Between the Lines

***

Since I got back from Sacramento, Graham and I have been discussing college applications and essays, schools and programs available during our morning runs. He’s enthusiastic about it, and it’s contagious. He’s texting me names of schools to check out: Julliard and NYU, I recognize, and other smaller schools I don’t. Some have smaller populations than Emily’s high school. I think I might like that.

When I ask him why so many of the schools he suggests are in New York, he shrugs and says, “That’s where I live, so I know more about the area, since I wanted to go to school close to home. Do you want to stay closer to home yourself? We could look for schools you might like in California.”

Staying near my parents is the last thing I want. A school on the opposite coast from Chloe is exactly what I need. “No, moving across the country sounds lovely.” He laughs while I tell myself this has nothing to do with Graham living in New York. Nothing at all.

I start googling information on anything he suggests that’s located east of Ohio.

***

The Bingley house would send Chloe into raptures of envy. Set into the side of a hill, it’s several thousand feet of limestone, wrought iron and tile exterior, with soaring ceilings and marble floors throughout. No amenities were omitted, from a kitchen outfitted so spectacularly that it would make Emily’s mom drool to the infinity pool that would cause Chloe to break into song. I feel an urge to cross myself at that thought.

The first two days of the week are spent filming what will be a three-minute scene with Meredith under the hood of the broken down Civic, in front of this beautiful house. Outside. In the billion degree heat.

Production hired an auto mechanic expert to help me look like I know the difference between a fuel pump and a spark plug while under the hood of a car, because for some reason not explained to me, present-day Lizbeth is familiar with the basics of auto maintenance. First I have to learn how to get the hood of the car up, which is not as easy as you’d think. Stan the mechanic is gallingly superior about it, rolling his eyes while my fingers slide back and forth where the stupid latch release is supposedly located. I’m forced to squat down and look for it.

“Ah-ha!” I release the latch as Stan stands with his burly, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, unimpressed. I narrow my eyes at him. “Okay, so I know nothing about cars. Can you make yourself cry on command? Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

He sighs and shows me again where to find the latch release. Once I can find it without looking, he drops the hood and has me find and unlatch it at least fifty times, until I can do it blindfolded. Ah, the useful yet trivial things I learn for my job.

Given the heat and humidity, our makeup people want to pull their hair out, and ours. Meredith and I ride back to the hotel at the end of the second day in exhausted silence, in love with the guy who invented air conditioning. The cityscape flows by as I dissect the reasons for my caution with Reid. I’m not immune to the way I feel when he touches me. The truth is, physically, I do want him—I’m just not quite ready emotionally. The more he pushes, the more wary I feel, and the more I want to push back.

Then there’s Graham, who hasn’t mentioned my weird behavior on the balcony Monday night, thank God. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he was on his balcony for the same reason I was, hoping I would come out by myself, or just hoping I wasn’t in bed with Reid.

Abruptly, I come to my senses. How preposterous, that Graham is absorbed with or even thinking about whatever transpires, or doesn’t, between Reid and me. He has his own thing with Brooke to sort out.

Not that his relationship with her has any relevance to me.

Chapter 33

REID

I filmed with Tadd and Brooke today—indoor scenes that will be woven into the outdoor scenes Emma and Meredith did yesterday. I wasn’t feeling well last night, so I went to bed early. I woke up with a hell of a hangover that wasn’t a hangover. I can’t describe it, really. I didn’t think I drank that much last night, but I can’t remember.

I got through filming, didn’t have a single conflict with Brooke, which is really bizarre. All I know is I feel like shit and I don’t want to be awake. I should just go to bed and sleep it off—whatever this is. I should probably text Emma, but I can do that when I wake up.

*** *** ***

Emma

I haven’t heard from Reid today. No calls, no texts, no knocks on my door. After a leisurely morning with Meredith, discussing the novels we’ve chosen for our senior theses, we had French class with Jenna and made plans for dinner which I assume includes everyone. I walk past Reid’s door, annoyed. The silent treatment must be some form of male pouting.

Emily’s previous boyfriend, Vic, pushed her to have sex. At first, she told me that they had been together for several months and maybe she should give it up, even if she wasn’t particularly moved to do so yet. And then he began saying things like, “If I’d known you were going to be such a tease…” and, “I’m a guy. You have to admit I’ve been patient.” The last straw occurred in the school cafeteria, where they were sitting with his friends.

“Hey Vic, how can you tell if a girl is frigid?” His friend paused for effect. “When you open her legs, a light goes on.”

“Ding,” Vic said, glancing at Emily as his friends laughed.

“That’s not funny,” she said, knowing then that he’d told his friends what was going on between them. Or more accurately, what wasn’t going on.

“Ding!” echoed Vic’s most obnoxious friend, a guy Emily tolerated only because she cared for Vic.