Good For You

My feet are moving, fol owing the agent’s clip-clopping steps as she pul s my bag to the line at customs, but I can’t feel anything. My whole body has gone numb. What kind of emergency would require me to go to Indianapolis? “I… I can do the connection,” I answer, my mouth dry.

“Very good. Wait here, I’m going to see if I can get you moved up so we can get you through this line sooner. Your flight is boarding in five minutes.” She hurries away, and I stand where she left me, shuffling forward in the line no more than three feet while she’s gone. I pul my cel phone out and turn it on. I cal Dad’s number. It goes straight to voicemail and I hang up. Mom’s does as wel , and Deb’s.

My heart is pounding and I’m just concentrating on breathing and standing and not freaking out.

The agent returns, taking my bag, moving me from the back of one line to the front of another. I’m only vaguely aware of the other passengers’ stares and speculations.

I’m asked if I have anything to declare and I say no. My bags are examined, and I’m through customs in record time. “The emergency? What is it?” I ask as we board a motorized cart and she gives the gate number to the driver.

“I have very little information, but here’s what I was told: your sister has had an accident. She’s in the hospital, in critical condition. Your parents are en route to Indianapolis now, and someone wil meet you when you land at IND.”

“An accident? Like, a car accident? What kind of accident?”

She places her hand on my shoulder and looks in my eyes. “I’m not sure, honey. I’m afraid that’s al the information I got at this end. I wasn’t even given the name of the hospital. Your job right now is to stay calm. I’m going to give you your new flight numbers and such, but don’t worry, we’l give you a printout with everything on it…” She’s tel ing me gates and flights and times and I can’t absorb any of it. Deb wil be fine. She’s young and strong and healthy. She always wears her seatbelt and her car has airbags al over the place and that thing that cal s in an accident for you if you’re unconscious. Critical condition means she’s alive, and I’m focusing on that.

The agent and flight attendants essential y put me on the plane to Dal as and al but buckle me in. I have a boarding pass for my flight from Dal as to Indianapolis, with only an hour between flights. I feel like a zombie, and I’m sure I look like one to everyone around me, but it doesn’t matter.

My sister is alive, and she’s going to be fine. This wil be my mantra for the next six hours.

Chapter 33

REID

Vancouver is exactly the change I need. Given the different atmosphere for this film, the older starring group (I’m the youngest cast member), the physical demands of the stunts I’m doing and the muscle I have to maintain, I’ve decided to do something I haven’t done since I was fourteen. Not that it was a choice then, just the typical restrictions of childhood.

While I’m on location, I’m going to abstain. From everything.

Alcohol, weed, pil s, sex.

While Olaf and I were adding that last five pounds, I only got high once, and I cut back on drinking solely to survive his torture sessions. (If he suspected me of drinking the night before a workout, he practical y kil ed me in the weight room.) As for sex, I haven’t been with a girl since I kissed Dori. In some twisted way, this fact is like purposeful y leaving a sweet taste in my mouth. Instead of my usual hookups, which are at best quick and dirty and done just sober enough to recal them, I have a graphical y clear memory of her soft lips opening under mine. That thought in mind, I may set a record over this time period for whacking off, from which I wil not be abstaining, for obvious reasons.

The film we’re doing is an action thril er plus love story, the script reading like a Guy Ritchie/Nicholas Sparks mash-up. My character’s romantic interest is being played by Chelsea Radin, who’s drop-dead hot and twenty-seven.

Both characters are “approximately twenty-three,” so while I’m playing up, she’s playing down. Hol ywood, yeah? We’re on our third day of filming, and the cast is grabbing lunch from craft services when she turns to me and says, “You know, you’re nothing like what I expected, from al the rumors.”

I’m picking through sandwiches, trying to avoid the tuna because we have our first kissing scene coming up after lunch. Turning to her, holding a turkey on whole wheat that would make Olaf proud, I say, “Oh? What were you expecting?”

She shrugs. “Not that I presumed you’d hit on me or anything, but you’re portrayed as this sort of evil, virtue-slaying playboy, and I haven’t seen any evidence of that.

Yet.”

I choke a little on the wedge of sandwich I’ve just bitten into, and she slams her palm on my back until I can breathe again. I give her a half-grin. “Chelsea, don’t you know you can’t trust everything you read on the Internet?” She shakes her head, her short dark hair flipping back and forth. “Photos, baby. Lots of photos. Lots of girls. My husband was actual y a little concerned when they gave you the role.”

I laugh. “Um, no offense, but you’re safe.” Damn, she’s I laugh. “Um, no offense, but you’re safe.” Damn, she’s pretty up close.

She frowns. “I’ve never been so relieved and so insulted al at one time.” Tilting her head, she peers at me like I’m a map and she’s looking for directions. “So who’s the girl?”

“Huh?”