Where You Are (26 page)

Dammit.

***

When the taxi drops Graham and me at his front door, it’s almost 3:00 a.m. Inside, Cara’s cat is the only one awake, and it begins meowing like a small siren the minute we get the door open. “Noodles, shhh!” Graham says, which it ignores. To shut it up and stop it from winding around his legs, Graham gives it a snack before we tiptoe up the stairs.

I pull him into the guest room with me. “I’m totally wired. Come sit and talk.”

He kicks off his shoes and collapses on the bed, leaning back on the pillows. I slip out of my heels, remove my earrings and slide the bracelets off of my arms.

“So. Daniel?” he asks.

“Total player.” Lifting and dropping one shoulder, I dismiss any thought of Daniel.

Graham chuckles. “Yeah. But I thought you liked that, sometimes.”

I turn towards at him. “I’m growing out of that phase.” When I start unbuttoning my blouse, he cuts his eyes away.

“I should go to bed, I guess.” He starts off the bed.

This is
not
a problem I would have had with Daniel.

“No, stay. I’m just taking this uncomfortable stuff off. I trust you.”

“Um. Okay.” He shuts his eyes, leans his head back again and folds his hands over his perfectly flat abdomen.

I remove the shirt, unhurried and facing him, slipping buttons out of buttonholes as though he’s watching me like I wish he was. Willing him to open his eyes, I let the silky fabric whisper over my shoulders, leaving them bare, and drop the shirt to the floor. A moment later, the ice blue bra follows. Standing a scant ten feet from him, I’m wearing nothing but a miniskirt. There’s no response, no movement,
nothing
. Obviously, he’s not even peeking.

I strip all the way down, cloth rustling as I shimmy out of the skirt. Deliberating, I’m immobile. And then, inexplicably, I’m not sure enough of what his reaction will be if he opens his eyes. Shit. I’m
never
apprehensive about
this
. Seduction is a strategic maneuver at which I excel. Except with Graham.

I pull a nighty short set out of my suitcase and put it on. “All clear,” I say, but he doesn’t stir. Stepping closer, I see that he’s fallen asleep. As carefully as I can, I curl up next to him. His arm curves around me, but he doesn’t wake.

“Emma,” he breathes.
Fantastic
. He thinks I’m her. And I’m just pathetic enough to lie here and accept that.

For the first time in the past month, it occurs to me that I may not succeed. Once the premiere is over, the need for a pretend romance between Reid and Emma will go away. Nothing will stand in the way of Graham and Emma establishing a relationship that threatens everything I want. I’ve known Graham for four freaking years. He belongs to me—and I don’t give a shit how that sounds. I can’t lose him now, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure I don’t.

The light from the corner streetlamp just outside is bright, blocked by the dark blinds except for tiny pinstripes that lay across our bodies. I trace them with my fingers, coming to the end of me, tracing onto Graham. Up. Over. Back again. And then I slither to the end of the bed and find my bag in the dark, digging through it for my phone. After angling the blinds so that they cast wider bands of light on the bed and across Graham, I climb back in beside him and lay my head on his shoulder, our faces turned slightly towards each other.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, his arms pulling me closer. Before I can change my mind, I click the phone to camera mode. I have to take three pictures to get one that’s clear enough. It’s fuzzy, but it will do.

Me:  DON’T transfer this to her, just show her, then delete it. That way she has no evidence.

Reid:  Finally bagged him, did ya?

Me:  I told you it’s not about that.

Reid:  Yet you didn’t send me a photo of you two immersed in conversation

Me:  Shut up.

*** *** ***

REID

Thursdays are long for the crew at
Ellen
because they tape Friday’s
and
Monday’s shows that day. Emma and I are lucky, because we’re on Friday’s show, so we go first and get the host and the audience fresh.

Waiting backstage, we have some time before our segment. Emma is sipping chai tea and attempting every stress-relieving, deep-breathing technique she can think of. She’s in the middle of some sort of yoga pose, eyes closed, and I’m considering whether showing her the photo now would freak her out too much. But I’m probably not going to see her again until next week—the day of the premiere.

With a final, slow inhale/exhale, she opens her eyes, unfolds her leg and lowers her arms. Her cheeks glow pink when she realizes I’ve been watching her. “What?”

I shake my head slowly. “I’m just weighing whether or not to show you something that might upset you.”

She glances at the phone in my hand. “An unflattering paparazzi photo or another baby bump watch? Uh, no thanks.”

“Mmm, no. I don’t think this one will make it to the tabloids.” Now that I think of it, I’m not sure about that. I wouldn’t put it past Brooke to leak it to the tabloids, if she was so inclined.

Emma’s features fall and she sighs. “Let me see.” She sits next to me on the sofa.

“Brooke is probably just trying to yank my chain. This kind of thing goes back a long way between us.” There. That’s as much softening of the blow as I can do. Some circumstances can’t ever be made soft. Like:
Your boyfriend is hooking up with someone else
.

I pull up the picture, full screen, and hand it to her. She sucks in a breath, her opposite hand pressed to the center of her chest. “When? When was that taken?”

She’s asking, but she knows. I see it in her eyes.

“Last night, I guess.” I take the phone back, glance at the photo again, hit delete.

“Wait—”

“Oh, sorry—too late. I don’t want to keep that crap on my phone. Seriously, I’m sure she staged that for my benefit. Brooke has a warped sense of humor. Maybe it’s nothing.”

She slumps next to me, wearing that Lost Girl look, not buying my attempt at tempering the shock of seeing a close-up of her boyfriend sleeping with Brooke’s head on his shoulder. I turn the phone off and stow it in my pocket, take her hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have shown you.”

She stares at her hand, intertwined with mine, but makes no move to withdraw it. When her eyes meet mine, I squeeze her hand. “Don’t worry about it right now. Brooke is all about these little games. I should know. I’ve known her even longer than he has.”

There’s a rap at the door before it cracks open. “You guys are on in five,” says a guy with a headset. His eyes immediately fall to our close positions and clasped hands. He smiles and pops back out, shutting the door behind him.

Emma is slightly distracted during the taping, giving an impression of shyness. She’s too professional to let anything personal throw her completely off. She does, however, allow me to be more suggestive of a hidden relationship when it comes to the inevitable questions about our possible involvement. Where for months we’ve only smiled and denied, today I’m giving silly but full-of-insinuation answers, and she’s laughing bashfully. The audience
loves
it.

Before we go our separate ways, we have a moment alone offstage. Now that the cameras are off of her, she’s unfocused and preoccupied. “Emma.” Tipping her chin up, I lean quickly and kiss her, just a whisper of my lips on hers, and pretend not to notice that she’s already withdrawing when I pull away. “I’ll see you next week.”

Premiere night, I’ll likely have Emma where I want her—where I’ve wanted her since I first laid eyes on her. But I can’t assume she’ll come to
me
when she breaks it off with Graham. She’s just self-sufficient enough to slam the door on us both—she proved that well enough last fall. On the other hand, she’ll be more receptive if for no other reason than to thumb her nose at Graham over what he’s doing with Brooke.

Am I okay with being exploited like that and then tossed aside?

Hell. Yeah.

Emma

When Reid showed me that image of Graham and Brooke, everything came to a stop. I asked him when,
when
, but I knew, because Graham was wearing the Columbia t-shirt and the unbuttoned plaid shirt he had on when we Skyped last night. Right before the party.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My life didn’t feel real.

Perfect time to appear on a hugely popular Emmy-winning talk show for the first time, huh? Reid was charming and flirty with me, with her, with the audience—and they ate it up. When Ellen suggested we use her show to clear up any
rumors
floating around, he grabbed my hand and kissed it (the audience screamed, “Woooo!” while my face overheated).

And then he looked at me and said, “We might as well come clean.” I wondered what we were coming clean about and the whole audience shifted forward in anticipation. He assumed a very serious look. “Emma’s pregnant with triplets.” The audience gasped. My mouth gaped. I don’t know what Ellen did, because I was staring at Reid and thinking that maybe I had just dreamed this entire day, and there was no photo of Graham sleeping next to Brooke. For one heartbeat I was so relieved.

And then Reid said, “After the premiere next week, we’re getting married in a hot air balloon, and then we’ll honeymoon on our private island until the babies come. Oh, and we’ve decided to name all of them Reid, with numbers for middle names. But in French—un, deux, trois—so it’ll be classy.” Everyone laughed. Ha, ha, so funny.

We showed clips of
School Pride
and discussed the Jane Austen novel that inspired it. I smiled tightly and kept my opinion on the script’s inane dialogue to myself for the hundredth time. Reid plugged the movie he’ll be filming next fall in Vancouver, I talked about my college plans, and then it was over and Reid and I were backstage. He kissed me goodbye, sort of, but I didn’t really respond, and I couldn’t feel it. I don’t think I realized until that moment that I’d spent the whole hour and a half taping numb.

I was supposed to text Graham after the show, before my flight. I didn’t. Just before I powered it down, my phone buzzed with a new text. I didn’t look at the message.

Now I’m in the air between Burbank and Sacramento, and the anger has made a tornado of the rest of my emotions, tossing and twisting them until all I can feel is the destructive point where the indignation touches the landscape. I haven’t felt this angry since I confronted my dad about wanting to make my own decisions. Does that mean I should confront Graham now? Just because I’ve learned to stand up for myself doesn’t mean it’s appropriate in every situation. Or easy. I stare out the window and consider possible scenarios of truth-telling.

Emily and Derek pick me up when I land. Her hair is newly hot pink and pixie-cut. “Like it?” she asks, and I tell her I love it.

Derek is Abercrombie-boy gorgeous from the top of his head to just above his ankles—he’s wearing high-top Chucks in the same shade of neon fuchsia as Em’s hair. I point at the shoes and smile. He shrugs. “I’m a supportive guy.”

In the Jeep, I power up my phone and read the messages—all from Graham. He goes from asking if I was at the airport yet to wondering why I wasn’t calling. He left one voicemail: “Emma, I know you’re upset over Brooke staying at my house the past two days. She’s gone, and I’ve already told her she can’t stay here again. Please call me when you land… Okay. Talk to you soon.”

I message Dad to tell him I’ve landed and I’m on my way to Emily’s. Tomorrow is Senior Skip Day, so I’m staying over at her place. When the phone rings, my heart stops, but the photo smiling up from the display is my agent.

“Hey, Dan.”

“How was
Ellen
? So exciting!” Dan has a habit of answering his own questions.

“It was awesome. Reid told everyone we were having triplets and getting married next week. I think there was something about a balloon. Anyway. It went well.”

Emily twists in her seat, staring back at me open-mouthed, and Dan is either speechless or we’ve been cut off.

“Dan?”

“Emma, there’s no need to be snarky. I’m still trying to manage what’s left of your film career, in case you ever want to come back… You haven’t changed your mind, by any chance? Because I got a call today from Paramount—”

“No, I’m still going to college. And I wasn’t being snarky—Reid actually said that stuff.”

He was quiet for two seconds. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’m glad I’m not that boy’s agent.”

I laugh, and the phone beeps in my ear. Graham. “Um, I’ve got another call. I’m sure I’ll talk to you tomorrow after
Ellen
airs.”

“Sure thing. Talk tomorrow. Ciao!”

I take a deep breath before hitting talk. “Hello.”

“Emma. Are you okay? Why didn’t you call?” His voice is guarded.

I tell myself that confrontation is good when it means standing up for what I need. When it means getting everything out in the open. “Is there something you want to tell me?” Crap.
Vague
, Emma. So much for
confrontation
.

He’s quiet. “Emma, just tell me what you want to know. I’ve told you, I’m not good with games or ambiguous questions.”

“This isn’t a
game
, Graham.” Emily and Derek exchange a look in the front seat. I swear I can feel the adrenaline shooting through my bloodstream. Heart hammering, hands shaking. “I saw a photo of her and you. In bed.”

Emily turns all the way around in her seat, her eyes shooting flames. Derek lays a hand on her leg and they have a fierce, low-level conversation. I think he’s telling her to stay out of it and she’s telling him where to stick that recommendation.

“
What
?” Graham says, but I don’t answer or elaborate. He’s cursing, but not at me—he’s holding the receiver away from his mouth. “Where did you see this photo?”

“On Reid’s phone.”

There’s a long pause. “On Reid’s phone,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Send it to me.”