Casey’s question has been gnawing at me since the moment she asked it. I grab the newspaper and bypass the front page, and go straight to the Life section. Sandwiched between a quote from Jennifer Lopez about her divorce from Marc Anthony and the latest fashion faux pas made by Rihanna, there’s a short blurb about Gossip TV?’s five-hundredth-episode party next to a small picture of me posing with the McKnights.
That night at the party, I’d searched the crowd for Ryan and Daisy, finally locating Daisy, trapped next to a table covered with picked-over platters of food, being held prisoner by the creepy audio guy. Her eyes pleaded with me to save her and just as he was launching into a story about the inappropriate things that happen when people forget they’re wearing a microphone, I whisked her away. I led her into the restroom where we both exploded into a fit of giggles as the door shut behind us. As she reapplied her lipstick to her perfect collagen-free lips, she’d confessed that she’d never gotten used to the Hollywood parties, the movie premieres, the press junkets, and that she always felt like a fish out of water, dressed in millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds. I stared at Casey’s reflection in the mirror, and I’d wanted to confess that I knew exactly how she felt, that I was someone completely different on the inside too.
If Casey’s life was really my own, Daisy and I would no doubt forge a fast friendship. I felt with her just like I had when I first met Casey. I sat beside her in English class and she’d whispered that she had a major crush on Bruce Patman from the Sweet Valley High series. And two years later, it was Casey who introduced me to John, who’d recently transferred to our high school. She’d talked a lot about him before I’d met him, but she’d never mentioned how gorgeous he was. He’d jabbed Casey in the ribs playfully and asked where she’d been hiding me. We’d stood in the same spot for what seemed like hours—so long I hadn’t noticed when Casey slipped away. I didn’t see her again until she came back to tell me we’d miss curfew if we didn’t leave soon. In those last moments before leaving, I’d memorized his face—his slightly crooked smile, his strong jaw, and those navy-blue eyes. And as I’d drifted off to sleep that night, I’d hoped that he’d memorized mine.
More than twenty years later, I didn’t expect us to still get butterflies when we saw each other, but when exactly did the light in his eyes go out? The one that used to burn bright when he’d first see me after a long day at the office. The one I’d see when he gave me a foot rub as we watched TV, his hand working up my leg, his eyes eventually inviting me to the bedroom. Is that why I didn’t chase Brian? Because there’s someone in my life now who has that light in his eyes when he sees me?
Destiny intercepts me as I arrive at the studio. “Change of plans for today,” she says, squinting as she scrolls through her iPad. “The Santa Barbara shoot has been moved up. We need to head up there this afternoon . . .”
I toss my bag into one of the rigid white wing chairs on the opposite side of my desk and turn on my computer. “What happened?” I ask, releasing my feet from my four-inch heels, my toes thanking me.
“Melissa McCarthy has to be on the red-eye to New York tonight. So you’ll only have about thirty minutes with her before she needs to leave for LAX. Her publicist was adamant that she has a hard out at 4:30 p.m. Oh, and she reminded us again, no questions about her weight. She wants to keep the focus on her career.” Destiny rolls her eyes.
Already used to these standard requests from publicists, I don’t respond. Plus, as a woman who has her own body issues, I don’t care what Melissa McCarthy eats for dinner and I don’t think any other women watching will care either. “Did her publicist send a rider?” I ask, referring to the list of a celebrity’s requests for his or her dressing room, which can be everything from “needing” the room to be at a certain temperature, only bottled water with electrolytes, to red roses—not yellow, not white, not any other color.
“Nope. Says Melissa doesn’t care what’s in there.”
“I had a feeling she wouldn’t.” I smile, thinking about her well-deserved Oscar nomination. It’s nice to see a woman who doesn’t have supermodel looks and a size negative zero body get some credit for her talent. “Is it still at the Four Seasons?” I click through my emails and notice one from Ava marked urgent, the subject line: still waiting. I don’t have to open it to know what it says; she wants to know if I’m moving to New York.
It’s only been a few days. You told me I had two weeks.
“Another message from Ava?” Destiny asks, noticing my strained expression as I stare at the email, neither opening it nor deleting it, like the others.
I nod, then start my normal routine of checking the gossip sites.
“What’s up with that anyway—why haven’t you answered her?” Destiny closes her iPad, signaling me that she needs my attention. Even in just a few weeks, Destiny and I have developed our own shorthand.
Nothing new on Perez Hilton, nothing on D-lister. TMZ has the first mug shot of Lacey Lane, the CW actress who was arrested yesterday for shoplifting.
“Hmm?” I look up.