Between the Lines
One of the many alarming and unexpected things no one tells you is how close the people with cameras come. Don’t they have professional zoom lenses? Do they really need to duck under Bob’s meaty arm to snap a flash right in our faces? The photographers call my name, trying to get me to glance up so they can get the money shot. When that doesn’t work, they try Emma. She follows my lead and ignores them. Smart girl.
Some of the paparazzi follow us to the restaurant, which is at least half an hour away, and the flashes start up again before we even get out of the car. Bob and Jeff, as usual, are worth every penny production is paying them, supplying a wall of muscle on either side of us as we dash inside.
We’re greeted by a deferential maître d, dim lighting, thick carpeting, limestone walls and wood beams. The wait staff is dressed in formal black and white, tables boast crisp white cloths and frosted candlelight, and tiny white lights wrap around columns and dip overhead like stars. I give my name and we’re ushered to a table near the window in the back, as I requested, with a view of the lake. There’s outdoor seating and a dock, which is trimmed with more firefly-sized lights.
I watch her face as she takes it all in. “Like it?”
Her wide grey-green eyes drift over everything, returning to mine. “Yeah. It’s beautiful.”
“True.” I’m staring at her. Haven’t stopped since we sat down. She smiles shyly into her lap. The table is small, and I lean forward and take her hand, the ghost of a smile playing across my mouth, and bring it to my lips, kissing the knuckles one at a time. Corny, I know. Just the sort of thing guys are usually too dense to actually do. Her cheeks glow a little pink.
“So Emma. Are you ready to be famous?” I release her hand, leaning back as the waiter arrives with a bottle of wine. “Because this film is going to do it for both of us.”
She smirks at me while the wine is tasted and approved, doesn’t speak until the waiter disappears. “You’re already famous.”
I frown, lips pursed. “I am? What makes you say that?”
She laughs. “Oh, I don’t know… the photographers who follow you around, maybe? The girls?”
“What girls? I haven’t noticed any girls,” I say, and she laughs again. “Well, I’ve noticed one girl. And I haven’t been able to see or care about any of the others lately. They might as well be invisible.”
Peering at me, head angled, she says, “Hmm.”
I don’t want to say too much too soon. She seems oddly perceptive where bullshit is concerned. “You didn’t answer. Are you ready for it yourself?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s still a little surreal. I want to be successful, of course. But part of me just wants to be a normal girl.”
That’s a new one. Who wants to be normal? “Normal how?”
The self-consciousness is back. She bites her lip, fingers tracing the base of her wine glass as she debates what to reveal. “Like… high school. Theatre class. Homecoming football games. College plans. Prom.”
“Prom, eh?” I laugh softly and she smiles. “How long have you been tutored?”
“Since sixth grade.”
“I started then, too.”
She leans up. “It never bothered you—the friends you left behind? The athletic teams you never played on, the class president spot you’d have easily won?”
No one’s ever asked me about this before. I never gave much thought to what I may have left behind or given up. I finished my degree credits a year ago, and was more than happy to be done with classes, assignments and tutors. “I never did public school, so my situation was never all that normal to begin with.” I lean closer, too, elbows on the table. “You realize, don’t you, that there are millions of kids our age who’d desert all of that stuff in a heartbeat to have what we have, to be who we are?”
“So I hear.” She colors slightly and I smile.
“What?” I ask, and she blushes harder, smiling into her lap again.
“Nothing. Just some stuff my best friend said to me recently. About doing this movie.” I tilt my head, an acknowledgement that there’s more she isn’t saying. She rolls her eyes. “With you.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “So I have a loyal fan in—where do you live?”
“Sacramento.”
“Sacramento. Not too far from LA.” I know what I’m implying the moment this is out of my mouth.
She does, too, and she’s studying my face. “It’s like 400 miles. Not exactly next door.”
I shrug. “No. But not as far as say, Texas, or New York.” I know what I’m implying with this, too, but I’ve got the innocent look down. Growing up with my dad taught me to either lie like a pro or not bother.
In a feat of perfect timing that will earn him a thirty percent tip, the waiter arrives with our meals.
*** *** ***
Emma
Strangely, I haven’t given much thought to where Graham lives, in relation to me. But New York is on the other side of the country from Sacramento. In comparison, Los Angeles seems right down the street. I should pinch myself right now for thinking about Graham at all. I’m on a date with Reid. And I’m enjoying it.
The meal is amazing, the waiter attentive but not intrusive. We talk about jobs we’ve done, people we’ve worked with or want to work with, and he’s funny, especially when discussing Hollywood gossip, and how petty and catty people can be. How fake. Which makes me think of Brooke.
“So how do you know Brooke?” I ask, not thinking this question will get the reaction it does. I just recalled the animosity that seems to be between them and wondered at the reason. He reigns in his response quickly, but not before I see what flies across his face. Even still, I’m not sure how to interpret it. “I’m sorry—I’m not trying to pry… I just… noticed you guys seem… uh…” Oh my God, I’ve talked myself into a corner.