CHAPTER 24
REID
John’s CEO father called last night and ordered him home. Apparently he has orientation for college starting Monday morning, and he’s supposed to check in tomorrow. Oops.
No matter how loud and intimidating my dad is, he doesn’t compare to John’s dad, a CEO who handles everyone he encounters, no matter who they are, as though they work for him. That includes John, who nicknamed him the Dark Lord when we were sixteen. John doesn’t work and is completely financially dependent, so when the Dark Lord says jump, he jumps.
John and I are sharing one of the cottages, and he knocked on my bedroom door at, shall we say, aninopportune moment last night. The girl—let’s call her Macy because I like that name and I can’t recall her real name—shot up like she’d been hit with a jumper cable.
“Jesus. What?” I called, annoyed.
“Hey man, a minute,” John said on the other side of the door.
I glanced at Macy, who was mostly undressed but looked like she might bolt. “Don’t move.” I put one finger on her sternum and pushed her slowly back down, smiling. “It’s just my dumbass friend. I’ll be right back.”
I padded across the small room, shirtless, jeans unzipped, and cracked open the door. “What the hell do you want, man? I know you had more condoms that you could use in a week.”
“My dad just called. I, uh, have to be home tomorrow.”
“And?”
“On a ten a.m. flight.”
“What? Why?” I shook my head. “Nevermind. I’ll text Jeff—God knows I’m not disturbing him right now. He’d kick your ass, only because he’s not allowed to kick mine.”
“Yeah, that’s kinda why I didn’t knock on his door…”
“I’ll handle it. Now leave me the hell alone the rest of the night. Seriously.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry, man. Thanks.”
“Whatever.” I shut the door with a snap, locked it and turned, grabbing my phone from the rickety dresser and tapping a message to Jeff, Tadd and Quinton as I walked towards the bed, staring at Macy. “Where were we?”
***
There’s a flurry of activity this morning to get out of here before eight. Macy’s just been coaxed into one of three taxis, looking severely hungover and pouting that I’m leaving. There’s no reason to tell her that my leaving has nothing to do with putting her in a taxi this morning. No offense to hot girls everywhere—but newsflash—there are hot girls everywhere. I don’t do seconds.
I’m not including Emma with that—she’s not a one-nighter. I assume she’ll keep me happily occupied for the duration of filming. Maybe longer, who knows. If you mess around with costars, there’s generally an assumption of being a couple, at least temporarily. I don’t believe in love, and even though my parents have been married forever, I don’t believe in marriage either. They just exist and rotate around each other’s lives. There’s no emotional relationship there. It’s a social, fiscal relationship. That’s not for me and never will be.
I don’t lie to girls like Macy (whose name is Tracy, by the way—I was close). If she goes into something like last night assuming a relationship might come out the other end—and I don’t care if we’re talking about me or John or any guy—she’s fooling herself. It has nothing to do with a lack of respect or any of that shit they try to scare girls with. It’s way more simple than that.
If I met you last night, and brought you back to my place, or followed you to yours, and we had sex, that’s what we asked for from each other. It’s what I got, and what you got. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Thanks for playing, and we’re done. If by some fluke anything was said at some point during this entire exchange that made me curious enough to see you again, I would.
Has that happened before? A couple of times. Did it last? Clearly, no.
*** *** ***
Emma
Graham and I barely spoke yesterday morning while we ran, and at lunch he was running lines with MiShaun while I worked with Tim and Leslie. I don’t know what he did last night while the girls went out.
This morning, he hasn’t spoken since murmuring, “Good morning,” in the lobby, and we’re almost halfway through our regular trail. In contrast to our comfortable silences, this quiet is awkward, as though there are words in our mouths, trapped. There’s no sound beyond our separate strides synchronizing to a singular, rhythmic footfall, the reverberations from the engine of a small plane circling above—a car dealership ad promising NO DOWN PAYMENT! undulating behind, and the drone of cars on a nearby street.
After another five minutes, I can’t take the disconnection any longer. Any conversation, no matter how dull, would be better than this uncomfortable void. “Any nicotine cravings yet?”
I read relief in his glance, in the way his shoulders relax, like he was waiting for me to speak while I was waiting for him. “I’m actually still buzzing from the patch.”
“Where’d you put it?”
He pulls back the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal the patch, stuck to his more-muscular-than-I’d-realized-before bicep. “I’m supposed to put it in a new spot every time, I guess to give the skin a rest.”
“Huh,” I say, hearing myself the second it leaves my mouth. A moment passes, and I wonder if he’ll say anything.
“You’ve grown careless in my absence. What are we up to now? Forty or so?”
I shove him, inexplicably pleased that he hasn’t given up teasing me, and he laughs, swerving off the path for no more than two steps. “Peace, girl, chill! You’re still under ten. But we’re on the honor system here, so you’ll have to let me know if you start racking up penalties when I’m not around.”
I pretend to scowl.
“Hey, you know I’m just messing with you, right? I really don’t care if you use ‘huh’ in every third sentence.”
“I don’t know,” I pout. “Seems like it really bugs you.”
He smiles. “Nah. It would take a lot more than that for you to get on my nerves.”
***
We exit the elevator on the fourth floor to the energetic banter of our costars, who’ve returned from the tubing trip. Quinton is kneeling on the floor, digging through his bag, clothes strewn all around it, while Reid and Tadd stand nearby, watching him. “I know that damned card is here somewhere.”
“I’ll call down to the front desk; they’ll send someone up with a new one,” Tadd offers.
“Dude it was just here, I saw it this morning as I was packing…”
When Graham and I come into sight, Reid’s more tanned (somewhat pink) face lights up. “Emma!” he says, as though we haven’t seen each other for weeks.
He walks straight over and puts his arms around me, twirling me around once, leaving one arm around my waist as he says, “Hey, Graham,” and sticks out his hand. Graham shakes it without comment. “Too bad you couldn’t make it, man, it was awesome. Nothing to do all day but drink and float.”
He looks down at me. “Aren’t you the cutest thing in this little tank and shorts combo. Out exercising early, eh?” Before I can form an answer, he leans in and kisses me.
The kiss isn’t more than a peck, not more than a split-second meeting of our lips, and is nothing like the passionate kiss three nights ago, but the action holds unmistakable familiarity. Graham’s face is void of expression as he turns towards his door. When I’m free from Reid’s embrace, I walk across the hall and push my key card into my door, annoyed at Reid for claiming me with that kiss, annoyed at Graham for surrendering so easily.
“Ah-ha!” Quinton locates his key card at the very bottom of his bag.
“Hey, let’s all go out tonight,” Reid suggests.
“I need a nap first,” Tadd says, yawning. “A long freaking nap.”
“It’s only like 10 a.m.” Reid punches his arm and dodges away. “You can get a full eight hours of beauty rest and still have plenty of time to put on your makeup.”
Tadd lunges forward and trips over a mound of clothing, and Quinton recoils, saying, “Man, I am in serious need of some adult company,” as they crash to the ground, rolling and laughing like five-year-olds.
“What?” Tadd rolls off of Reid, his innocent expression contradicted by the leg he immediately sticks out to trip Reid as he rises.
My door unlocks and I push it open as Reid says, “See you tonight, Emma?”
He has no idea what he just did. “Sure.”
“Cool. I’ll text everyone; we can all meet up and go together.”
Graham is already in his room, his door shutting with a soft click.
***
I spend the afternoon in my room, finishing a novel that leaves me depressed as hell. The main character is giving a party, and the entire story is the day leading up to the party. But all during that day, as she’s getting everything prepared for this party, she’s recalling her past, and the people who’ll be attending: one guy in particular, someone who was in love with her years and years before, someone she didn’t choose. And it’s not like she’s miserable; it’s worse, like she sometimes feels dead inside. At least that’s what I got from it.
Reading a story like that makes you either want to go out and party or stay in to contemplate slitting your wrists.
I’m still deciding.
Me: Everyone going out tonight, prepare for compromising internet photos tomorrow. Still confused. Call when you get a break?
Em: Trying to feel sorry for you… 2 hot guys, 1 you...
“Hey, I’m on dinner break. Jasper gave me a whole twenty minutes,” Emily says when I answer. “God, today’s been a nightmare. Some of Derek’s anti-Goth friends strolled through the store to check me out, and I didn’t disappoint. You know how I dress when I’m working.”
“Yeah.”
“Hold on a sec.” I hear her ordering a slice of pizza and a lemonade, the buzz of hundreds of conversations and the squeals of children in the background. I can almost smell the oregano and tomato sauce of the food court pizza place, mixing with the aroma of constantly frying baskets of French fries at the Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick next door. It feels like months since Emily and I were there together, contemplating my looming celebrity.
“Okay, I’m back. So. What are you more hesitant about, how you feel about Reid, or how he feels about you?”
“Not really how he feels, but what it means, you know?”
“Like the ‘What are your intensions, Mr. Alexander?’ kind of what it ‘means’?”
“Too nineteenth century?”
“Kinda. Plus this isn’t some tool who works at the Gap, this is Reid Alexander.”
“I know. And I’m 17, not 35. It’s not like I need promises of forever.”
“Just because you don’t want somebody to pull the rug out from under you doesn’t mean you’re asking for forever. You’ve had enough grief, Em. I’ve always wondered how I turned out to be the one who pens binders of melancholic poetry, for chrissake.”
***
My father and I never talk about how my mother died.
It was cancer, and it was quick. What I’ve deduced in the past eleven years: she was too young to have known to start looking; there was no family history, no pressing need to be diligent about checkups. The malignant cells were masters at camouflage, with so few telltale signs that photos of her, taken mere months before she died, didn’t contain a single warning. I know. I looked. She appeared healthy and beautiful, but appearances lie.
The discovery was accidental. Her dentist, troubled about the amount of blood loss she sustained from a simple dental procedure, badgered her to go see her doctor. She gave in to shut him up, and I picture her getting the phone call two or three days later, sitting down hard at the kitchen table, speechless.
I was a child, so the truth was kept from me until there was no avoiding it. I don’t know how long I had with her, from the knowledge that I was losing her to the moment she was gone. I have a few strong memories from that time. In the hospital, the tubes and needles that seemed to anchor her to the bed scared the living daylights out of me. Once home, she lay propped in the center of her bed with so many pillows that she seemed to be floating on a cloud of them. Six-year-old reasoning told me that being home meant she was getting better. Bits and pieces of the funeral are vivid. I cried because my father did, because my grandmother did, because everyone did, even the priest, and because my mother wasn’t there to console me, and I didn’t completely understand why.
My grandmother moved in for a week or two, but she finally had to go back to work. She lived nearby, and she became the one I turned to most often when I missed my mother, the one who felt it like I did. Like a giant hole had opened in the middle of my chest, and nothing would ever fill it.
My father was so completely withdrawn and silent after Mom was gone that I began to forget that he was ever easygoing and cheerful. I forgot the way we had chased each other around the house, our food fights, and how he’d get me to help him wash his car and I’d splash him with a bucketful of soapy water. He’d spray me with the hose, and Mom would put her hands on her hips and say, “Connor, I swear to God, I am a single mother of two.” Mouth turned down, eyes big and blinking, he would do what she called his puppy dog look, holding my hand while I mimicked his expression, and she’d throw her hands up in surrender, walking away, hiding her smile. He’d stage-whisper, “She’s no match for our green-eyed charm.”
For a brief time, when he began seeing Chloe, he was like that again—happy. He looked at me instead of through me. And then at some point he belonged to her, and even if he was still there in my life, it was like we’d come apart. I was outside of his embrace again, fighting in vain for a way back in that I never found.
They married thirteen months after my mother died.
I know my father loves me, in his own way. That’s how they say it: He loves you in his own way. Well, what about my way? What if I need for him to love me in my way?