you can’t help but steal the spotlight, can you? Famous Emma Taylor always has to prove how cute and clever she is.”
Every insult I’ve ever held back races to the tip of my tongue. “You have a very warped sense of reality,” I shoot back. “The guys were bored to tears with talk of Casablanca and whatever film won whatever award in nineteen-whatever. The only thing I tried to do was save your butt!” I could’ve gone on. John Wayne and Clint Eastwood both starred in films made at Old Tucson Studios, but Rachel thought Jake would rather have his ear talked off about Ingrid Bergman? Seriously?
“You didn’t save me! You totally ruined my setup for the next topic.” Her face is so close to mine that I can feel heat leaping off it. “The Best Picture winner for 1972 was The Godfather. What guy wouldn’t want to talk about that, huh?”
“Well …” I’m speechless—my mouth moving, my mind spinning, but no sound coming out. Had I really cut into her trivia game too soon? Am I really an attention hog? My heart pumps boiling blood through my veins as I try to recall the entire conversation at the picnic table. No … the only thing I’d wanted today was for time to pass as quickly as possible.
If I were selfish, I would have canceled the whole thing and taken the time I needed to tell Jake about what happened in the atrium. Our few minutes alone in The BBQ Shack would have been a seriously crappy place to say, “Oh, by the way, Brett kissed me.”
Rachel zips a suitcase, bringing me back to the present. “I wasn’t just rambling,” she says. “I was trying to connect with Jake, even if it meant talking about the Mafia. But as usual, the whole conversation turned into something about you.”
“You’re the one who brought up the dinosaur movie marathon,” I reply, “knowing how stupid I’d feel. And you didn’t stop at simple teasing either. You had to bring in all that garbage about me liking ‘bad boys.’ That was intentionally cruel, Rachel, and it hurt.”
“And you didn’t mean to hurt me? Holding back all that stuff about Jake?”
“Trust me, whatever I’ve held back, it’s been to avoid hurting you,” I say, my voice failing a bit. I fold a shirt, one that I actually bought for her, and attempt to calm down.
Rachel plucks the shirt from my hand. “I don’t need your sympathy. I’m done living in your shadow, begging for your crumbs. I’m not just ‘Emma Taylor’s friend’ anymore, I’m …”
As she goes on, I realize I’ve been fighting for a friendship that’s evolved into something that isn’t good for either of us. And it changed long before I met Jake.
“Rachel, I never wanted you in my shadow. I wanted to do this together,” I say. She’s ranting right over the top of me, but it doesn’t matter. I just need to get this out. “If I could duplicate everything I have, I’d hand it to you. In fact, I’ve tried. I’ve gotten you into auditions. I’ve taken you to every
premiere and party you could come to. And I’ve felt so guilty for having yet another thing you wanted, that I almost gave it up.”
What a mistake it would have been to lose Jake for this.
I finally have her attention. “Whatever. It all started with that Mountain Home role, which should’ve been mine, and you know it,” she says. “If I hadn’t been sick the day of the audition, I would’ve easily beaten you out for the part.”
I want to scream, “That was six years ago! Get over it!” Instead, I glance at the photo of my smiling best friend on the wall, then look back to the girl in front of me.
“You’re living the life that should’ve been mine,” she says, but I’m already leaving the room, desperate to talk to Jake. “And you’ve loved every minute of rubbing it in my face!”
She slams my bedroom door, and I stand in the hall, fuming. I have plenty to rub in her face, so if this is the end anyway, why not? Shouldn’t I just open that door and tell her how Jake and I kiss until we run out of breath, and how he wants me, not her?
Rachel is the one who opens the door again. “And about that bombshell: you also lied to me about Jake having a girlfriend, and I asked you about that at least three thousand times.”
I don’t even blink. “Yep.”
“Yep, what? Are you admitting that you lied to me?”
“About three thousand times,” I say.
Rachel huffs and her eyes narrow. “How long have they been together?”
“Officially, since last Friday,” I say, at last feeling the weight of the moment. “Unofficially, since Labor Day.”
“Labor Day?” she asks, and I can see the wheels turning. “Why … didn’t you tell me?”
My mind races through the details—all the waiting, struggling against what I wanted so badly, making Jake feel like he was my last priority. “Honestly, Rachel, I can’t even explain it to myself now, so I won’t even try to justify it to you.”
“Fine! I’ll never forgive you anyway!” Rachel bellows. “Just tell me who she is.”
I head toward the stairs. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Jake
“Whoever coined the term ‘drama queen’ must’ve met Rachel,” Devin tells me after dropping the girls off at Emma’s. He stayed with me last night, along with my mom. “What’s her damage?”
“Show business,” I reply. “Sorry about the weird day.”
My mom has been on her own and has probably inspected every inch of my condo to make sure I’m not living like a pig. I had a cleaner come a few days ago, but there’s no way I’ll admit that. Laundry is as far as my domestic skills go.
I had set Mom up with every Star Trek movie ever made, so I expect the sights and sounds of blasting lasers to hit me when I open my front door. Instead, Devin and I find a gloomy, silent living room, with only a paused image of an entertainment reporter on my big screen. My mom is just as still as the reporter is, so I race across the room. “You okay?”
“Yes … I’m, well …”
I lean over to look into her eyes. “Are you dizzy? Does your head hurt?” I reach for my cell, ready to dial 9-1-1.
“No, Jake. This isn’t about me.” She motions to my TV, and Devin and I turn to the screen again. “I was watching coverage of the premiere, and … goodness, I’m not sure how to …” She glances at Devin.
“It’s okay, he can hear it.” I think I know what’s going on now. It’s a total Mom thing to freak out about. “What did they say? That I’m a crappy actor?”
Mom touches the remote on her leg. “They had nothing but praise for you, Jake, which is wonderful. But … I don’t know how to approach this without assuming too much, or—” I grab the remote and start the StarTV news from the beginning. “Jake,” Mom says, “maybe I should tell you about it first. It might not be what it seems, especially considering—”
It’s too late. The same plastic, bottled blonde who interviewed us on the red carpet opens the news segment with, “Rumors of a Bremma reconciliation are definitely true, my friends. At last night’s premiere of Coyote Hills, two of its stars, Brett Crawford and Emma Taylor, celebrated the long-awaited debut in a stolen moment together.”
As the reporter goes on, video footage takes over the screen. It shows Brett and Emma, alone in a white room with trees. Emma is in her red dress and Brett in his suit. They must’ve gone off together during the party … while I danced with Rachel?
The video has a strange glare to it, as if a camera took the footage from outside a window. The reporter’s voice turns to static in my ears when the shot changes and Brett and Emma are now … standing toe to toe. Then I hear nothing at all, feel nothing but blood pulsing through my veins … they’re kissing.
The view is straight on. Their lips aren’t just touching, they’re locked.
I think of Brett chasing Emma down the hall, and him saying that he couldn’t give her enough of what she wanted. So this hadn’t been enough for her?
The reporter continues to narrate the scene, play by play. “Emma Taylor was so swept off her feet that she dropped her plate of cookies. How adorable! Brett must be great with those famous lips, huh? I wonder what sort of treat they have planned for their upcoming hiatus. More cookies, perhaps?” The reporter laughs as if she’s a comic genius. “Whatever these two cook up, it’s always delicious! We’ll keep you posted! As for—”
I keep watching in a state of stupor until Devin takes away the remote. The screen goes black, but I still stare at it. The only light in the room is from a small lamp. “Jake,” Mom says, “I’m sure there’s an explanation. They’ve been doing all this silly publicity, and perhaps—”
I shake my head. “It wasn’t publicity. It was real.” I don’t know what to grab first. “Let’s just … get you home, okay?”
“Devin, would you mind driving me back to Phoenix when you’re ready?” Mom asks. “I think Jake should stay here and sort this out.”
“Look, Mom,” I snap. “Emma’s liked Brett forever—you heard Rachel today, right, Devin? She’s even told me that herself. But she explained everything else away: a bad camera angle, a clueless onlooker who said they were all over each other. Because, you know, stories like that get attention, sell papers, create buzz.”
Both my mom and Devin try to calm me down, make sense of it all, but they could’ve just as well been talking to solid rock. I help my mom into Devin’s car, haul her suitcase and wheelchair out, grab the bag I already had packed for Phoenix, and take off.
Who knows where I’ll go? Anywhere is better than here.
Emma
Jake’s voice mail picks up on the first ring, so I keep calling as I walk over to his condo—still in pajamas, because I can’t return to my bedroom with Rachel in there—but his car is already gone. I go back to my town house, figuring Jake’s phone is probably dead after our long day at Old Tucson Studios. He’ll eventually notice on his way to Phoenix.
I call or text every few minutes until I drift off on my couch.
When I force my eyes open in the morning, Rachel’s hot-pink luggage is just a few feet away from me. My home phone rings and I sit straight up—I only get calls on that line from Jake and the front gate. I stand to answer but hear Rachel pick up in the kitchen. “Actually, this is Emma’s … um, guest,” she says. “Yeah, I called a taxi. Tell him I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
I don’t hear anything else for thirty seconds or so. Finally, there’s a sniff, and I sink back onto the sofa. I don’t want to get into another fight. The cruel words just need to stop.
Rachel enters the living room with her eyes as red and swollen as mine were when I woke up yesterday. “It’s you, isn’t it?” she says, followed by another sniff. Her voice is raw, surrendering. The fight is over. Everything is over. “You are Jake’s girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” is all I say. There’s no use telling her that our first kiss was only a week ago. Because, really, we’ve been together a lot longer than that.
Rachel sits on my bla
nkets that are heaped on the sofa. “I knew it would happen, Emma, that Jake would fall for you. Every guy does. But I thought if you and Brett were dating, it might at least buy me some time to get here—to show Jake I was perfect for him. But you kept saying that you didn’t like Brett anymore, so I … I tried to convince you that you should.”
My breaths are shallow as Rachel sits and cries beside me. Everything I think of saying sounds so cliché: I didn’t mean for this to happen; I fought it; I didn’t want to hurt you. What good are those words now? I can finally see the real Rachel again—the girl I grew up with, dreaming of stardom and how great it would be to fall in love. We just happened to have the same dream, and fall for the same guy.
And I got both.
“This isn’t just about Jake,” Rachel sobs. “I mean, yeah, I’m totally mad that you lied to me, but there’s so much more. You just don’t get it. My Twitter followers don’t care about my photography—they want to hear about you. For six years now, it’s felt like people have only wanted to be my friend because I know you. I’ve lost track of how many guys have flirted with me, then dropped the line, ‘So, can you hook me up with Emma?’ I hate it. It’s humiliating.”
“I wish you didn’t feel that way, Rachel,” I say, my anger completely gone. “Because it couldn’t possibly be true about everyone. But this was the talk we should’ve had last night—in fact, we should’ve had it a long time ago.”
Rachel nods. “I’m sorry about what I said last night.”
“Me too,” I tell her, then have to force myself to go on. “The problem is, there’s some truth to what we both said, and we don’t have just a few easy issues to work through.”
“Right,” she replies. “I’m sure it’s gonna take a while, but at least we got it all out.”
