9. Octavia
Chapter 9
Octavia
M y sixteenth birthday was perfect in every way.
My mom forgot about all her stuff and actually planned a real party for me. She was doing a play at the time— Cyrano de Bergerac —but she skipped a rehearsal or two so she could finalize the details of a perfect night for me. I had never felt quite so important and loved. I didn’t have a lot of friends, so it wasn’t a big party, but Mom made it a masquerade, and I got to cover my face entirely for all the photos. For once, I was happy to be in them with my friends.
Mom had bought me a beautiful black mask made of filigreed black lace and spruced up with a big, startlingly red flower on my burned side. A spray of vivid red feathers effectively covered nearly every burned part of my face.
My mom spent almost thirty minutes curling and arranging my hair.
And my parents finally gave me the gift I’d always wanted: eight horseback lessons at a local barn. By the time the party started, I felt like an actual storybook princess.
Of course, after it ended. . .
“I hope you had a lovely time,” Mom said, after my last friend, Rebecca, was picked up.
“Oh, I did.” I sighed as I sank into my favorite spot in the worn sofa of our living room. The plaid fabric was threadbare, but it was so comfortable. I could take my mask off now, but I didn’t. I just sat there, marinating in the joy of the moment.
“Actually, though, sweetheart, your mom and I have some news we wanted to share.” Dad perched on the hard leather chair opposite the sofa, cracking his knuckles and biting his lip.
I straightened immediately. When Dad cracked his knuckles, something was wrong.
“Don’t worry, though.” Mom sat on the other leather chair, separated from Dad by a large wooden end table. “It’s going to be good news, I swear.”
It sure didn’t seem like it. “Okay. What is it? Are we moving?”
Dad forced the most awkward smile I’d ever seen. “Well, you can move if you’d like.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?” They’ve never left anything up to me. There’s no way they were asking me if I wanted them to find a new house. With just two years of school left, why would I want to move?
“Your father and I have decided to get a divorce,” Mom said, her smile as forced as Dad’s. “We’re still friends, and we just think we’re going to be better apart than together.”
I blinked. “You—better. . .” I didn’t understand at all. “What? Why?”
“As I said,” Mom said. “Your Dad thinks?—”
“Oh, ho, ho, you can’t just pin this all on me. We talked about that.”
Mom scowled. “You said I could say that ‘we’ decided.”
“You’ve always said and done whatever you wanted, no matter what I said.”
It got worse and worse from there. I didn’t have to say a single word, though. They spun out all on their own. It made me wonder how they’d held things together around me before that, because clearly they detested one another. But within a few moments, Dad said something that made it pretty clear why they were breaking up.
“Isn’t that just like you? Of course you’re keeping the house. You’re keeping the furniture. You’re keeping all of it.” Dad was pacing, and each time he said ‘you’re,’ he jabbed his finger at Mom’s head.
Mom’s eyes were flashing, however. “I’m not the one demanding we get a divorce.”
“I’m only demanding because you were having an affair with Paul!”
Mom closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You know that’s not true.”
“It is now,” Dad said.
“But that only started after you told me you were filing for divorce,” Mom said.
“Which I did after I saw you two kissing behind the building!”
I froze then, waiting for Mom to explain. Hoping it wasn’t true. Hoping there was some way back.
But there wasn’t.
Mom looked as guilty as he said she was.
She’d been kissing Paul—Christian was his real name—on set, and Dad was leaving her for it. I resolved then and there that I would never kiss someone in a play or movie, and that I would never date or marry someone else who was part of that world.
I’d never broken that promise to myself.
Until now.
But as I think about going on a date with Jake later, I can’t regret it. It’s not the same as my parents at all. He didn’t start acting when his marriage got rough, and he didn’t sacrifice anything and everything to live a dream into his forties.
He’s a young, hot movie star, and he kisses people for his job, not as some kind of sick hobby he can’t quit. He picked me to ask out, in spite of being able to have any woman he wanted, really.
So it’s not the same.
I’m not being stupid. I’m not setting myself up for the same misery my dad endured. I’m sure I’m not. I keep telling myself that as I touch up my makeup, grab my shoes, and sling my purse over my shoulder. “You ready?”
Bea’s grimacing while she stares at her phone. These days, that’s never good.
“What now?”
She drops her phone and it clatters against the table. “Nothing.” She stands and snatches it off the table, checking to make sure the screen isn’t cracked.
But I’m not a moron. “Just tell me. I’ll see it eventually.”
“It really is nothing,” she says. “The same kind of posts you’ve been seeing—nothing new.”
I hold out my hand.
“We need to go or we’ll be late.” She turns for the door.
I don’t move. “Just show me what you were glaring over.”
When she finally surrenders her phone with a sigh, it’s obvious. The post’s still open. It’s a movie-critic-turned-social-media-starlet, opining on the pros and cons of me and Patrice. There’s a massive, full frontal image of my burn, juxtaposed with the flawless face of one of the most beautiful movie stars of all time.
I do not look wonderful.
But what had Bea scowling, I’m sure, were the comments. One small scroll shows that public opinion has not been on my side. Besides the usual “optics don’t lie,” and “not the fugly one,” comments, some people are being truly awful.
Like, “Wonder what they’re paying him to date that .”
And, “Hope he’s getting hazard pay.”
Most of them are from men, which doesn’t make me feel better. Usually the women are the catty ones, but in this case, the men are probably more likely to be honest.
“It’s fine.” I hand the phone back to Bea and head for the door. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard most of my life.” I force a smile, not that she can see it. It’s good practice either way.
Bea trots to catch up to me. “He asked you out—he loves your face, just like I do.”
It would be nice if every single conversation didn’t revolve around it and people’s opinion of my worth didn’t always come down to it, but we don’t get to pick the world we live in. We just have to do our best in the one we have.
“Your hair looks amazing, by the way,” Bea says. “I always love your pin curls, but they look really perfect today.”
If only the 1940s look was actually in right now. . . It’s the hairstyle that covers the most surface area of my burn, so I’ve worn my hair like this for years. It doesn’t take long for us to reach the recording studio, and we manage to record two and a half songs before we run out of time.
“We’re nearly done,” Bea says. “A song and a half, pickups, and we’ll be finished.”
It’ll be nice to go home again, but it’s sort of lousy that Jake will surely have weeks left of filming after I go.
What’s wrong with me? Thinking about where he’ll be, like this might turn into something. I can be a real idiot. I decided last night that I’m just going to appreciate hanging out with Jake like I did the date to prom lined up by my dad. He found a really handsome, really smart guy—a kid of one of his friends—who took me. I knew the guy didn’t really like me. I knew he wasn’t my new boyfriend or anything. I enjoyed the evening for what it was.
Like I appreciate lilies—short-lived, and all the more special for it.
In ten years, when I look back, I’m sure that I’ll think about this the same way. My date with Jake Priest. Or if it goes well, maybe even my dates with Jake Priest. As long as I don’t expect more, I can’t be disappointed.
“Let’s go grab a drink,” Q says. He throws his long hair back over his shoulder. His head’s shaved on the left side, but the other side’s longer than mine. It makes us almost opposites. I cover my left side, and his is exposed.
“Not today,” Bea says. “Octavia has plans.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
Everyone starts to crow. “You have to tell us how it goes,” Morgan says. “Because Jake Priest.” She whistles. “He’s most girls’ dream.”
“Not mine.” Bea groans. “Gross.”
“Hey,” Morgan says. “We didn’t all grow up with him, alright?”
“We didn’t,” I say. “Thank goodness for that. I imagine he wasn’t quite the polished ladies’ man at ten years old that he is now.”
“Actually.” Bea chuckles. “Jake has always been the same as he is now. He’s always been charming, and he’s always had those dimples.”
“He didn’t suffer through an awkward stage?” I shake my head. “That’s just unfair.”
“Some people have all the luck,” Everett says.
We all turn to stare for just a moment—our bass player almost never talks, and when he does, it’s always about music. Those six words may be the first ones I’ve ever heard him utter that weren’t about a song.
As if he can tell he shocked us, Everett kicks a can, which skitters down the hall.
And slams into Jake’s black boot.
“Hey, O.” He smiles, dimples in full force. “I heard you were done, and I thought you might be ready to go a little early.”
Morgan’s mouth drops open and then turns into a smile as she shifts toward me and away from Jake. She tightens her hands into fists and shakes them at me. “Go O,” she mouths. “Have so much fun!”
“She’s ready,” Bea says. “You two have fun.”
“Or not,” Everett mutters.
Words seven and eight, all in the same thirty seconds. It’s a tiny miracle.
“I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” I wave as I awkwardly walk away from my friends and toward Jake Priest.
At some point I should try to think of him as just Jake, probably, but I can’t. Not yet. He’s still Jake Priest to me.
“Where are we going?” I gesture at my dark jeans and hot pink silk blouse. “Am I dressed alright?”
Jake slaps his forehead. “Idiot. Bea told me that when I liked a girl, I needed to tell her how to dress before we went to do something. I’m sorry if that stressed you out. Yes, though, you look fine.” He smiles. “Better than fine.”
I can feel the heat rising in my face, and I duck my head.
Blushes do not look good with my burn.
And I really want to look good tonight, in the spirit of the lily. Or at least, as good as I possibly can look. It’s a sliding scale over here, especially standing next to Mr. Perfect.
Jake shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s wearing dark jeans too, like we coordinated or something, and his royal blue shirt makes his eyes really stand out. He bites his lip and waits for a few seconds before finally speaking. He’s really got the Hollywood actor timing down. “If you think this sounds lame, I can come up with something else. I just try not to go to movies—I get mobbed usually—and you can’t really talk during them either.”
“You think going to the movies is a bad date?” I can’t help raising my eyebrows. “Alert the media!” Now I’m smiling broadly. “Jake Priest, not a fan of movies, ladies and gentlemen.”
He grabs my wrist, spins around, and starts walking, forcing me to jog alongside him. And then he slides his hand against mine, entwining our fingers.
It’s like a scene in a movie.
He’s that smooth.
I can’t do a cartwheel, but in that moment, my heart does a back flip.
For the first time, I realize I might be in trouble. The easy-breezy-Octavia who’s looking at this like a lily to enjoy and discard does not exist. I’ve been on my date with Jake for exactly nineteen seconds, and I’m all in.
How pathetic am I?
I do manage to trip along down the hall and follow him into the parking lot. He slides on sunglasses, hands me a pair, and holds up his hand as we round the corner, already blocking the reporters who are waiting in a tiny mob at the edge of the lot.
“No questions, guys. First dates should be fun and exciting, shouldn’t they?”
As if his smile has blinded them, the reporters just stare at us blankly for a few seconds before hammering us with questions.
“Where are you going?”
“Have you slept together yet?”
“When did you meet?”
“It’s your first date?” one very short lady in spiky heels asks. “How can that be? Didn’t Mr. Priest say you were dating already?”
Jake doesn’t miss a beat. “First official date, yes.” He shakes his finger. “But you little vixens, I said no questions. Please have a little respect and shoo.” He waves at them with his free hand.
To my utter shock, they actually wander off, muttering, but leaving voluntarily.
“I give the media a lot of access,” he says. “They owe me a little space when I ask for it.”
I can’t help smiling again. He basically just told me that even the media isn’t able to withstand his legendary dimples. “So what are we doing?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he says. “Since I didn’t give you enough warning to work on your outfit, you may as well be surprised.” He releases my hand, slides his hand up my arm to my shoulder, and steers me sharply to the right. Then he lets go of me entirely and opens the door on a beat-up old Nissan.
“Umm, I hate to be the one to point this out, but that’s not your car. You have a Mercedes SUV, or you did when we went to karaoke.”
“I traded cars with one of the set guys for the day.” He winks. “Flying under the radar.”
“Why would you do that?” I glance around the lot, which is clear full of Teslas, Porsches, and Ferraris. “Isn’t this Nissan a bigger anomaly here?”
“Wait.” He frowns. “Did you only agree to this date for the media attention?” He pauses. “To gain more followers on social?”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
He smiles. “I’m kidding. But it’s not the radar on the movie set I’m hoping to avoid. It’s when we leave and go out into the real world, or at least, as real-world as it gets in LA.”
“You don’t want to be seen?” I don’t add the, ‘with me,’ but I can’t help wondering.
“Trust me—it’s annoying to be noticed. When I’m with you, I’d rather not have people mobbing me and asking me for a signature or a photo.”
“Does that happen a lot?” I try to imagine what it would be like to be noticed for something good, for people who want to see me instead of people who glare or stare awkwardly.
“Enough that it’s annoying. But even when I’m not on a date, I try to blend in.” Jake shrugs. “Hence the plain white SUV. As you noticed, most everyone has something flashy, so driving something like this Nissan almost makes you disappear.”
“Your car back in New York isn’t boring.”
Jake smiles. “Ah, but in New York, I have family and friends to impress. Everyone here’s a total loser.” He winks. “Present company excluded, of course.”
He bends over and clears all the trash off the passenger seat before reaching across and opening the door from the inside. “I’m going to kill Owen, I swear. He failed to warn me that his car smells like moldy Cheetos and is full of trash.”
I’m laughing as I slide in. “This is probably more my speed, honestly. I’m not really a very neat person.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” Jake’s smirking. “I imagine your Honda Accord is perfectly detailed at all times.”
“Bea told you what I drive?” I arch one eyebrow. “What else did she say?”
“You actually drive a Honda?” Jake slaps the steering wheel. He shakes his head. “I knew it, though.”
“You guessed?”
Jake shrugs. “Reading people’s kind of my thing. Don’t feel bad about it.” He smiles again. “We don’t need any more bad energy, thanks to this disaster of a ride.” He starts the car up, and it does thankfully turn over, and then we’re off, shooting past confused reporters and photographers and heading for the freeway.
“You’re really not telling me where we’re going?”
Jake weaves in and out of traffic like he thinks we’re in a Ferrari, but in between shifting lanes, he whips out his wallet and flips it open. “Tonight’s date will require a small influx of capital.”
“What?”
He peels a twenty-dollar bill out of the stack of money in his wallet and hands it to me. “Here’s yours.”
“What on earth?—”
“And here’s mine.” He pulls another twenty out and drops it in the cupholder. “We’re almost there, and then I’ll explain the rest.”
For the life of me, I have no idea what we’re doing when he pulls into a Target parking lot and cuts the engine. There’s got to be something magical about his dimples, because I don’t even care.