Rebound (10 page)

O
ut in the hallway, Philippe and Paolo engage in animated discussion about the latest episode of
Fargo
. I watch for a moment, awed by how well Philippe fits in with everyone, how smoothly he ingratiates himself. That we brought in leftover swag bags from one of my mother’s recent events for the Boomerang staff to pick through this morning only sweetens the pot.

Paolo straightens Philippe’s collar while they speak, which makes me wonder if there’s a possible connection there. They seem cut from the same cloth—adorable, fashion-forward and, from what I’ve seen of Paolo so far, they have similar keen but fun-loving dispositions. Philippe is single and pretty much open to anything with anyone. I make a note to get the scoop on Paolo.

Even though Boomerang has a strict no-dating policy within the
office, I decide that “visiting executives”—to use Rhett’s phrase—don’t count. All of which brings me right back to Adam, to our night together, and to the fact that I have to get close enough to dig for information from him while keeping enough distance between us to protect my heart.

I’m twenty-two, and already I feel like the real world’s too much to handle.

Philippe catches my eye and gestures for me to come join him. Excited chatter rises around us, like an ice cream truck’s due to come down the hall any moment.

In the conference room, I slide in close to Philippe, who gives me a sharp elbow nudge, meant to serve as a greeting.

“How’s it going in there with Mr. Mysterioso?”

“Just fine.”

He quirks an eyebrow but says nothing. I reach for the pitcher in front of us and pour us both glasses of water.

“How’s it going over there?” I whisper, nodding in Paolo’s direction.

Philippe shrugs. “Taken, I think. But I’ve got my hands full with you, anyway.”

“Yes. I know how high-maintenance I am.”

He’s kidding, but his comment stings a little. I’m conscious that he’s had to take care of me this last year. That he’s the one who stayed after I drove off all my other friends. He picked me up when I needed it, and I needed it a lot.

Rhett, Mia, Adam, and a couple of others take seats. Mia smiles at me, and I ask how she’s feeling.

“Much better on dry land,” she says.

Brooks—Adam’s producer friend—comes into the room, and all attention shifts to him, like he’s a magnet to our metal shavings. He’s husky, with a broad forehead, thick brown hair, and five o’clock shadow that looks like it begins coming in around noon. He also has
thoughtful brown eyes, and a dazzling smile that puts half the room in his pocket before he’s uttered a word.

Adam stands before a wide-screen monitor set into the wall. “All right, gang,” he says, and in an instant it’s like Brooks has disappeared. Everyone’s focus shifts right to him, and he seems so easy with it. No, he seems entitled to it.

For about the twentieth time today, I find myself admiring the tailored lines of his clothes, the way they encase his elegant, powerful body. Like they’re a container for his boundless energy and confidence. It’s like he’s more alive than most of us, somehow, and the clothes are there to give us a fighting chance of functioning in his presence. But that perception could be mine alone.

He continues. “I wanted you all in here so you can take part in what’s going to be a historic event—the launch of Blackwood Entertainment as a full-scale film and television studio, starting with this teaser for the first feature we plan to make.”

Adam explains that in the future, casting will be done by casting directors, the same way they are for commercials they’ve made for the website. But today, he tells us, he wants his team around him.

“Besides, it’s fun!” Pippa says, and everyone laughs.

Adam grins. “Definitely. And you know I want that to always be the case. We work hard, and we play hard, right?”

Cheers and applause come from everyone at the table.

“
Yeah,
we do,” Rhett exclaims with his usual exuberance.

“We’re building Boomerang into something really special,” Adam says. “I know we can do the same with this. The website has taught us how hungry people are for experiences, for entertainment. Even”—his eyes drift in my direction, and I hold my breath—“connection.”

“And stories connect us,” Mia murmurs, as though she’s taken the thought right from Adam’s mind. I feel a pang of envy that they’re so in sync and that they share this, share a passion.

“Exactly.” Adam nods. “I want to add something fun and worthy and smart to the world of film. Lots of things. I think we can do that and make a bucket of money at the same time.”

“Amen,” Paolo says.

“Hear, hear, boss,” Rhett booms. “We’re going to take over the world.”

Hoots and whistles follow, and then Brooks connects a hard drive to his laptop and, after a moment, a good-looking guy appears on the flat screen. He’s got earrings in both ears, a chiseled brooding face, and a full sleeve of sepia tattoos, spilling out of a sleeveless t-shirt.

“Oh, yum,” Pippa breathes.

“Slate for me,” says a voice off-screen that I recognize as Brooks’s.

The guy gives the camera an incredulous look. “Why the fuck would I
slave
for you?”

“
Slate,
you dumbass. Say your name.”

“Oh, well, Christ, why didn’t you say that?” He looks into the camera, and it’s all smolder and self-assurance. “Grey Blackwood,” he says, then fans out his hands in a showgirl gesture and gives the camera a cheesy grin. “
Super star!”

Mia turns to Adam. “Is that your—”

Adam rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “Yep, my younger brother, ladies and gentlemen.”

“He sure has star quality,” Paolo says.

“Yeah,” says Brooks. “If you’re making a prison documentary.”

“Are you kidding?” Sadie says. “I’m sorry, Adam, but your brother is a
hottie
with a capital ‘hot.’”

“Is he auditioning?” Mia asks.

“No,” Brooks says. “He was just helping me get the light right and reading with some of the actors. Moving on.” He taps at the computer, and we move through the next person. A nervous blond
girl fumbles even her name, and the rest of her audition is of the same caliber.

“Poor thing,” says Mia.

“Well, it’s not like someone dragged her out of bed in the middle of the night to audition,” Paolo says. “Her name should be the easy part.”

“Next,” says Adam.

I’ve been on-screen a couple of times—interviewed at various galas and other events. I never thought much of how I looked other than that the camera seemed to flatten me out somehow, rob me of life and dimension. But it’s amazing to see how different the auditions are, how not just the personalities come across but the
life
behind those personalities.

A beautiful African-American girl comes onto the screen.

“Who is
that
?” murmurs Philippe. Like I said, open to anything.

“Hi, there,” the girl says into the camera. Her ease and presence are undeniable. The camera sharpens the high planes of her cheekbones, makes her black eyes look even more exotic and luminous. “I’m Beth Pierce.”

“She’s one of my best friends,” Mia tells the room. “So, um . . . totally let that sway your opinion.”

But Mia doesn’t have to say that. From the minute Beth starts her line-reading, she’s head and shoulders above the others.

“Wow, Mia, she’s really good,” says Paolo.

Mia’s eyes shine with pride. “I know. She’s a star.”

“I agree,” says Adam. “What do you think, Brooks?”

“Definitely top three,” the producer replies, and to Mia he adds, “But don’t tell her that yet.”

She nods, but I can see her excitement’s not likely to be contained.

Sitting here with the others, present for what might be the launch of someone’s dream, I feel a sharp rush of gratitude. I get what
makes Adam so fired up about this. I get what it’s like to be in on the first stages of something great. In this moment, with all of these people, I want so desperately for Adam to have everything he wants. I just hope, more than ever, that I don’t discover anything that gets in the way of that dream.

O
n Fridays, Grey and I usually get the weekend started with a few beers on my back deck as we watch the sun set over the Pacific.

Most of the homes on my street are the vacation residences of people who never take vacations, so the beach is almost always quiet. There’s only one person out there now. Linda, my next-door neighbor and an Illinois state lottery winner, picks her way along the sand as she tosses a tennis ball to Lucky, her Labrador retriever.

After the long hours and hustle of a workweek, the quiet’s a nice contrast, but it won’t last long. Tonight is poker here at the house.

“Drink up,” Grey says, handing me a High Tide IPA. “Ethan just texted me. They’re coming up on Zuma.”

My conscience prickles. I know I shouldn’t let Grey drink, but a part of me knows he needs every opportunity he can get to blow off steam. This thing with Mom hurt him bad. I know it’s tearing him
up inside. A night of beers and cards is a temporary Band-Aid, but it’s about as much as he’s open to right now. And it’s better than him being out all night at clubs.

Besides, who am I to judge? We’re both hiding from something in our past. We just cope differently. Grey kicks and thrashes. He rebels and self-sabotages. His struggle is unrestrained. It lacks discipline. That’s not me. I lock shit down and build. I achieve. The harder it is for me on the Chloe-front, the more money I make.

We watch Lucky launch into the waves over and over, retrieving the tennis ball. Grey puts away two beers before I finish my first. It’s when he cracks open a third one in less than ten minutes that I have to say something.

“Something up, Grey?”

His eyes flick to me, then back to the ocean. I wonder if it’s the singing. He hasn’t mentioned it since last Sunday morning in the kitchen.

“Your mother called me today,” he says.

For fifteen years, she was his mother, too. At least in practice. This “your mother” thing happened when he left home.

“Did you talk to her?” I ask.

“Why would I want to do that, Adam? So she can feed me more bullshit about how much she loves me?” He shakes his head and takes another long sip. “No way.”

“She’s trying, Grey. If she called, then she’s trying.”

“Out of
guilt
. For
Dad
.”

I don’t reply, because guilt can be a powerful motivator. On the right person, guilt gets things done. I’ve built an entire company on it.

I feel Grey look at me, like he’s following my thoughts and is about to mention Chloe, but thankfully the doorbell rings.

Rhett, Ethan, and Ethan’s buddy Jason come in. Brooks arrives right on their heels. We do the introduction thing for Jason’s sake.
He’s the only new recruit to the game, since Paolo cycled out in favor of samba night.

We grab drinks, Rhett puts out snacks, and eventually we sit down. I deal, and we play a few hands, the money moving around the table.

My favorite part of playing, besides winning, is observing how they each play according to their personalities. Ethan is straight out there, strategic but not a big one for bluffing. Jason’s a little more canny, analyzing the other players’ moves, making calculated bets. Rhett thinks every hand is the best hand. Brooks has an endless supply of funny stories about actors and location shoots, but he’s a multitasker. He can entertain and stay competitive. And Grey plays like his head’s on fire, jumping up from the table every couple of deals, acting like he’s bluffing when he’s got a straight flush, just generally being a train wreck and taking everyone else with him.

With Ethan right across the table, the mystery of him and Alison is alive and kicking in my mind. What happened? Graham wouldn’t have given Alison that look if they’d just grown apart. I remember Ali talking about mistakes on Halloween night and wonder if she meant Ethan.

I force myself to make what’s now become a familiar mental adjustment—steering my thoughts away from Alison—but I can’t pass up the opportunity to learn more about my future investor and partner.

“What can you tell me about Graham Quick?” I ask Ethan.

Jason almost chokes on his beer. “Shit. There’s a question.”

“Meaning?” I look at Ethan.

He shrugs. “Graham defies description in a lot of ways.”

That’s nowhere near enough for me. “But you knew him fairly well. You dated his daughter for how long?”

Ethan shifts uncomfortably, sending Jason a look. “About two years.”

“Hey.” Grey spreads his hands. “We’re playing poker here.”

I’m not trying to be a jerk. It’s just that this man wants to own a large share of my company in exchange for a large amount of capital, and his daughter’s installed in my ranks. I’ve done all I can on paper, but I can’t miss this chance at a deeper view.

“No, it’s okay.” Ethan shuffles the cards, his face a little grim. “I mean, you’ve seen for yourself,” he says. “Graham’s got a big personality. Kind of a steamroller. Lots of jokes and smiles, glad-handing, big tipper. When he likes you, he’s all in—trips, expensive restaurants, tickets to games. I haven’t been on the other end, but I imagine it’s ugly.”

Which is what I’d already figured.

“What else?”

Ethan picks up his cards. “After Alison and I ended, he kept in touch for a while. Email. Phone calls. He sent me Lakers tickets for my birthday. Box seats.”

Interesting that he said “ended.”

“You said he liked you, right? You’d become a part of his family.”

He nods. “I thought that too. And then I thought maybe he was trying to get me back for his daughter. To make her happy.”

So Ethan left. And she didn’t want him to. This development only creates more questions for me.

I look at my hand, carve off two cards and toss them to him. “But you don’t think so?”

“I’m sure that was part of it,” he says, handing me two back. “But it felt too determined. And kind of impersonal. Like he needed me to fill the son-shaped slot in his life. It felt like I could have been anyone.” Ethan nods to himself. “Yeah. Something like that. I mean, he got to know all about me. Brought me on skiing trips and bought me a custom set of golf clubs. He’d always show up with something. Sports bios. Stuff he knew I’d like. So, it was personal to that degree. It just felt—”

“Engineered?” I offer. But I think “manipulative.” And empty.

I move my cards around, arranging them in a full house and keeping my face neutral.

This is the man I’m entering into a business arrangement with, and that worries me. Worse, he’s Alison’s father. As the night wears on, I find that worries me even more.

When I wake up, the sky is just starting to lighten from black to purple.

Saturdays are harder because I don’t have a company to rush off to in Century City. They’re calmer and I have more time to think, and thinking usually takes me to Chloe.

She hated early mornings. Anything before nine was an ungodly hour to her.

It’s been a few days since she’s been on my mind this clearly. Maybe even a week. That makes me bury my face into my pillow and press my eyes shut until they ache.

I don’t want to stop remembering her, but it’s the guilt, it’s the fucking guilt that somehow I avoided the pain and it felt good. The guilt of knowing that it wasn’t work or surf that gave me the relief. It was another girl.

Even with the work complications aside, even if she wanted me, if I could get to her, if I could somehow hold onto the girl who jumped into my arms at the Gallianos’, Alison and I can never happen. I don’t have room for her in my head, or in my life. I don’t have the heart to fuck up again and lose the girl I love.

Just . . . no.

I roll onto my back. Then I glance at the sketch that started in Chloe’s notebook and ended up on my skin.

I remember the day she drew it.

She was lying on her stomach under a tree by the art studios on campus, the white page slowly filling with birds and clouds under
her sure artist’s hand, her battered combat boots just peeking out of her long dress. At 5'2" and petite, everything was long on her. Everything she wore had frayed edges—and usually ink or paint stains—like her hands almost always did too.

In my button-down shirts, with my computer science major, she was completely exotic to me. My opposite in every way. My compliment. We were just freshmen at Princeton. Barely there a few months. I was already in love with her.

I remember noticing that day how her long auburn hair looked red when the sunlight hit it. At night, by candlelight, it looked almost black. I remember thinking she was like that. Fire and darkness, rolled into a beautiful girl who had my heart.

Chloe had set down her pencil. She’d looked at me and laughed.

So her, I’d thought. To laugh when most people would only smile.

Something on your mind?
she’d asked.

And I remember being too embarrassed to tell her how much I felt right then, under a tree on campus. Just watching her. So I nodded to her sketchbook.

“Why birds all the time, Chloe? They’re kind of beaky and their scaly legs are freaky. They’re freaky and beaky.”

“No way, Adam. Birds are perfect creatures! But not all of them. Just the flying ones. Ostriches? Chickens? Dumb. A waste of feathers. Birds are supposed to
fly.
They’re supposed to soar up the clouds—not be stuck on land. Why be something if you can’t actually
be
that something?”

“I love you, Chloe. But sometimes you make no sense.”

“I love you, Adam. But sometimes when you pretend I make no sense, yet you clearly think I make the most sense ever but you’re too proud to admit it? Then I
really
love you.”

My throat gets raw, and my chest feels like it’s stretching, about to rip open. I look outside and watch the waves through my window blur and then clear as I lock it back down. Shut everything back.

Will I ever be free of this? She’s not even here anymore. Why doesn’t it stop?

The lockdown isn’t working. My skin feels like it’s going to break open. I feel like I’m going to break open.

My mind seems to want to torture me, because I remember that it’s Saturday. Alison has her Boomerang date tonight.

And that puts me over the edge.

I jump out of bed. “Grey!” I yell. I pull on swim trunks, yank sweats over them, and tug a beanie onto my head. By the time I grab my keys off my dresser, Grey’s standing at my bedroom door, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck, it’s early. What time is it?”

“Early. Six.”

He lets out a long breath. “I think I’m still drunk.” After poker, Brooks and Grey went out to the bar at Malibu Inn. Grey’s bloodshot eyes finally focus on me. “How you doing, bro?”

“How do you think I’m doing?”

He frowns at the anger in my voice. I rarely let my temper go.

“Get your board loaded up.” I want the water. I want his company. I want to shake off the image of Chloe drawing in her sketchbook, and of Alison, staring at my shoulder like she wants to know. Like she’d listen and understand.

Grey doesn’t move. “You know there’s no magic wave, right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He shrugs. “You act like going out there and surfing is going to fix it. Like this film company’s going to be the thing that saves you. Same thing you did with Boomerang. Same thing you’re doing with me. Nothing’s going to save you, Adam. Not until you face your shit. When are you doing to do that? When are you going to face your shit?”

“Good advice from someone who’s wasting his life sitting around. You call partying every night facing your shit, Grey? Avoiding
Mom’s calls? You’re like a three-year-old having a tantrum. You’re making her—and Dad—miserable.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes blazing. “At least I don’t go around pretending everything’s fine. You’re a coward.”

I almost punch him. “Fuck you, Grey.” I push past him and head to the garage. I open my door and get up on the footboard, pulling my surfboard onto the rack on my Range Rover. The door opens and Grey comes out. He heads to the other side of my car and climbs up on the passenger side, snapping my board in place. Then he loads his short board up.

At Nicholas Canyon, we pull our wetsuits on, jog over the sand and throw ourselves into the water without saying a word. It isn’t until we’re floating side by side on the sea, the sun glittering in the water all around us, that Grey speaks.

“Sorry, Adam,” he says.

“Yeah . . . me too.”