“So what does she think? Did she want you to do the film, or is she a Jane Austen purist, too?”

Here we go, here we go, here we go. I pick at a fingernail, staring at my hands. “She died when I was six.” The words spill out quickly, but softly, and I want to tell him everything, all of it, though I can’t say any more because I can’t quite face the bits and pieces I always fold away and shove under the surface. My father and the way we haven’t connected since we lost her. My inability to have a normal childhood because I’ve been in front of a camera, pretending to be someone else, since before she was gone. Chloe and the way she always expects to be the center of every universe near her. And I’m okay, I really am, most of the time. But sometimes, I’m just not.

Graham doesn’t speak until I look at him. His eyes hold mine, and they don’t slide away, uncomfortable with the fact that mine are brimming with tears. “I’m sorry, Emma,” he says.

I nod, take a breath, and pull a napkin from under the nearly-empty plate, pressing it under my eyes. “Thanks.”

We sit outside for a while longer, eventually talking about other work we’ve done. I tell him about the Nazi director of the grape juice commercial, and he tells me about the attractive forty-something star of an art house film he did a few years ago who showed up at his trailer door wearing a robe and nothing else.

“Do I want to know how you found out about the ‘nothing else’?”

He grimaces. “The exact way you’re thinking.”

“Eww… so did you—?”

“Um, no. I told her I had to get up early, and she said, ‘you don’t have to be scared, Graham,’ and I just blustered through it, of course, something like, ‘oh, no it’s not that, I’m just really tired.’ And then I didn’t answer my door after that. She got the idea eventually.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “I may still need therapy over that night.”

We end up sitting on my bed, six or so inches of space between us, watching a movie on pay-per-view. I fall asleep about halfway through it. When I wake up just after 4 a.m., he’s gone. The chairs are back inside, the balcony door closed and locked. The comforter is folded over me like a cocoon, and there’s a note on the nightstand.

Thanks for helping with the mountain of cake.

I’ll be downstairs at 6 if you want to run.

Graham

I set the alarm on my phone for 5:40.

Chapter 16

REID

I should be asleep until noon. Instead, I’m wide awake and staring at the ceiling by nine a.m., deciding how pissed I should be.

Between the late dinner and the martini bar last night, we drove past Brooke, Meredith, MiShaun and Jenna going into a club. Tadd pointed them out. “There go the girls—small world, huh?”

“I didn’t see Emma,” I commented.

Quinton yawned, glancing back at them through the rear window. “Yeah, I talked to Meredith earlier, on the way to the elevator. She said Emma was wavering over whether to go or not tonight. Apparently she had a monster hangover this morning.”

Meaning Graham and Emma both ditched.

“Son of a bitch,” I swore.

“What?” Quinton asked as Tadd grinned at me and shook his head. He’s always been a big fan of any girl who gets under my skin.

We were three-for-three last night, soothing the annoyance somewhat—at least until this morning. There was a bachelorette party at the bar—nine girls and three guys, and all of them looked hot. Quinton was ready to lead the offensive, but Tadd cautioned that when encountering a group like that, you have to watch out for the Cheerleader Effect: the inexplicable consequence of a few extreme hotties in a group bringing less attractive friends up to par. Possible hazardous situation. As a man of action, Quinton was skeptical.

Tadd glanced at the group surreptitiously. “Okay, look. At first glance, all three of those guys are candidates. But in reality, only one of them is one-nighter material.”

Quinton and I checked them out. “I don’t see it,” Quinton said.

“Easy—it’s the blond guy,” I said.

Tadd sighed. “Reid, you obviously have a blonde predilection—”

My palms turned up, shoulders shrugging. “Blondes are my gold standard.”

“Don’t get distracted by hair color.” He shook his head, hair falling perfectly around his face, and leaned closer. “Dudes. It’s obviously the Hispanic guy. Look again.”

Quinton stared, frowning. “I still don’t see it.”

Tadd rolled his eyes. “That’s because you are disproportionately straight.”

“Excuse me! Unless disproportionately means all—then guilty as charged. And BTW, Reid, dibs on the sister who looks like Halle Berry’s reincarnation.”

Tadd pursed his lips. “Dude, Halle Berry isn’t dead, thus she can’t be reincarnated.”

Quinton emptied his drink and got to his feet. “Whatever, man, I’m going in.”

Tadd and I each grabbed an arm and sat him back down. “Hold up, noob,” Tadd said. “Let’s get Halle and Mr. Tall Dark and Gay to bring their most attractive girlfriend and trot over here.”

Quinton sat, still unconvinced. “We can do that?”

“Watch and learn.” Tadd turned to me. “Reid, you’ve just said something incredibly amusing.” And then he laughed his patented Tadd-Wyler-Sexy-Laugh while I smiled and chuckled along.

A dozen pairs of eyes shifted to us. Tadd made eye contact with his target while Quinton—who’s a remarkably fast learner—did the same with his. I appeared oblivious, staring into my martini, pulling the olive from the tiny plastic sword with my teeth. Tadd broke eye contact, only to glance back a few seconds later. Quinton smirked, straightening and stretching his arms behind his neck in a blatant display of biceps. And then we sat back and waited for recognition to flicker.

A few hours, several dirty martinis and two cigars later, Bob was escorting the bride-to-be from my hotel room to a waiting Town Car. Personal policy—I don’t wake up with them still in my bed. And don’t worry—there was no way she was going to pull off wearing white, long before I came along.

*** *** ***

Emma

My father and Chloe have landed—she texted me to gripe about some lady in a wheelchair at the front of the plane who was “holding everyone up.” They have to collect Chloe’s bags after deplaning (she can’t travel without at least two colossal suitcases and several smaller ones), so I have about an hour before they arrive, which I spend wishing we were filming today, chewing on a hangnail, checking my clothes, changing my clothes, and straightening my hotel room in a state of total anxiety.

She texts me again from the shuttle, annoyed that there wasn’t a limo to pick them up. They booked a room in the same hotel, and she wants me to come down to the lobby to meet them when they arrive. When I exit the elevator, I catch her irate voice at the front desk one second too late to scramble back in. She’s pissed that their room isn’t on the same floor as the cast and crew. The producers left strict instructions for hotel management with a list of approved guests for rooms on our floor. There are no exceptions, for privacy and security reasons. Unfortunately, “no exceptions” isn’t something Chloe accepts.

I do the only thing that makes sense in that moment. I make a beeline across the marble elevator bank and hide behind a column.

“But our minor daughter is on the fourth floor!” Her voice pitches higher, and I picture every head in the room swiveling towards her, just as she likes it. The concierge begins to speak in soothing tones, assuring her that there’s a lovely room reserved for them one floor down from me. He adds that he’ll be sending up a complimentary bottle of champagne shortly, in hopes of making their stay more enjoyable.

As I scoot around the pillar to avoid being spotted, Chloe harrumphs her halfhearted consent and they board the elevator with their overloaded luggage cart. The doors close and the dial shows their assent to the third floor, and I’m stuck inadvertently eavesdropping on the concierge chastising the desk clerk.

“In the future, simply say, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, that floor is fully occupied.’”

I inch around the column. The desk clerk is young, dark-haired and slendar, with classically pretty features. Chloe would hate her on sight. Red-faced, she stares at the marble countertop.

“Relatives of celebrities can be unreasonable, and if the relative becomes offended, we risk losing the celebrity’s patronage.”

“Yes, sir,” the clerk mumbles. Thanks to Chloe’s furor, the “celebrity” being discussed is me. Awesome.

“Um, Emma?”

I jump, caught skulking between the column and a massive potted plant. “MiShaun,” I gasp. “God.”

“Who are we hiding from?” She peers around the immediate area.

“My stepmother. She and my father just got here, they haven’t even seen me yet, and she’s already bitched out the desk clerk and the concierge. They’ll be here all week. They’re going to be interacting with everyone.” I close my eyes. “Oh. My. God.”

MiShaun takes my arm and leads me to the elevator. “Emma, let me share a liberating truth concerning our relationships with our parents, especially as we become adults.” She pushes the fourth floor button and the doors shut us in. “The people who know and love us will not hold our parents, or their crazy-ass behavior, against us.”

“But what about everyone else, all the people who don’t know and love me?”

“Screw everyone else.”

***

Chloe and my father have been invited to dinner by Adam Richter. This event would be doomed enough in itself, but a few of the cast members are going as well. I’m considering excuses (sore throat, seizure, untimely death?) when the concierge calls to say the taxi is here; an impending sense of disaster follows me down to their room. Chloe answers the door wearing a black dress and black patent stilettos; the dress is shorter and tighter than ideal, but for my stepmother, it’s practically demure. Just as I release the pent-up breath I’ve been holding since I got off of the elevator, her eyes sweep over me. “Emma, when are you going to start wearing adult clothing? Stylish jewelry might be an improvement, too.”

My outfit: aqua tank and gauzy skirt with a fluid watercolor pattern in various shades of aqua. I’m wearing small silver hoops in my ears and my mother’s ring on my right hand—a single princess-cut diamond, channel set into a solid platinum band.

Chloe sighs, refreshing her dark lipstick in the mirror. “And another thing.” She blots her lips with a tissue. “Some makeup wouldn’t hurt, either.”

My father exits the bathroom, knotting a tie. “I think I look beautiful just as I am,” he says, hugging one arm around my shoulders, oblivious to her attack on me, as usual.

“Oh, Connor.” She pushes him playfully in the chest.

Screw everyone else, screw everyone else, screw everyone else.