Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  I think all this through for a few minutes before I reply:

  You’re right, Brett. I lied to you about something I was desperate to keep secret, but I never would’ve betrayed you like this. So yeah, I might be on that 20-year plan you mentioned. Meanwhile, I think we’re both good enough actors to at least pretend to get along, especially at work. We owe that to McGregor.

  P.S. That dude who kicked Troy’s butt for me at Club 99 is actually a pretty decent guy. I doubt I’ll see him flipping burgers anytime soon.

  Whoops and cheers are suddenly outside my bedroom. Levi and Logan burst through the door and are all over me before I can even stand up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I wrap my bathrobe a bit tighter. “What are you so excited about?”

  Mom finally catches up and scolds the boys for not knocking. “Dad just called,” she tells me. “He wants to go out as a family tonight—dinner and a movie. He’ll be home at five.”

  I toss the boys a look of panic. “Oh no! I only have six hours to do my hair!”

  I decide to wait until after the movie to tell my family that I’m leaving the next morning. I’ve already been home for a week, so I hope they’ll understand. I get ready, pack what I can, do a couple of hours of homework, and come downstairs to find my brothers beating each other with lightsabers. “We’re gonna fight the greasy-haired vultures,” Levi says, referring to the name I’ve given the flock of paparazzi outside my parents’ gates. They’ve been here for six days, and as far as I know, only left during the rainstorm that blew in yesterday. Going out with my family tonight will be crazy—but I can handle it.

  Levi peeks through the living room curtains. “Why do they want so many pictures of you? Just give them one of those.” He points to our family photos on the wall.

  I rough up his hair. “They don’t want a picture of me smiling. They want to catch me crying or making ugly faces at them.”

  “That sounds fun!” Logan joins Levi at the window and parts the curtains enough to show his whole face and stick out his tongue. Soon, all three of us are laughing and blowing raspberries on the glass. Jake would love this.

  “Let’s throw eggs at them!” Levi says.

  “Great idea!” I reply, only half joking. And of course, that’s when my mom walks in, shocked that I’d encourage such behavior. She’s been vacuuming the entryway and dining room, which is strange because her cleaners usually do that.

  “Why don’t you pick up the living room instead?” Mom tells the boys, pointing out the mess of potato chip bags and scattered popcorn kernels on the rug. We’ve been getting along pretty well while I’ve been here—not perfectly, but much better. “Emma and I need to work on her foundation.”

  “You have a federation?” Logan shouts. The boys grab their lightsabers.

  “Not quite,” I say. “It’s a foundation. But if you want to help people—like Luke Skywalker does—you can join it.”

  I pick up the living room with the boys and vacuum it while my mom cleans the kitchen. When she returns, we’re all sitting on the sofa with angelic smiles.

  To keep my mind off other things since leaving Tucson, I’ve plowed through a stack of homework and read through several early foundation applications I gathered from Mrs. Elliott’s physical therapist. Arizona will be a great starting point because I can meet some of the participants myself to determine if the various benefits are working and if improvements need to be made. But it’s difficult to choose which candidates to help first, so my mom and I have decided to organize the applications into priority levels, according to immediate needs.

  She’s also been keeping up managerial duties until my agent and I choose a new manager. I haven’t been too into it this past week, but I finally feel some hope again.

  As Mom and I sit together and go through the candidate profiles, we read about children as young as two and adults in their eighties—all capable of improving their circumstances and abilities if given a chance. I become particularly interested in a twelve-year-old girl who was injured in a car accident. She’s recovered from her internal injuries, but needs extended therapy to help her walk and speak again. This girl is the same age I was when my dreams of becoming an actress came true, so I wonder what her dreams had been. Will she still get to live them?

  Somehow, I want to make sure she can.

  I suppose there’s at least one good thing that’s come from my face being slapped all over the tabloids: millions of people know who I am, and I have a chance with this foundation to take advantage of that.

  As my brothers run in and out of the living room, my mom and I answer their questions about joining my federation. They now have fistfuls of change and dump everything into my lap. “Here’s our money,” Levi says. “Is that enough?”

  “Plenty,” I reply, and also tell them about the twelve-year-old girl whose face they’ve just piled their donation onto. “You can be the first ones to help her.”

  We work on the profiles for another hour or so, and when it’s nearly five, Mom jolts and says, “The sheets! I forgot to …” She trails off when I look at her, and scurries toward the laundry room. What’s up with her?

  My dad will be home any minute, so I take the applications to Mom’s office, freshen up, and peek outside to see that another beautiful rainstorm is pounding the paparazzi. They’re all in their cars now and some are even pulling away. Looking up at the dark-gray sky, I pray for lightning—lots of it. My family will have a much better time tonight if we don’t have a dozen strangers tagging along.

  “Will you please make sure the boys stay on the sofa?” Mom asks as she goes upstairs. “I want to keep the house tidy.”

  I turn on the TV for them and fish my phone out of my bag. What if I get to Phoenix tomorrow and Jake doesn’t want to talk to me? Should I at least give him a hint that I’ve been rethinking things?

  I type and erase several text messages—lines I’ve rehearsed over and over again for when I see him—but they all say about the same thing: I miss you. So that’s what I finally gather the courage to send. Then as I just stare at my phone screen, waiting for a reply, my brothers think I’m playing the quiet game, so they turn off the TV and join in. Mom appreciates the silence, but I’m drowning in it. One little chime could save my life right now, and … I get it. The message on my phone says, I miss u 2.

  In a stupor of disbelief, I whisper, “Jake misses me.”

  The boys have heard enough to figure out that Jake is—or at least had been—my boyfriend, so they laugh and tease me while I try to decide what to text back. Or should I call?

  I’m still debating a few minutes later when my dad’s arrival through the garage door makes my brothers bolt from the sofa. “Dad!” Logan bellows. “Emma’s boyfriend misses her!”

  That’s when I hear a laugh that makes me stop breathing. I look up from my phone, certain I’ve imagined it. “Who are you?” one of the boys asks.

  I can’t see into the kitchen, but I hear Jake again, introducing himself.

  My hands fly to my chest. My heart thumps hard against my ribs, then begins to race.

  Mom peeks into the living room with an enormous smile, but she quickly disappears to get my brothers under control. Then Dad enters the room. “I got a call this morning from a young man who thought I might know where to find you,” he says, and Jake steps out from behind him. “Your mom and I are taking the boys to dinner and a movie. We’ll be back at nine,” Dad goes on, then turns to Jake. “Or sooner.”

  Could you be any more obvious?

  Moments later, Jake and I are alone in the house. I stand from the sofa and lace my hands in front of me, then in the back of me, then in front of me again. “Hi … you’re, um … in Arkansas,” I say.

  “Yep,” he replies. His expression is tentative, as if he isn’t entirely sure how I feel about this grand gesture. “And I’m freezing.”

  I can’t help but laugh a little because I’ve never seen him this nervous. “That’s because there’s a storm outside. And you’re wear
ing a T-shirt.”

  “Yeah, well, I forgot a jacket,” he says, rubbing his bare arms. “It was warm when I left Phoenix. You know, like always.”

  We’re just staring at each other now.

  “Are we really talking about the weather?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh.” He takes a few steps closer. “I planned out a million things to say when I got here, but my mind went completely blank when I saw you.”

  Where are my own practiced lines? Where is that nagging feeling I’ve had all week to tell Jake how sorry I am? But I doubt he traveled all this way for an apology, so I close the remaining gap between us, slip my fingers into one of his hands, and say the three words I didn’t have to rehearse: “I love you.”

  Jake offers me a smile I haven’t seen for far too long. “I am beyond in love with you,” he says, and then we kiss until all the space in me that felt so empty is full again.

  Jake

  I could easily kiss Emma all night long, but we have a lot to talk about before her parents get home. I finally speak against her lips. “Uh, sorry to interrupt. I just need to say—”

  She laughs. “I think this says plenty.”

  “Trust me, it isn’t because I’m not enjoying this,” I reply. “I’ve just got a pit in my stomach that I want to get rid of.”

  Emma gives me a look of disbelief. “You already apologized, last week. I’m the one who needs to say how sorry I am for having a totally psychotic meltdown. Because, really, it wasn’t only because of you. Or even Brett. Everything just came crashing down, all at once, and you got caught in the middle of it.”

  I can’t hold her close enough, get enough of how it feels to have my arms wrapped around her again. “But there’s more to my own crazy behavior than I admitted to you,” I say. “I’ve had a serious case of jealousy, pretty much since the day we met. But I didn’t want you to think I’d be just another possessive creep in your life, so I didn’t tell you how bad it bugged me that Brett somehow got the whole freaking world to believe that your love was written in the stars. And on top of that, he got to kiss you, take after take after take.”

  Emma’s fingers trail up and down my back, giving me chills. Man, I’ve missed her hands. I’ve missed all of her.

  “I should’ve realized you felt that way,” she replies. “But I was too busy trying to keep everyone else happy, remember? From now on, though—thanks to Brett—I’ll think twice about blindly assuming the best about someone.”

  “No, don’t do that. You’re the reason I’m giving my dad another chance, and we’re talking again. So stay just the way you are—you’re like my moral compass.” I laugh. “Okay, maybe not always. Sometimes you tempt me into a heck of a lot of trouble.”

  Emma hits my chest. “Speaking of fathers, how did you end up with my dad?”

  I explain how I called his office this morning to say I was at the airport in Phoenix, and had only bought my ticket late last night, or I would have asked sooner if I could visit Emma at their home. I figured he’d like it if I asked him first. Besides, I didn’t know where they lived. And I’d planned on renting a car and staying at a hotel, but Mr. Taylor said there were too many photographers around, so he’d have to sneak me past them—just like Devin had to smuggle me past the paparazzi at my mom’s gates today.

  Then Emma’s dad offered me their guest room.

  “So I’m thinking Southern hospitality, right?” I say. “But your dad was all business once he picked me up at the airport. Only ten minutes into our conversation, he made it perfectly clear that if I ever make you cry again, he’s coming after me—with like a bat, or a pitchfork, or whatever else it is you crazy hillbillies attack people with.”

  Emma has both hands over her mouth. “Yeah. Usually pitchforks.”

  “But we’re cool now,” I say. “I pretty much told him everything I just told you—raging jealousy and all—and he gave me a pat on the back for being so honest. In fact …” This is big. “Your dad just helped me think of a perfect career for when I’m done playing make-believe.”

  Emma looks skeptical. “You don’t want to be a college dean, do you?”

  “No way,” I reply, “but I think I’d make a killer agent.” I’m still kinda stunned that I didn’t think of this before today. “I’ve been a model, and now I’m an actor, so by the time I’m through with my Coyote Hills contract, I’ll have a ton of experience on the talent side of the industry. And I’ll at least be close to finishing a business degree at that point. But here’s the kicker: if I really want to be a force to reckon with, I’ll have to go to law school. That’s where your dad came in. He said it’s common to get both a business and a law degree. So my brain finally put acting, modeling, and the buzz I get from negotiating contracts all together, and the idea to be an agent hit me like an arrow!” I’m so excited about this that my eyes are probably bulging out of my head. “I mean, think about it—my agent is great at her job, but she has the personal skills of an iceberg. So if Liz can be as successful as she is, I’ll be amazing.”

  “So amazing.” Emma goes on tiptoes to kiss me. “And the thought of going to law school doesn’t intimidate you at all?”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  We talk on the couch for a while, then my lips easily find their way back to Emma’s, and I lose all awareness of my surroundings. But it only takes a split second of her brothers shrieking through the kitchen for me to snap back to reality.

  I bolt off the couch so fast that Emma lands with a thump on the floor.

  The twins run in just as I’m trying to tug Emma up—she’s laughing too hard for me to get a grip on her. Emma’s parents stop still under the archway between the kitchen and living room. Her mom’s eyes are wide open, as if she’s imagining what her sons just walked in on.

  It wasn’t as bad as it looks, I want to tell her. I swear.

  Mr. Taylor studies me—not Emma, just me and my bonfire-hot face. Then he shakes his head with what I desperately hope is amusement. “I guess you two worked things out.”

  Emma is still laughing. “Oh man, that was funny.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Mrs. Taylor says. She turns to the boys. “Pajamas, please.”

  They whine the entire way but finally make it up the stairs.

  Mr. Taylor’s face is stern again. “The photographers are gone for now because of the storm, but they’ll be back. Do you intend to do something about this, or—”

  “Not that we’re rushing you,” Mrs. Taylor says. “You’ll need to develop a careful plan with your publicists. It’s critical that these things are spun just right.”

  Emma tips her head, obviously bugged that her mom has kicked into managerial mode. But instead of saying something to her, she looks at me. “Any ideas?”

  “Yeah, just one, but it’s kinda shady,” I reply, having already thought up a plan on my way here—hoping I’d have a reason to carry it out. “I figure if the paparazzi are this determined to get proof that we’re together, the tabloids must be willing to pay a hefty price for it. So why not hand over the proof ourselves? We’ll tell whatever story we want to, and offer it along with our own photos. Then we’ll just play the media until we get the bid we want, and donate all the money to Emma’s foundation. I don’t know if that’s ethical, but …”

  “Well, it’s hardly ethical for these creeps to interpret a person’s every move in bizarre, embarrassing, and even vicious ways,” Mrs. Taylor says with a more parental tone. “And this way, you’ll have as much control over the situation as you can.”

  Emma’s smile is as wide and beautiful as I’ve ever seen it. “That’s perfect!”

  “Impressive, Jake,” her dad says. “But you missed an important element. If you each sell just half of the story under separate identities, the money you donate to Emma’s foundation can be written off on each of your taxes as a charitable contribution.” Everyone laughs. “You can even deduct your expenses for this trip. You’re discussing business, aren’t you?”

  The twins
come bounding back into the room. “You guys were kissing, huh!” one of them says. I’m not sure which one—they look exactly the same to me. “That’s gross!”

  Emma throws a hand over his mouth. “Who needs tabloids when you have little brothers?”

  The other twin lifts my shirtsleeve. “You’ve got huge muscles.”

  That’s apparently enough to win the approval of both boys because they climb all over me until Mrs. Taylor finally tells them to go to bed. She has to coax them back up the stairs one step at a time.

  Mr. Taylor sticks around until his wife returns, then makes firm eye contact with me for the umpteenth time tonight. “I’ll be in my office, right down the hall.”

  Once he leaves, Emma’s mom reinforces his already-clear message. “He’ll be there until Jake is ready to be shown to the guest room. No later than midnight.”

  Emma puts a stubborn hand on her hip, as if she’s about to argue, but I say, “That’s cool,” and Mrs. Taylor seems to appreciate my immediate compliance.

  Once she disappears up the stairs, Emma and I return to the couch. “Things will still be crazy for a while, but we’ll be okay,” I tell her. “We’re pros at sneaking around.”

  Emma leans into me. “How can we blame people for wanting pictures of us? Look how cute we are together.”

  “What’s not to love, right?”

  We whisper back and forth like this, for no more than five minutes, before we hear Emma’s dad from down the hall. “It’s awfully quiet in there!”

  “Sorry, Dad!” Emma hollers back. “We’ll try to make out a little louder!” In the absence of a reply—what could Mr. Taylor even say after that?—Emma tells me, “A return trip to Arizona is sounding pretty good right now. And I’ve already booked a ticket for tomorrow.”

  I smile and stretch my arm around her. “Eh, this isn’t so bad. If the network okays McGregor’s idea for a new reality show, we’ll be supervised a lot closer than this. But my guess is that the cameras will only be on us eight, maybe ten hours a day. So that gives us—”