Not in the Script (29 page)

“Let me guess, your cousin didn't have surgery?” Jake asks.

“She did, actually,” I reply. “She got an amazing—but totally unnecessary—nose job, and won the Miss Fayetteville pageant.”

Jake surprises me with laughter. “How did your aunt expect to get away with that?”

I shrug. “We went to visit my cousin after the surgery, and she had no idea what I was talking about when I asked if she could breathe better. She didn't even know what a sinus was.” My mom still brings up this occasion whenever she wants to remind me that she's always right about
everything
. “When my parents confronted my aunt, her excuse went something like, ‘Emma has her fame and fortune, and this is the only way my daughter can get hers. You owe it to your family to take care of them.' Which is ridiculous, right? I would've happily paid for a life-saving surgery, but I didn't owe my cousin a new
nose
.”

Our families haven't spoken since. It's a typical Southern feud.

“It's bad enough when
anyone
takes advantage of you, but so much worse when it's a family member,” Jake says. “So whenever my dad calls and says in his fake, cheery voice, ‘Hey there, Jake! How's my boy doing?' I just want to say, “Funny you ask, Dad, because I'm actually doing everything
you
should be doing, and I hate you for it.” Jake clenches a handful of hair in his fist. “I know that's cold, but my dad's a smart guy—he has a freaking master's degree. But he
chose
to live this life, and dragged the rest of us down with him. So why should I give him that chance all over again?” Jake is still gripping his hair, so I ease his hand away and hold it. “At the same time, I'm tired of hating him. Avoiding him.
Pretending like he doesn't exist. I need to get over everything he's done. Maybe even forgive him. But how?”

I'm not sure if he's looking for advice or just venting. Still, I take a chance and say, “I totally get why you don't like to even think about your dad, but I doubt you'd feel so conflicted about it if you truly hated him. And pushing him away doesn't seem to be working for your own peace of mind, right? So maybe you could start talking to him for only a few minutes at a time—try having a normal conversation for just
that
long. But when it comes down to it, Jake, earning back your trust is up to him.”

“Yeah, true. And I should probably try that. It's just that I have a hard time trusting
anyone
now,” he says quickly, then seems to regret telling me this. “I kinda, well—” He starts tugging on a loose string at the hem of his shorts. “I get what you could call a knee-jerk reaction whenever people seem too good to be true. I instantly doubt them. I doubt that
anything
good can last. And I'm usually right.”

Jake glances back for a sec, giving the impression that even I fit into this category, and I can't let him believe that. “At least you don't have to worry about
me
,” I say, “since I'm nowhere near too good to be true. I think I've made it perfectly clear that I'm a pain in the butt.”

He laughs and wraps an arm around me, his entire body seeming to relax. “You, Emma Taylor, cause me
plenty
of pain. But don't count on scaring me off so easily.”

I nestle into him, the two of us fitting together so perfectly it's as if we're custom made for each other. “Well, as you can see,” I reply, “that's exactly what I'm trying to do.”

I've always thought that when I one day found myself feeling like this, I would wonder if it was the real thing—if it was
something genuine enough, like Jake said, to last. But I realize in this moment that there isn't a single questioning
if
in my head.

I'm falling in love with him.

I return to work on a Tuesday, the dreaded day each week when the tabloids tell me what's going on in my life. They are way off as usual—and on a scavenger hunt to figure out why I didn't go to Tahoe with Brett—but for once, I couldn't care less. They can speculate and lie all they want, just as long as they don't bring Jake into it.

The only flaw in my grand plan is that the tabloids
are
hurting Brett, most of them suggesting that he's fooling around and making me cry all day long, begging for his attention.

During Wednesday's lunch break, the first time I work with Brett after Labor Day weekend, he waves a stack of tabloids in my face. “Great, I'm on covers as a playboy again! And I don't deserve it.”

“That's unusual,” I reply. Then I realize he looks genuinely devastated, so I take the tabloids away from him and toss them into a nearby trash can. “Brett, they're just as stupid as they've always been. Why would you let them bother you now?”

He plops down into his cast chair, pushes his fingers through his hair one way, and then the other. Then he stands back up again. “Because you know that I'm
trying
,” he says, and grabs me by my shoulders—his trademark move. I guess it could be worse. “I'm being good. Better than good. I'm bored out of my
freaking mind
here in Tucson, but I'm playing the part of McGregor's choirboy anyway. It doesn't matter though, does it?”

“Sure it does. They'll eventually catch on,” I reply, but I also
have my doubts. “And you've told me yourself that you want to change, so you're not just doing this for McGregor, and especially not for the tabloids. It's for your
own
happiness, right?”

Brett nods and gives my arms a squeeze, making me suddenly aware of Jake's presence. He's been studying in his dressing room during lunch but is now filling his plate at the food table. He doesn't seem to be
watching
us, just glancing around a bit, but I still slip out of Brett's hold and return to my own plate.

The following Tuesday, while we wait for an issue with the library set to be resolved, Brett waves a fresh tabloid in front of me. “Guess who the bad guy is
this
week?”

I take the paper, which he's already opened to a particular article:
A VENOMOUS EMMA TAYLOR
? “What the …” I begin, and Brett just motions for me to read it.

Don't cross Emma Taylor if you know what's good for you—that's the warning making its way around Hollywood's dating circles. A source close to Troy Dawson, Taylor's ex, claims Dawson won't go anywhere he suspects Taylor might show up. “Troy would kill me for saying it, but it seems like he's suddenly afraid of her,” said the friend.

And now it appears that the girl formerly known for her mild Southern manners is also using a few scare tactics on her most recently departed, Brett Crawford. The two had planned a getaway to Lake Tahoe together before Taylor suspected he was cheating on her and canceled. “Emma's on attack mode,” an insider said. “Brett wants her back, but she either talks trash to him or ignores him altogether. The set of
Coyote Hills
is a war zone right now.”

This is unfortunate for Executive Producer Steve McGregor, but our studio source tells us that all the on-set drama is only increasing our chances for some hot and steamy TV.

Crawford's camp insists that the couple maintains a close bond, while Taylor's publicist declined to comment on her very uncharacteristic behavior. But one thing is crystal clear to everyone around her: sweet little Emma Taylor is all grown up.

So watch your backsides, boys, a new queen bee has left her hive and she's not just a lot of buzz anymore—she's out to sting someone.

I have to admit that I like the part about Troy; it isn't
my
fault that he's so transparent. But the rest of the article is totally absurd, so I crumple it up and throw it back at Brett. It bounces off his chest and hits the floor.

“What is
wrong
with these people?” I ask. “How can last week's tabloids say I'm desperate for you to love me, and this one claim I've transformed into a killer black widow?”

“Queen bee,” Kimmi says. She's pacing to the side of us while talking on her phone, and apparently eavesdropping as well.

“Whatever,” I reply. I'm glad Jake isn't around to see how irritated I am because I've been pretty calm about gossip lately. It's hard to ruin my mood these days; I sort of flutter around like I have wings on my back.

But in a butterfly sort of way, not a queen bee.

Brett grabs the tabloid article off the floor, flattens it in his lap and scans it. “They've made
me
look like a pansy, scared that a
chick who doesn't even weigh a hundred pounds is gonna do what, say mean things to me?”

“She weighs more than that,” Kimmi says. “I've peeked.”

“Get lost!” Brett replies. He jumps out of his cast chair, steals Kimmi's cell, and ends her call, which is clearly just to annoy her since she can now eavesdrop even easier.

“Oh, look, Kimmi! A Diet Coke!” I say, but she ignores me and whacks the side of Brett's head. He whimpers and rubs the spot, making me laugh. “I have no idea where that article got this war zone stuff. We all get along perfectly fine.”

“Exactly! That's my point,” Brett says, missing my sarcasm. “We're tight, right? So you should come with me to that charity auction this weekend. I won't even sit by you. We'll just casually chat and laugh once in a while—no touching, I promise. And we'll be with tons of friends. Then these stupid rumors about you being a hormonal diva who hates me for hooking up with every random chick in sight—which I haven't done even once since I moved to Tucson—will disappear. You'll be in L.A. the night before the auction anyway.”

We're doing official publicity now. Brett must have checked my schedule.

After several minutes of this, I realize he's right. We just need to be seen having a friendly conversation. So I agree and invite a bunch of my own friends to come along. Jake can't go because he'll be in New York as usual, but Kimmi plans to come, which surprises Brett.

She ended things with Payton in a pretty spectacular way in Tahoe—something to do with a league of Laker Girls who showed up on their boat, one of which ended up in Payton's cabin—and according to Brett, Kimmi is now desperate to avoid him.

* * *

Brett must be right because Kimmi doesn't show up at the auction after all, but it turns out to be a lot of fun and gives me some ideas for a future fund-raiser for my own foundation. I auction off a few movie scripts with my personal notes in them, and Brett donates ten pairs of worn-out jeans with his autograph on the back pockets. We hopefully throw the tabloids way off by smiling and laughing together, and Troy even walks by me once and casually says, “Hey.”

And I say it back, as confident as I've ever felt around him.

By the end of the day, I'm happy I went. And the best side effect? The next flock of tabloid articles contradict one another so completely that people are starting to question every article since
Bremma
began. Hooray!

But my mom … holy crap. She's been asking way too many questions about boys, and after this weekend in L.A., she finally traps me into a conversation I've been trying to avoid. “Yes, Mom, Troy was at the auction,” I tell her. “And there wasn't any drama at all.”

A long pause. “All right, well, that queen bee story is still bothering me.”

This is the third time she's brought it up.

“Your dad and I have been talking, discussing how quickly you left Los Angeles after
The First Family
wrapped, as well as your other odd behaviors during that time. Changing your number and such. And now we wonder if … if you might've been scared of Troy for some reason—not the other way around, as that article suggested.” I remain silent, surprised that she'd connected so much. “Emma, please be honest with me. I'm truly worried. And your dad … well, he's jumping to all sorts of conclusions and ready to beat that boy to a bloody pulp.”

“What?
Dad
? No … no, listen. Troy just …” My heart is on hyperdrive.

“I need some answers,” Mom says. “And quickly.”

“He sort of stalked me, okay?” I blurt out. “After we broke up. It started with a lot of weird phone calls, then he chased me in my car once. And then—” Dad
will
freak if he finds out about the window episode. Under his business suit, my dad is still a good ol' country boy, and Southern justice is no joke. “Then after the fight at Club 99, I told Troy that I'd tell the press every crazy thing he did if he doesn't leave me alone.”

I guess I have a bit of the dirty South in my blood too.

I wait for my mom to berate me for how poorly I handled the situation, but she stays quiet for so long that I wonder if we've been disconnected. “Why didn't you tell me?” she finally asks, almost whispering. “I would've helped you. Somehow.”

“Because you and Dad were right about him,” I reply. From the beginning, my parents said that Troy gave them
bad vibes
, but I was flattered by his sweet words, and his thoughtful gifts, and I liked how his confidence made up for my lack of it. And who listens to their parents, anyway? “I felt stupid, you know? And I was afraid you'd call the police. I'm sorry, but I didn't want to go through the media frenzy that would've created.”

“So instead you put your
life
in danger?” Mom says. I'm on the phone with her for another hour after that, being reminded that I am naive, that I am irresponsible, that I shouldn't “take the law into my own hands.” And I should never, ever keep secrets from my mother, because she obviously manages my life so much better than I do.

But she does seem to genuinely care as she lectures me this
time, and not only about my career. At least this part of the conversation feels sort of nice.

Just when I think we're wrapping up, Mom asks if Rachel knows any of this, and I say that she doesn't. “Good. Keep it that way,” Mom replies. “A rumor just reached me that her mother was approached by
Celebrity Seeker
a few weeks ago. Trina denies speaking to them, but that's suspiciously close to when they learned about you having a crush on Brett—laptop wallpapers and all—for the last decade. Besides Rachel and Trina, who else knew about that?”