Not in the Script (33 page)

What just happened? We don't fight. Ever. It's obvious that we've reached some sort of fork in the road where we need to decide if we'll turn left or right, but where will we end up? Some directions would be nice. Maybe a few helpful street signs like, Three Miles to Peace and Happiness. This Way to Misery.

One Step from Heaven
.

Jake is still sitting in the beanbag, but his hand is resting on the side of the truck bed. I reach out and take it. “I can't believe I just said that. Any of it. I'm so—”

“Don't apologize,” he says, holding onto me as though he'll tumble off a cliff if he lets go. “I deserved it. The Miss Texas thing was set up by my agent, and I agreed to it because—”

“Let's not talk about her,” I reply, even though I'm relieved by even this partial explanation. “Not now. This is about
us
.”

“Right,” Jake says. “Then can I at least admit that I totally set
myself up for rejection tonight, knowing you weren't ready for this? I even took you into a dark, scary forest. Coaxed you into the back of my truck … what a creep. I'm really sorry.”

How could he think any of this is
his
fault? I'm the one who keeps coming up with new rules and regulations, and changing them whenever I feel like it.

“It actually isn't your truck,” I say, “and this is
so
not a forest. We had to kick at least fifty tumbleweeds out of the way before we built a fire.”

I imagine us in a real forest, surrounded by trees that tower a hundred feet into the air. I can practically smell the pine needles and the damp, rich soil. We're older in this alternate universe, like it's years from now, and we're past all of this frustration and uncertainty. We have a future together, I can feel it.

We just have to make it through the space between
here
and
there
.

“Still,” Jake says, “I promised to behave myself and be patient while you figured stuff out. So I'd call this a pretty epic fail.”

“But you're right about me trying to keep everyone else happy,” I admit. I've been programmed this way. Brainwashed to believe that, whatever the cost, I need to impress the critics, entertain my fans, appease my mother, smile at the press. Even if they treat me like crap. Especially if they do. “And the funny thing is, Jake, you're the only one who seems to truly care about
my
happiness.”

He doesn't reply to this, just hoists himself over the side of the truck and lands next to me. I want to melt into him, beg him to forgive me for being so high maintenance. And for something else almost as embarrassing.

“So … I just totally jumped you,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

Jake laughs and leans against the truck, arms folded. “I obviously feel violated, but don't get any funny ideas that I won't want you to do that again, some other time. You know, whenever you want to.”

Just thinking about it makes me flush with heat, and I suddenly can't stand that he's not touching me. What felt fine and natural only an hour ago—to talk like friends do, a few feet apart—now feels awkward and wrong.

“Well, what did you expect after you told me that I turn you inside out?” I ask, because that's what his words had done to
me
.

“If I'm honest … yeah, I hoped for exactly what happened, but with a bit more participation on my part.” Jake finally reaches for my waist and gathers me closer. And thank heaven, because I thought I'd have to make the big move myself. Again. “But it was all true,” he goes on. “As for what I said
after
that—”

“You had a right to say that too,” I reply, wanting to be even closer, feel his warmth all around me. “And I should've reacted to it with a lot less drama. I think I did some sort of a leap off the tailgate.”

Jake nods. “It was pretty spectacular. I could see that you've had some ballet.”

How does he do this to me? Make me laugh when I should still be crying. Make me want to toss all of my fear and doubt into the starry night sky and believe this can last. Give me hope that there's something better than what I've had before.

Aren't a lot of couples happy for decades? A
lifetime
?

My pulse is racing again, my breath too quick. I'm nervous and still a little scared, but I move my hands up his arms, trail my fingers along his neck and through the back of his hair. I can't turn
back after this—I'm choosing Jake over Rachel, doing this without my mother's approval, and not caring what the opinion of the world might be.

It's a decision I'm making on my own.

“All I really should've said,” I tell Jake, “is that I'm trying to get to where I need to be to make this work. So please don't give up on me.”

He leans in. “And all I really meant to say—” His lips brush over my cheek, and I close my eyes, almost dissolve. “Is that I couldn't give up even if you wanted me to.”

“Good, because …” I'm barely capable of speech. I wait for him to look at me. “Because I don't think I can spend another minute of my life without you.”

In the moonlight, I only see a whisper of a smile before his bottom lip catches on mine, and we're gone. I am lost and then found again. My fingers get tangled in his hair, eager for passion, while the rest of me begs to slow down and enjoy the sweet and gentle touch of a perfect first kiss.

It's several minutes before Jake eases up, but I don't want him to, so I chase after more. He smiles against my lips and says, “I guess I forgot that I wasn't supposed to kiss you.”

I steal another one. “Oops.”

We don't say much after that.

I get Emma home by three, which is pretty impressive, considering. She was right about us talking too little if we ever started kissing, but that's okay.

We can talk again in a week or so.

Brett is unfortunately the first person I see in the morning. He forgot that he had an appointment for his truck at a detail shop today, so he's knocking on my door at 8:30. By nine, I'm already dying to see Emma. But how early is too early to appear on someone's back porch?

I decide to call instead. One problem though—it isn't Emma who picks up. It's Brett, and he's laughing when he answers. “Hey there, Jake.”

I'm silent, trying to figure out what the heck is going on. It was funny when Devin answered Emma's phone, but what is
Brett
doing with her? I only left her a few hours ago.

“Looking for someone else?” he adds.

Finally, I come to my senses, realize what's happened, and quickly formulate a cover story. “Emma lost her phone on set yesterday,” I reply. “But a PA found it after she left, and I offered to take it to her. But I guess I must've dropped it somewhere when I was moving my furniture … in your truck, apparently.”

“Yup. In the back,” Brett says, and I can't tell from his tone whether or not he's buying this. “I heard it ringing when I was telling the detail shop what I wanted done.”

“Sweet,” I say, but still on guard. “Emma would've had my head if I'd lost it.”

I'm already sprinting down the running path toward Emma's before I'm off the phone with Brett. If he's a snoop—which I wouldn't put past him—Emma's phone will tell him whatever he wants to know about us. Our text messages spell things out in plain English.

Emma opens her door in sweats and looks better than ever with long wet hair cascading down her back. “Miss me already?” she asks, motioning for me to come in. “I was just about to head over to ask if you found my phone. I must've left it in the truck.”

I step into her kitchen and shut the door. Emma immediately wraps her arms around me and looks up. I kiss her once, then again, because I'm afraid things are about to get a little tense. “Yep, it was in the truck all right,” I say. “You tossed it aside after you called Rachel.”

Emma thinks for a sec. “Oh yeah. And I meant to tell you why I remembered to call her back
right then
,” she says, and doesn't let me interrupt to tell her that it's irrelevant at the moment. “You see, I'd been wishing that I had already told her about us, so I
could just … well, kiss your face off and not feel so conflicted about it.”

I smile now, distracted. “Let's try that out a little later, okay? Right now, you might want to disable your phone, because Brett has it.”

It takes her a moment to process this. “
What
? Really?”

I explain my call with Brett, and how it was dark when I took everything out of the truck, so I'd missed her phone. I expect Emma to flip, but she only looks mildly concerned. “Oh my. There's not a lot of wiggle room with that kind of evidence,” she says. “But don't worry about my phone. I have a passcode on it. Besides, your cover story was perfect.”

Perfect is a stretch. I'm hoping for plausible.

I pull out a barstool and take a seat, bringing her along. With me sitting and Emma standing in front of me, our eyes are almost even. “This might surprise you,” I say, “but I'm beginning to see some sense in hiding our relationship a while longer. It's kinda fun sneaking around.”

“I agree,” Emma replies. Her waist is so small, it almost fits between my hands. “And right now, you're all
mine
. I don't want to share you with the world, or answer everyone's questions about how, where, and when I fell for you.” She kisses me, then tips my head and brushes her soft, warm lips along my cheek until she reaches my ear and whispers, “Because I'm still falling.”

Coherent thought is impossible past that point.

I stay at Emma's until the last possible second. Then I race home, shower and dress, and head off to McGregor's ranch for the press
junket, where the principal cast has to be by three o'clock. I feel like I could do anything right now—break through brick walls if I needed to—and realize while I'm driving that this is the perfect time to make a phone call I've been putting off.

So I do it. I call my dad, and we just talk for a few minutes—about school, and work, and how mom's doing. And it's not so bad.

Relieved to finally have that over with, I try to prepare myself for the questions reporters might ask today. The network publicist gave me a list of possibilities, but who knows? Maybe reporters have even heard about my upcoming “date” with Miss Texas by now.

I explained everything to Emma just before leaving today—how I'd sat next to Miss Texas on a flight last weekend. How we talked, but I hadn't acted the least bit interested or asked for her number. Then her pageant director called my agent the next day, and I was feeling desperate for attention from Emma, so I agreed to go. “Anyway, I'll cancel,” I told Emma. “It was stupid and immature, and I'm sorry.”

“It's too late to cancel,” Emma had replied. “Besides, I trust you entirely, Jake, and I never thought I'd trust a guy again. Not like this.”

That was the best thing she's ever told me.

Still on cloud nine, I pull into McGregor's massive ranch. It has to be hundreds of acres, with long rows of stables and an all-out equestrian arena. Every rock, cactus, and terra-cotta pot is in its perfect place. I imagine his hired help mucking out horse stalls with radios on their hips and call sheets in their pockets.

The Southwestern mansion fits McGregor's personality perfectly. The great room is about the size of a luxury hotel lobby, with windows covering the entire back wall—from the wide-planked
wood floor to the A-framed vaulted ceiling. On the other side of the glass is a tiled patio with a barbeque pit, and round tables topped with orange umbrellas. The decorating has a rustic feel, with oversize furniture in dark leathers. The Scottish Highlands might be in McGregor's blood, but the guy has the heart of an American cowboy.

The place is a flurry of busy bodies—both press and studio people walking, talking, setting up. And I've barely spent a full minute inside McGregor's home before the man himself swoops in on me like a bat. “Afternoon, lad,” he says. “A word, please. This way.”