This Is What Happy Looks Like(49)
Author: Jennifer E. Smith

Until tonight, Graham had managed to avoid any significant scandals, and Harry had every reason to be livid right now. He would be the one to have to deal with the lawyers, to try to plead with the photographer not to sue. For the next few days, he’d be coordinating with publicists and sweet-talking reporters. He’d be convincing Mick that Graham was still focused on the movie. He’d be trying to keep Ellie’s secrets from spilling out, trying to tamp down every bit of information he could, as if it weren’t as slippery as water.

And some of it was there, in the set of his jaw and the twitch of his eyelid, an anger that was simmering just below the surface. But there was also an unfamiliar sense of restraint in him too, and for this, Graham was grateful.

“Just tell me what you need me to do,” he said, feeling for the first time in a while that this wasn’t just business, that they were a team.

“Go get some ice on that,” Harry said, nodding at Graham’s already bruised knuckles. “And let me do my job.”

In his hand, the phone began to ring again, and he winked before bringing it to his ear, already listening intently as he walked back into the other room. With nothing else to do, Graham grabbed the ice bucket from a table near the closet and stepped out into the hallway, standing for a moment with his back against the door.

He knew there were actors who did this kind of thing all the time, and it would never occur to them to feel bad about the mess they’d made or the manager who would have to clean it up, much less worry about the guy they hit. But even though there was no other way the scene could have played out, Graham had never punched anyone before, and the sound of it—an audible crunch of bone on bone—rang in his head even now.

He held the empty ice bucket under his arm like a football as he lumbered down the hall. At the bank of machines, he watched the cubes of ice tumble down in a rush of noise and frozen air, and then he shoved his entire fist inside, wincing at the cold.

When he stepped back into the room, Harry was hunched over the computer. The phone at his side was on speaker, and Graham could hear the familiar voice of Rachel, his publicist, rattling off a list of news sources.

“All of them?” Harry asked, his voice strained.

“Within the hour,” Rachel said. “The broken camera didn’t help things either.”

“Sorry,” Graham said, slumping down on one of the beds, and he could almost hear her whole demeanor change, a shift like a tuning fork, sudden and vibrating.

“Hi, hon,” she said. “Didn’t know you were there.”

“Yeah,” Graham said. “I’m here.”

“What happened?” she asked with forced lightness. “You’re usually my easiest client.”

Graham must have looked ill equipped to answer this, because Harry stepped in before he could speak. “We’ll call you back, Rach, okay?” he said. “Just keep us posted.”

“Okay,” she said, just before hanging up. “But try to stay out of trouble.”

When she was gone, Harry glanced over at Graham. “You look awful,” he said. “Why don’t you grab a shower? It’s gonna be a long night.”

Afterward, Graham pulled on the same sandy shorts from the beach and the same striped polo, which still smelled of salt from the ocean. When he emerged from the bathroom, Harry was on another call, and Graham fell back on the bed, his eyes heavy as he listened to one half of the conversation. In spite of all the noise—the rise and fall of Harry’s voice, the intermittent buzzing of the phone on the table, the relentless churning hum of the computer—it didn’t take long for him to fall into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke, it was still dark out, and across the room, Harry had the computer balanced on his lap, his face lit by the white glow of the screen. There was no part of Graham that wanted to see what was on there, to discover what had been dredged up during the night. He didn’t care what they said about him; his only worry was for Ellie.

“Anything?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, and Harry startled, looking over at him blearily.

“About you?” he said. “Loads. You want to see?”

Graham shook his head. “And her?”

“Still nothing,” Harry said with a tired smile.

He felt a rush of relief. “You’re amazing.”

“It’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

“It certainly is,” Graham said. Then he slipped into the bathroom, where he stood at the sink. In the mirror, his eyes were rimmed with red, and there was a shadow of a beard across his jaw that made him look vaguely threatening, like he actually was the kind of guy who went around knocking out photographers. He felt a sudden clawing need for air.

“Do you mind if I take a quick walk?” he asked, stepping back into the room, and Harry nodded without looking up from the computer.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve got this under control for now.”

“Great,” said Graham, reaching for his sweatshirt. “I won’t be long.”

He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, hurrying down the hallway and into the elevator, then rushing blindly through the lobby and out into the still-waking world, the orange-streaked sky and the coolness of morning, where he stood on the sidewalk and took a great gulp of a breath to calm his thudding heart.

The hotel sat at the far end of the village green, where it presided over the shops and the harbor from a high perch, and when Graham lifted his eyes, he was surprised to see that the town was already busy. He’d expected to see a few fishermen and maybe a jogger or two at this hour, but there were people everywhere, setting up tables near the gazebo and unloading boxes from their cars. A few bleary-eyed children twirled on the grass, and a dog howled from where it was tied to one of the lampposts. It took Graham a moment to realize it was Bagel.

He looked around for Ellie, feeling an inexplicable bolt of panic. If he’d read the news before leaving the room, maybe he wouldn’t feel quite so exposed. But now it seemed like the whole world must know something he didn’t, whatever details of the previous night the blogs and newspapers had chosen to splash across their pages.

On the other side of the green, a woman was struggling to wrangle a billowing tablecloth in the wind, and the colors—a brilliant red, white, and blue—were a sudden reminder.

It was the Fourth of July.

A group of women with trays of cookies and cupcakes brushed past, too busy to notice him as he stood there, paralyzed with indecision. He knew he should go back up to the room, check in with Harry and find out exactly what parts of the story had leaked and just how much trouble he’d landed in. He should examine the photos, call his parents so they wouldn’t be surprised—a thought that filled him with a wobbly kind of dread—and get the game plan from his publicist. He should explain to Mick what had happened, apologize to the photographer, take responsibility for his actions.