I focus on Katrina and find that it’s easy to ignore the outside when I’m this entertained. It’s also easy to ignore that I’m having lunch with a woman I’d only ever seen in magazines and movie theaters.
When our food arrives, we munch on our sandwiches while Katrina tells me stories about Oakley when he was young. She explains that when Oak was a baby, she and his dad agreed to alternate their shooting schedules so that one of them was always at home with their son.
“Dusty didn’t stick to that, though,” she admits, a flash of anger in her eyes. “He’s a workaholic, that man. Back-to-back-to back shoots in his quest for an Oscar. Eventually I had to hire a nanny, because that was the only way I was able to work.” She chews slowly, looking sad. “Maybe that’s why Oak went through with the emancipation? Maybe he was punishing me for not being at home full-time for him? I struggled with the work balance issue in the Working Mom movie I did. Did you see it?”
Before I can respond, she brushes off her sadness again by giving a bubbly laugh.
“But look at me being all serious. Let me tell you about the time I caught Oakley singing Backstreet Boys in front of the mirror when he was seven!”
The rest of lunch flies by. I love Oakley’s mom. She isn’t the most maternal woman, but it’s obvious she’s proud of her son, and she doesn’t stop talking about his records and awards. She even shows me pictures of him on her phone. Her home screen is a candid shot of Oakley lying on a beach chair. He’s not smiling, but he looks happy. He also looks young—sixteen, maybe.
“That was taken at my place in Malibu,” she says when she sees me staring at the screen. “A few years ago.” She pauses. “He hasn’t been there in a while. Not since Roadside Manners came out.”
Another Katrina Ford movie I haven’t seen. I want so badly to give her a big hug, but even if I thought I could do it without embarrassing us both, I don’t get the chance. My phone starts vibrating in my purse, buzzing again and again with every incoming text message.
“Oh, sorry. Do you mind?” I awkwardly gesture to my purse.
Katrina waves a careless hand. “Go ahead, sweetie.”
I pull out my phone and check the screen, frowning when I find a dozen messages from W. I glance hastily at Katrina, but she’s on her own phone, typing away with lacquered nails, so I surreptitiously start reading W’s texts.
We need to talk.
Srsly don’t ignore this.
Call me.
This is not ok w me. If u care, ur going to call me and explain WTF is going on. Sick of hearing abt u from peeps here. Sick of being the one getting crapped on.
My stomach drops. I meant to call him earlier and explain everything, but I got distracted by Claudia and then Oakley and now Katrina. And while I understand what’s driving him—he saw the pictures of me kissing Oakley and he’s pissed—W knows he’s not allowed to be texting me like this.
I say as much, typing a furious response.
We shouldn’t be texting.
Hopefully if anyone ever steals my phone and sees what I wrote, they’ll think I mean we shouldn’t be texting because we broke up, and not because a nondisclosure agreement is forcing us not to.
My message doesn’t get the desired response. Instead of backing off, W just calls me.
I press Ignore so forcefully that Katrina looks up in concern. “Everything okay?” she asks.
I take a deep breath. “Yes. No. It’s just...my ex—” I trip over the word “—boyfriend keeps texting me. I guess he’s still not over the breakup,” I say lamely.
She gives a knowing smile. “And I’d bet who you’re dating now isn’t helping him get any closure.”
“No, it’s not helping at all.” My phone rings six more times before I finally power it off, but the sinking feeling in my heart doesn’t go away.
I need to diffuse this W bomb before it explodes in all of our faces.
20
HER
Katrina insists on driving me home. I take her up on it because, yeah, private transportation beats public any day for a hundred different reasons, even though I complained about it to Oakley once. Private cars means no one sitting next to you smelling like day-old gym socks, or having to stop every other second to let off a hundred people before your destination.
“You’ll have to help me plan Oakley’s birthday this spring,” Kat says.
I’m a bit startled that she thinks Oakley and I will be together in the spring. I mean, per my contract, we will, but I wonder what he said to convince his mother that our relationship was going to last that long. “Ah, sure.”
“What do you think he’d like to do?”
Record with King. “We should do a retro birthday and do a bunch of little kid games like pin the tail on the donkey and a pi?ata with lots of candy,” I joke. Oakley would probably hate that.
Her eyes widen. “Oh, that’s perfect. Let’s do that.”
“No! I was just kidding,” I protest, but Katrina’s already on the phone to someone telling them that they need to look into booking the party room at the Montage. “Really, Katrina. I was totally kidding. I think Oakley would like—” I cast around for something suitably nineteen years old but then realize that Oakley is no ordinary nineteen-year-old, soon to be twenty. He probably wants strippers and girls jumping out of cakes. That thought makes me frown angrily. I hope he’s not entertaining other girls when he’s supposed to be my boyfriend.
The Escalade pulls to a stop in front of my curb, and Katrina’s driver rounds the front to my side. I heave a sigh and climb out. “Skate park. He’d like to go to a skate park,” I suggest, because the thought of stripper cakes is gross, but I don’t think she hears me.
“Katrina! Vaughn!”
There’s a photographer on the street, leaning out of his car window. Did he follow us? Jeez, that’s creepy.
Katrina doesn’t even react to his shouts. It’s like he doesn’t exist to her.
“I’ll call you, darling.” She blows me a couple of kisses that are captured by the photographer, while I jog to the front door.
Great. I’m going to have to warn Oakley about this, although...it might be kinda hilarious to see his face when he walks into his twentieth birthday party and sees a bunch of us wearing party hats and holding paper donkey tails.
Maybe I won’t tell him. Maybe I’ll keep it a secret and then laugh my butt off. In fact, if I share the idea with Claudia, she’ll probably end up dying with glee over the wholesome nature of the plan.
A grin spreads across my face as I picture Oakley in a blindfold staggering around with a broomstick while whacking at a papier maché pony. Katrina would probably fill the pi?ata with gold coins or hundies, but it’d still be hilarious. And it would serve him right for being such a jerk to me last night.
Speaking of jerks... I power my phone on and call W as I head upstairs to my bedroom. He picks up on the first ring, which tells me he was waiting for me to call him back.
“Why won’t you answer any of my texts?” he demands.