Where You Are (15 page)

The rest of the trip is filled with small talk. He asks what I’m planning to study in college, and I ask about his upcoming project—an action film opposite Chelsea Radin, small-town weathergirl turned hot celebrity. He doesn’t bring up last fall or our conversation in March. When we arrive at the airport, he hops out to retrieve my bag from the trunk. Pulling the handle up and out, he presses it into my hand, and before I can react, he leans in close and brushes my cheek with a kiss.

He’s sliding his sunglasses back on and getting into his car, calling, “See ya Monday morning,” while I’m standing on the sidewalk, blinking. The kiss was an unexpected shock, even if it wasn’t on the mouth and seemed oh-so-casual. But his mostly-harmless kiss isn’t what has me frozen.

On the other side of the multiple one-way lanes in front of my departure gate stands a girl with a camera aimed directly at me. This is no cell phone, and no touristy three hundred dollar Kodak. It’s a big, black, professional-looking piece of equipment.
Damn
.
It
. As I turn away, her face breaks into a happy,
evil
grin before she turns, too, quickly disappearing into the parking garage.

I know what just happened between Reid and me on the sidewalk: an innocuous kiss. I also know exactly how it will look on every celebrity gossip website to which that girl can upload and sell a photo.

*** *** ***

Brooke

I’m not as afraid of the paparazzi as some celebs. Very little of my life
isn’t
an open book, anyway. Aside from my one ginormous secret—that somewhere out there is a (most likely) blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful three-year-old with a mix of genes from Reid and me. (God help whoever’s trying to raise that kid if there’s any truth to the “nature” end of the nature versus nurture debate.)

I have a secret weapon in my paparazzi back pocket. Her name is Rowena, and she’s a female jackal amongst the pack of a male-majority profession. I chose her for that reason, in fact. Anytime I can give a woman a leg up over a man, I’m on board—as long as the woman in question isn’t competition, because then all bets are off. Rowena didn’t trust me, at first. Not until she got two or three photos that would have never been possible without my help. Since then, when I call she only has one word—
where
.

I use her for “candid” shots of myself, of course. That’s how I got her hooked originally. I convinced her to give me her number, and then I’d call when I stopped by Starbucks for a Frappuccino with a hunky costar. I’d text where I’d be shopping with my mom. Since I control the scenarios, I appear how I want to appear, and Rowena looks like she knows how to catch hot celebrities out on the town, trying to be inconspicuous. Now the gossip rags eagerly take her calls, and I stay in the public eye—looking like a normal (attractive) person, rather than a bag lady flashing her underwear—or lack thereof—to the world.

Some celebs think they’re above such maneuvering, or they’re just too stupid to comprehend how to work it to their advantage. I’m not high and mighty, and I’m
not
stupid.

When I called Rowena this morning and told her to get her ass to LAX for a Reid Alexander and Emma Pierce exclusive, she asked the gate number and was off like a well-trained greyhound.

“Don’t worry about looking for her,” I told Reid last night. “She’s a pro. You probably won’t even see her until she’s already gotten the shot, if you see her at all.”

“You are a devious little bitch, Brooke.”

I couldn’t take much offense because there was admiration in his voice.

“FYI, I’m
not
telling you to try anything that could backset our plan… but the more you look like you’re dropping your lover at the airport after a torrid night, the better.”

He laughed. “Okay, yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”

His kiss on her cheek was brilliant. He and Emma both know it was quick and innocent, but the photos that started popping up a few hours later could be interpreted a million ways, and very few of those interpretations are
innocent
.

***

Me:  I just found out I’ll be in nyc the week of your graduation. I don’t want to invite myself…but can i invite myself? Would your family hate me to intrude?

Graham:  No, i’m sure that would be fine, if you’re sure you want to go. Might be a long boring ceremony.

Me:  Is that a jab at my sometimes limited attention span? Cuz i promise i’m proud of you and can sit still for the WHOLE THING.

Graham:  Haha, ok sure. That would be cool.

I am
not
content to wait a week and a half to pop up in New York… With Emma safely stuck on an LA publicity tour with Reid, it’s the perfect time to pay a friendly impromptu visit to Graham’s home turf. The romantic comedy I’m filming there in the fall calls for a short-term apartment, I think. One that could become long-term. My stated purpose for being in town will be meetings with producers—entirely feasible, so it won’t be questioned.

If I’m going to be with Graham, I’ll have to win over his mother, his condescending sisters and his kid. I’ve only seen Cara once, and it was a couple of years ago so there’s no way she remembers me. That trip also included a disastrous, drunken kissing incident that (luckily) Graham decided to play off as though it never happened.

Life’s a Beach
was filming an episode where several characters go to New York. (LA beach characters in New York—what the hell, right? But hey, it was ratings week, and I do what I’m paid to do.) I’d somehow contrived to stay with Graham while I was in New York, so when I got word of a party in a Union Square penthouse apartment owned by the friend of one of my costars, I invited him along.

We’d been dancing and got hot and ended up on the rooftop, stargazing. Or he was. I was gazing at
him
. I was accustomed to guys like Reid, who take advantage of opportunities like girls drinking themselves stupid, or pretending to, in order to land some hot guy. I should have known Graham wouldn’t respond to that.

Not that he was unresponsive. When I moved into his arms and kissed him, for a few mind-blowing seconds, he kissed me back. I thought I was going to melt, it was so good. And then he grabbed my shoulders and held me away, saying, “Brooke, no.” I was just wasted enough that I didn’t realize what he was doing, at first… and once I figured it out, I was just sober enough to be humiliated. And pissed.

God
, I was pissed. I stormed back inside, shaking and furious, and grabbed the first decent looking guy I encountered. Backing him against a wall with the thump of the music pounding through the sheetrock and into us both, I closed my eyes and pretended he was who I wanted. I don’t remember much about that part, just that I couldn’t fool myself, no matter how hard I tried. Moments later, Graham separated me from the guy, who nearly slid to the floor because I hadn’t really allowed him to breathe. “Let’s go,” he said, his hand gripping my arm.

I yanked loose, crossed my arms and glared. “I’m not finished with this party.”

“Yeah, you are,” he said, leaning in so I could hear him. “You’re completely trashed, and you’re going to do something you’ll regret if we don’t leave now.” His proximity was killing me.

“I already did,” I mumbled, my eyes filling. I blinked back the tears and pinched my own forearms, determined to stay enraged.

“What?”

I snapped my arms straight, fists at my side. I felt hard, but brittle, like I was made of concrete. One solid whack and I’d crumble into dust. “I said
I already did
. You’re going to hate me now, and I’ve ruined our friendship.” My voice broke again and I realized I was more angry at myself than I was at him. “I just want someone to care about. Why is that so wrong?”

He closed his eyes. “It’s not wrong.” When he put his arm around me and led me to the door, I didn’t fight him. We walked a couple of blocks before I pulled to a stop and whined that my feet hurt and I was tired, and he hailed a taxi to take us back to his parents’ house.

It was late, and the house was quiet. He stopped outside the guest room door, his voice hushed. “Brooke, you haven’t ruined anything.” He sighed. “Can we just forget this happened? You mean a lot to me. You’re one of the few friends I have who even know about Cara. You had a lot to drink. It was a silly mistake. And I could never hate you.”

For a moment, before I call my travel agent and make reservations for a Tuesday flight, I mull over that sentence:
I could never hate you
. What it meant to me at the time. What it means to me now. And I almost chicken out.

But I’m right for him. I know it. I just need the chance to prove it.

REID

No matter how many times we’ve woken up hungover, or how many times we’ve mumbled
I will never do that again
to ourselves and each other, John and I tend to slam back drinks until we can’t see straight the next time we go out. The exception is when we get high instead.

We didn’t even bother with a hangover Saturday morning—we just went straight into the next binge, making Sunday’s hangover a real bastard. It’s late afternoon before either of us can move, and somewhere in the back of my mind is the nagging philosophical question of the moment—was it fun if I don’t remember it?

There’s some chick passed out on John’s couch, and neither of us remember who was responsible for bringing her back to his apartment, or what was done with her once she was here. For all I know, we all fell asleep. Her makeup is smeared to hell and she’s lying on her stomach with her skirt and top weirdly twisted, lots of skin exposed, and all four limbs extended as though she was tossed there.

“She’s kind of tall. Probably yours,” I say, due to John’s known weakness for models.

“She’s kind of blonde. Probably yours,” he returns. He prods her hip with his foot. “Hey. Wake up.” She releases an annoyed grunt but otherwise doesn’t react.

This is really, truly wrong, and insanely hilarious. Unfortunately, it hurts my head to laugh. “Shit, John, she’s not a bum.”

He exhales and blinks slowly, his eyes squinting at her in the not-that-bright light of day—the blinds are still shut tight. “Dude, I beg to differ. She’s unconscious, somewhere she doesn’t belong, where nobody knows who she is. That’s pretty much the definition of a bum.” He leans over and tries nudging her shoulder—with his hand this time. She moans again and he recoils. “Oh for chrissake, her
breath
sure smells like a bum’s.”

I dig my phone out of the jeans I was wearing last night, which I find slung over the back of a nearby chair. “I’ll call a cab. You find some ID. We’ll load her in, throw some twenties at the cabbie and send her on her way.”

Holding his head, John casts around for a purse while I make the call. “Wallet!” He says finally, his hand emerging from between the sofa cushions. “Okay, who are you…”

“The taxi will be out front in five.” I collapse into the chair just as John utters a string of curse words at a much too elevated volume. “Dammit John, shut the hell up,” I hiss, pressing my palms to my temples.

“Yeah, okay. Look.” He hands me her ID.

I don’t recognize the name or address, but the taxi sure as hell won’t do any good. “Shit—
San Diego
? We can’t send an unconscious girl to San Diego in a cab.”

John shakes his head minutely. “No man, that’s not the problem.” He lets loose with another string of curses, softer this time, staring at her like she’s a zombie and any second she’s going to wake up and attack.

“
What
, then?” I ask, and he hands me another ID. I didn’t really look at the photo of the first one, or the age. I do now. The photo could be her—twenty-one year old Amber Lipscomb… Until I look at the second ID, which is
clearly
the girl on the sofa—seventeen-year-old April Hollingsworth. “Oh, shit.” I knew the club was a bad idea. I
knew
it.

“We are so screwed.” He stares at zombie girl, no longer making any effort to wake her up.

My phone launches into its ringtone, startling us both. “Yeah?” I croak, mouth parched and heart rate spiked. And I thought my head was pounding before. Ha. “Okay, thanks.” I look at John. “The taxi’s here.”

His eyes swing to me. “Put your pants on and get out of here, man.”

“Are you serious?”

He’s staring at her again, wary. “I’m nobody. She can’t prove shit about who she was with last night, and there’s only so far she can get with a damned good fake in her possession, and being in a 21-up club. We’re nineteen, which makes this a misdemeanor at worst. No one will do anything to
me
for such a minor offense—but someone would find a way to make
you
pay for it. So get out of here.”

John and I have been in tight spots before, but this is probably an all-time low. If this goes poorly, his father will torch him. I never could have imagined John throwing himself on that grenade for me. I can’t wrap my brain around it. “Look, you woke up in your room, I woke up in the guest room, and clearly she hasn’t budged from the sofa since she landed there. Maybe nothing happened.”

“Maybe,” he snorts. “
Reid
. Take that taxi and go home. And perform some sort of ritualistic sacrifice once you get there, man. I’ll call you later.”

*** *** ***

Emma

Derek and Emily picked me up at the airport Friday afternoon, and almost forty-eight hours later, they’re dropping me back off.

Riding in Derek’s Jeep gives me a déjà vu of my excursion to Griffith Park with Graham. I pull my hair into a ponytail and recall the pleasure of huddling together to watch the sunrise, and the feel of his mouth on my neck as he murmured
you’re so beautiful
. I’ve reread his note several dozen times, and only the fear of it being ripped from my grasp by a gust of wind keeps me from pulling it out now. Our three weeks are counting down.

I didn’t know, last fall, in my back-and-forth skirmishes with Reid, that
this
is how it’s supposed to feel. Not relentless internal questions of
should I give in
or
am I ready yet
, not a constant feeling of defending my borders—but yearning for this next step, this connection. An inherent trust that it means everything it should mean.