She rolls her eyes and I kiss her, pushing her book off of her lap and ignoring her feeble protests. I slide an arm around her. “Makeout break.” That’s all the warning she gets.
I press her back into the pillows, following her carefully, because stretching at the wrong angle still hurts like hell. “Are you sure you’re okay to… you know…” she says.
Leaning above her, I smile. “To what? Kiss and touch you until you throw me down and have your way with me? Yes, I’m plenty up to that.”
She sighs and laughs, and I figure at this point we don’t need to talk anymore.
One thing that doesn’t happen often is finding myself alone with Graham Douglas. Most people are fairly uncomplicated, once you know their motivations. I was certain one of his was Brooke. But even though he stays near her, he watches Emma as well. I’d be stupid not to notice. And I’m not stupid.
At the moment, he and I are standing next to each other, waiting to film the only scene featuring just the two of us in the entire movie. I’m wondering if he’s doing Brooke, if he has plans to try with Emma as well.
“How’s it going?” His expression is relaxed, but tension runs between us like a taut wire. I wonder whether plucking it would disclose where we stand more clearly.
“Good.” I nod. “Emma says I should thank you for summoning the doctor the other night. I was too out of it to be aware of anything.”
He half-shrugs. “Yeah, I noticed. Glad I could help.”
I’m trying to find the condescension I expect from someone who hangs out with Brooke and might have plans to bang the girl I intend to hook up with, but I can’t find it. Either he’s really good at hiding it, or it’s not there. The PA calls us to our places.
“Yeah, well, thanks.”
“No problem,” he says.
Emma
I’m running with Graham this morning for the first time in a week, and he hasn’t mentioned my allergy Armageddon. We’ve discussed auditions at Julliard and studio placement at NYU, but there’s something unsaid under the college talk, and I wait for him to sort out whatever’s weighing on his mind. He pretends not to notice the one time I say “huh,” which seems like a clue. Like he’s afraid to upset me.
“So, is everything okay with you and Reid?” he finally asks as we hit our turnaround point.
“Yeah. He’s definitely feeling better.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Um… I mean between the two of you… is everything okay.”
I blink up at him and realize from the way he isn’t looking at me that he’s uncomfortable asking this question, that this is the thing he’s been withholding for twenty minutes. I think about what Reid and I have been doing lately and feel a trace of guilt, even though what Reid and I do is no more his business than what he and Brooke do is mine. “Um, yeah, it’s fine. It’s great.”
“Oh. Okay. Good. I’m not trying to pry—I just wanted to make sure. You know, that you’re okay. And you know you can talk to me, if you need to talk, vent, whatever.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks.” I can’t imagine talking to Graham about Reid.
Our kiss on my bed has never been mentioned, or repeated, or even nearly repeated. It’s as though it never happened at all. I wish I could forget it as easily as he’s been able to, and most of the time the memory of it is neatly filed away—zip, zip, gone—but every so often I think about it and God.
We’ve also never talked about Reid kissing me in front of hidden-camera-wielding, photo-uploading Reid Alexander fans. So I have no idea if the reason Graham withdrew was because I kissed Reid the next day, or because of Brooke, or because kissing me simply didn’t do anything for him. I guess in the end it doesn’t matter which reason it was.
I consider asking for his advice concerning my fight with Emily, but just thinking about her makes me tear up, and I’m determined not to start crying again while I’m out in public. So I don’t say anything. And after a few minutes, he mentions something about filming tomorrow and the moment is past.
Today is the one week anniversary of our fight. Emily and I have never gone more than three days without talking or texting each other, usually not twenty-four hours. I’ve begun texts and emails to her at least fifty times, I’ve clicked her speed dial number and almost hit talk, but I don’t know what to say.
How do you apologize for living your life?
Reid started short stints of filming this week, though his doctor limited him to three hours per day max. The problem is, there are a lot more hours remaining in his day, and not a lot to fill them. I have several hours of filming daily, plus class work, plus studying for the SAT. By Sunday afternoon, I’m playing catch-up before beginning another week of filming.
“Tell me again why you’re taking the SAT?” He stretches, pauses the game and reaches for me.
“College?” I shove the math prep book off of my lap as he kisses me. We’re sitting in the middle of his bed, remnants of our room-service lunches on trays at the foot of the bed, game controllers and study implements surrounding us.
He takes the pencil from my hand and tosses it onto his bedside table, his brow furrowed. “Yeah, but, why?”
Meredith and Brooke asked the same question, with the same perplexed look. Our kind tends not to pursue higher education. What reason is there, when our career paths are right in front of us, and time off would result in forfeited film roles and lost momentum? Both of them dismissed Jenna as some sort of oddity because of her academic family.
Is it enough to say that it’s what normal people do? (Probably not, because all of them would ask me why I’d want to be normal.)
“I don’t know, Reid. I just want to go, all right?”
“Okay, I’m just curious. Seems like a lot of work.” He pulls me onto his lap.
“Be careful,” I say, uneasy, but he only shrugs.
“I’m fine. My doctor said I’ll be able to start some light workouts with my trainer next week.” He tips my chin back to kiss my neck. One arm supports me as the other unbuttons the top buttons of my shirt, his mouth following his fingers. Nudging the fabric aside, he runs his tongue over the upper curve of my breast, and I close my eyes and try to breathe.
Fifteen minutes later, his shirt is off, mine is completely unbuttoned and I’m straddling him. He runs his hands up and down my back before nudging the straps of my bra off of my shoulders. “God, Emma, you’re so hot. I can’t take this anymore.” His kisses my shoulder, moving towards my throat. “Do you want me to beg? I’m begging. Jesus Christ, you’re killing me with wanting you.”
“But your incision,” I say, gasping at what his mouth is doing—soft little sucking bites along the curve of my neck.
“Fuck the incision, I’d gladly go back in and have it sewn up again. I want you, and I don’t care about anything else.” He pulls me tight and kisses me, almost too fiercely.
“But…” I’m caving—oh, boy am I caving. My brain casts around for an excuse. “I’m supposed to meet Meredith in half an hour to do econ homework, and after that everyone is going out...”
“Tonight, then.” His tone is resolute, his hands gripping my hips. “After we come back from whatever we’re doing, and everyone is safe in their rooms, I want you, back here, in my bed.” He stares into my eyes. “Say yes, Emma. Please.”
I tell myself that I’m only scared because I’ve never done it. Maybe once it’s over it won’t feel like such a big deal. “Yes,” I answer in the smallest possible voice.
“That’s my girl,” he says, kissing my now-bruised lips more softly, and a thrill runs through me at his words. And then I want to run to my room and hide in the closet. I knew this was coming, we were getting closer every day, but suddenly it’s here and I’m petrified.
He laughs softly. “I can wait. What’s another—” he looks at his watch “—four or five hours.”
Every time I think about tonight I break out in a cold sweat, so any distraction is good, even homework. Meredith and I spend an hour on economics (“I fail to see why I will ever need to know this stuff,” she says) before we give up and decide that supply and demand can wait. We have to dress for a cast field trip to a new dance club.
“Reid’s looking restored to almost full health.” She gathers her hair up at the crown and lets it fall, draws it up and lets it fall again. “What do you think—up or down?”
“I like up. It’s different for you.” I don’t reply to her comment about Reid, though thanks to that my hands are shaking just enough to make applying mascara dangerous.
“I agree. Up. Robby likes it down, so whenever we go out I don’t get to put it up.”
I stand there watching her in the mirror, holding the mascara wand aloft like I’m about to conduct with it. “Robby likes it down?”
“Yeah… um, we got back together last night.” She smiles mischievously, examining her own reflection. “He’s coming down this weekend.”
I barely manage to keep from blurting What the hell are you thinking? “So he’s going to be less possessive, and stop accusing you of stuff you aren’t doing?”
“He promises to trust me more.” She begins to pin locks of her hair up. “He knows he was being jealous for no reason before. He’s going to change.”
“Hasn’t he said that before?” Somehow she missed my cynical tone.
“I really think he means it this time,” she says, utterly blissful and trusting.
“Huh.”
“Let’s put yours up, too. Turn around.”
I turn away from her, away from the mirror. It’s better for both of us if she doesn’t see the incredulity on my face.
Chapter 37
REID
John: theres some shit going around about that emma chick, that shes doing both you and that graham guy
Reid: Meh. Those sites are jacked up.
John: yeah ok but there are photos of them together. not just one or two but it looks like they run together all the time did you know about that?
Reid: wtf – when???
John: this one site has hotel employees saying that they come downstairs together pretty much every morning. like theyre screwing then running. i don’t know man i just thought youd wanna know.
Reid: k thx
I usually avoid the tabloid sites like a disease. All of us do, as much as we can. Most of the time, it’s fabricated by some fucktard “journalist” who just wants to sell a story and doesn’t give a shit if it’s true.
The hitch in ignoring this crap comes when there’s photographic evidence. Not that this can’t be deceptive, too; photo alteration software can be a horrific tool in the wrong hands. But there’s nothing fake about the multiple photos of Graham and Emma running, stretching, talking, laughing. Their clothing varies, so it wasn’t a one-time thing. This is something they’ve been doing or were doing regularly.
