We stood at the same time and faced each other; our gates were in opposite directions. He reached for me and I walked into his arms. I pressed my face to his chest, breathed in his scent. He was going to walk away, and I was going to let him go without ever asking him why he’d kissed me. “I’ll miss you, Emma,” he said. Under my ear, his chest resonated faintly with my name.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
Relaxing his hold, he took my face in his hands and kissed my temple softly. “I’ll miss you more,” he whispered before turning to gather his bags. When he was fifteen or twenty feet away, he looked back, tipped his chin, and smiled at me. I gave a little wave and took a deep breath, memorizing his familiar gait. The way he paid no attention to the girls who turned to watch him pass. The way I felt the loss of him already, when he was still within my sight.
“So… I think he took that well,” Dad says after the phone call to Dan to tell him I would be taking a hiatus from blockbuster roles so I could go to college. Dad rubs the back of his neck with one hand while he stares at the phone in the other.
“You aren’t a very good liar, Dad.”
“Well, he’s received the news. I guess how he likes it is his problem.”
“Hmph,” Chloe says from the kitchen table, where she’s grading exams. She’s still disgruntled that I’m giving up my film career, possibly for good. Her dreams of being the mother of a huge star, jet-setting all over the world, rubbing elbows with celebrities, have been dashed. She didn’t speak to either of us for days, but she’s almost resigned herself to the idea now. I think.
Dad winks at me, leaning over her shoulder and telling her, “I thought you and I could use a weekend getaway. Visit a winery or two… stay at a B-and-B?”
“Really?” She brightens, and then her expression falls. “But what about—” she gestures towards me as I pour a glass of orange juice.
“Emma’s an adult now, Chloe. She can handle a weekend at home alone.” When he mentioned the idea last week, I assured him I was more than fine with it.
“Sure,” I say. “You kids go, have fun.”
I scroll through my texts as I walk to my room. There’s a thread with Graham from last night that I want to reread.
Graham: Hey, birthday girl
Me: You remembered
Graham: Of course. Doing anything special to celebrate being 18?
Me: Like what, voting?
Graham: HA
Me: Just going to dinner with dad and chloe
Graham: How is that going btw
Me: Really well, actually
Graham: Good. I just registered for my last semester. Heading upstate with my sisters for some r&r this weekend.
Me: Jealous. I always wanted sisters.
Graham: Trust me, it was the opposite of awesome for the first 15 years, until i was cool enough for them to know me in public.
Me: Lol. Enjoy your weekend.
Graham: Thx, you too
I move the text into permanent storage on my phone. I haven’t seen anyone from School Pride in the weeks since we wrapped the film. The new version of my old life has reabsorbed me. These few lines and a few weeks of memories—countless conversations and one unforgettable kiss—are all I have left of Graham.
The day I met Derek, he and Emily had both just gotten off work. Each was dressed to sell an image to their respective customers—most of whom wouldn’t be caught dead in each other’s social circles. From the violet stripes in her dark hair and her black-tipped fingernails to her biker boots with buckles running ankle to mid-calf, she couldn’t have appeared more incompatible with him—tan and lanky with short blond hair, dressed in a button-down shirt, untucked, skinny chinos and Sperrys. As I watched them from my bedroom, I couldn’t help the thought that they were doomed. And then, taking her hand, he pulled her to a stop and smiled down at her like she was everything in the world that made him happy. As he framed her face with careful hands and kissed her, she melted into him.
Emily confessed that they’re applying to the same colleges, mostly her choice. Derek’s aspirations include earning an English degree while writing a novel—and he says any decent academic environment will do. I’ve never seen her like this. My best friend, independent and uncompromising our entire lives, has fallen in love. Hard.
I’m still stuck on living in New York, though I no longer feel the need to escape my home state. Once the prospect of moving there lodged itself in my mind, everything else seemed inferior by comparison. Dad and Emily have resigned themselves to losing me to the east coast, at least for a while.
I did some community theatre over the holidays—a starring role in a low-budget production of It’s a Wonderful Life. Dad didn’t miss a single show. The thought of leaving him next fall stings, though I’ve been coming and going for years. But it’s good. The sting tells me I’ll miss him and the way he looks at me now—like he hasn’t seen me in years, like he can’t get enough now that I’m here.
Chapter 44
REID
It’s March, five months since we wrapped up School Pride. I’ve hung out with Tadd several times since then and Quinton twice. I haven’t seen or heard from anyone else. Now, the main cast is in Austin for a couple of days to do a photo spread for Vanity Fair. My flight arrived late, and no one’s up and about when I check into the hotel. Disoriented to be back in Austin, I fall asleep thinking of Emma. My dreams are vivid and unsettling, receding to the edges of my consciousness when I wake, yielding no clear details and leaving me anything but rested. Coffee and breakfast from room service delays the prospect of seeing any of them until the concierge calls to let me know the limo has arrived.
When I exit my room and turn the corner, she’s standing in front of the elevator. “Emma,” I say softly, not wanting to startle her. Her shoulders tense slightly, but she turns with a pleasant, if artificial, expression.
“Hi, Reid.”
“You’re looking good,” I say, and she does.
“Thanks. You, too.”
The elevator doors part and we enter and stand a foot apart, staring at the descending numbers. Memories swirl around us, sharp and silent—how I would back her against a wall as soon as the elevator doors shut behind us, pinning her against the cold stainless steel panel while my hands skimmed her waist and my mouth moved over hers until neither of us could think straight. I wonder if she’s forgotten.
“Okay, Emma, lie back with your head in Reid’s lap. That’s good. Reid, one hand on her stomach.” The VF photographer is Virgil, one of those artists so well-known that a surname is unnecessary. He’s known for sensual, romantic photo spreads. Arranging Emma’s hair to cascade over my knee and pool on the blanket they’ve spread over the rough boards of the dock, he says, “Emma, at me. Reid, at her… longing, desire on your face.” No problem there.
Snap, snap, snap.
The next series has me perched on a stool while she sits on my lap, facing me, her legs locked around my hips. She’s making a concerted effort to keep her eyes averted—quite a feat in this position. “These are waist-up shots, but I need you guys close,” Virgil says. “Emma, arch into him.” Snap, snap, snap. “Good, now lean your head back, chin up.” Snap, snap.
“Back farther, eyes closed.” I press my mouth against her throat, and Virgil is euphoric. “Stunning.” Snap, snap. He crooks her arm, moving her hand to the back of my head, holding me in place over her heart, the beats echoing through me as we stare into the camera and Virgil snaps like there isn’t enough film in the world to capture this moment.
We stand back to back, our hands joined at our sides, while I look out over the lake, spotlighting what’s been termed my “archetypal male profile.” Resting her head between my shoulder blades, Emma stares into the camera as Virgil snaps off shots. “Emma, gaze over my shoulder. Imagine you’re far away, somewhere lovely and perfect...”
Off to the right, the others are gathered, talking and watching distractedly, waiting their turns. Quinton and Tadd stand behind the others, laughing. The girls sit in a semi-circle, Jenna reading, the others talking. Graham reclines just apart from them, legs out in front, ankles crossed, leaning back on his elbows, watching Emma. His mouth turns up on one side and I know she’s returning his gaze. His chin tips back, hey, and Virgil murmurs, “Perfect,” firing off rapid snaps.
The group shots are full of clowning around, some of which will make it into the spread, most of which won’t. Quinton, Tadd, Graham and I, holding Emma horizontally across our middles like a burlesque singer. A hands and knees pyramid, guys on bottom, then Brooke, MiShaun and Meredith, with Jenna and Emma on top. Tadd groans and pretends to crumple under the weight as tiny Jenna climbs atop Brooke and Meredith, and everyone screams and laughs as the whole thing nearly crashes to the mats covered in blankets and sand.
Tomorrow will be divided up, girls in the morning, guys in the afternoon. “No hangovers, dudes,” Virgil says. “The camera isn’t kind to dehydrated, red-eyed subjects.” He chuckles as our eyes roll and we drag ourselves to the waiting cars.
I duck into a car with Emma, Meredith and Jenna. Touching Emma’s shoulder, I draw her out of their conversation. She’s as wary of me as she was in the elevator this morning. “Still going off to college in the fall? Have you chosen one yet?”
Her hands are clasped in her lap, and I maintain a small empty space between us. “I’m visiting a couple next month, making a final decision.”
“Cool.”
The four of us talk about upcoming projects, and Jenna grills Emma on the colleges she’s chosen to visit next month and what she’ll be studying. I shouldn’t be surprised that they’re both in New York—for theatre it makes sense—but I wonder what this has to do with Graham, and if it has everything to do with him. We arrive at the hotel and everyone decides on room service in my room, sans Meredith, who’s staying in her room with Robby the Controlling Boyfriend.
“That guy is a total dick,” Tadd tells Emma, using the shaker from my bar to make margaritas. “How can she like that?”
“No idea,” she answers as he unscrews the shaker, pouring the mixture into three glasses, handing one to her, one to me.
“A friend of mine got into a seriously messed up relationship with a possessive guy,” he continues after taking a sip. “He checked his phone messages, separated him from his friends, hacked into his computer. It was a fucking nightmare. Actually, he said the fucking was pretty good, the rest was a nightmare.”
Emma and I narrowly avoid spraying him with margarita.
“Getting everyone hammered already, are you, Tadd?” Brooke says as she joins us.
“Want one?” he asks. “They’re magically delicious.”
“Yes, please—one for Graham, too. He’ll be here in a sec. He’s on a call.”
I’m looking at Emma when Brooke mentions Graham, and I can’t unsee the split second of joy that crosses her face. The apprehension that follows it. After filming was over, speculation about the two of them fell off completely. According to the media, she and I managed to hook up a couple of times—rather unreasonable given the fact that we haven’t been in the same city since filming ended.
