Between the Lines
“I do look at him. Practically every day.”
She mock-glares at me and I laugh.
“I found a few pics of Graham, by the way.” She plops onto the bed next to me, grabbing a pillow and propping her head at the foot of the bed so we can see each other over the lump of Hector fur. “He’s hot, though more in that intense, introspective sorta way, rather than Reid’s all-American look. My coworkers would be all over him.”
I breathe a sigh, trying to clear the stab of hostility I suddenly feel towards Emily’s coworkers. “Em, I don’t understand how you work at Hot Topic, dress twenty-first century Gothic, and are attracted to guys who look like Reid.”
“Opposites attract?”
“Not usually,” I say, and she shrugs.
“So, the fan pages are speculating that you and Reid are having hot sex all over Austin.”
“What? God. Well, we’re not.” I cover my face and Hector meows in complaint until I begin stroking him again. “I still don’t know what kind of relationship he wants. Or, you know, if. He’s used to girls throwing themselves at him. I’m sure I’m confusing the crap out of him.”
“Hmm.” He stares at us from the back of her door. “Official dilemma.”
“Seriously.” Hector rolls over, flopping between us on the bed, legs in the air, begging for a tummy rub. “Um, is Hector on drugs or something?”
“Maybe one of Mom’s plants is a cat narcotic. God knows he chews on them enough—every plant in the house has teeth marks. Drives Mom insane.”
“Grandma tried putting Tabasco sauce on the leaves. Worked pretty well.”
We laugh, imagining the effects of this on an unsuspecting Hector. “Your grandma was an evil genius.”
I remember her so much more clearly than I remember Mom. “Yeah, she was.” I stare at the ceiling. “Right before you picked me up, my father asked if I wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning, ‘like old times.’ I was standing there in that revolting yellow room with that flowery duvet and furniture that looks like an animal has gnawed on it, and I was thinking ‘old times’—like when I was what, five?”
She’s silent for a couple of minutes. “Are you afraid if you talked to him, you might actually tell him how angry you are?”
It’s true. This is not standard annoyance. I’m livid. “Maybe. Why now? Why now do I give a crap?”
“You’ve always given a crap, Emma. You just pushed it inside. Acted like a miniature grownup. What else could you do? Of course you’re angry.”
I suddenly burst into tears like one of those geysers in Yellowstone erupts—pop, pop, gush, and she sits up and grabs me, pulls me close and stretches her arms around me.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I hiccup, sniffling.
She sighs. “Maybe it’s not the best timing, right in the middle of filming the biggest movie of your career so far, but emotional self-awareness doesn’t always sit around waiting for the perfect time to reveal itself.” She hands me the tissue box. “You’ll wash your face so you don’t scare my parents, then we’ll eat the pasta and sausage meatballs they’re making, watch some bad television or a good DVD, and munch something calorific. And after that, we’ll figure this shit out.”
I take a shuddering breath and lean my head into her lap. She strokes my hair, pulling it from my wet face and tucking it behind my ear, which makes me ache for my mother. I can’t recall her face, exactly, but I remember vividly the feel of her fingers threading through my hair. People are right about time healing wounds. But the scars are always there, waiting for something to poke them. I close my eyes and just let myself miss her.
Chapter 30
REID
I’m geared up for another hour or so of awkward silence on the drive back to LA—even more awkward now that we’ve seen Mom, now that her damage is out there, undeniable, visible to us both. The therapy session was like being cut in a hundred tiny invisible ways, and it’s inexplicable to me how that kind of opening up is helpful.
I pull out my phone to text John, but before I get far, Dad says, “I made reservations for dinner tonight.” My first thought is why are you telling me? Then I realize he means reservations for us. Oh, hell no.
“I’ve already made plans with John—”
His jaw tightens. “Push them back. Our reservations are early. Seven.”
My jaw mimics his and I fight to relax it. “Fine. I’m staying over with John. Probably tomorrow night, too.”
He nods curtly and I send John the text telling him to pick me up at ten. A late party is better than no party.
“Have you thought about what’s next, after School Pride wraps?”
What’s this? Interest in my career? “George sent a few scripts for me to look over.”
“I guess there’s no more cold auditioning for you, is there? You’ve arrived, as they say.”
I shrug.
The waiter fills our water glasses from a Perrier bottle and leaves it to the side. “Would you gentlemen like to peruse the wine list, or have a cocktail before dinner?”
“I would,” I say.
Dad shakes his head. “No thank you. We’ll be ready to order in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter snaps the wine list closed and removes the wine glasses with one hand, crossing them like Marcie crossed her legs earlier today. Thinking about her doesn’t help my already fed up state of mind.
“What the hell, Dad?”