14. Grey
Chapter 14
Grey
I hate Eldora. It’s all the worst parts of LA, all wrapped up in one overpriced supermarket. Every item in the store has to look pristine, be certified organic, and be four times the normal price. The place claims it’s so expensive because it prioritizes social responsibility, but I guarantee their dumpster is filled with perfectly good food during the closing shift every night. Talk about waste.
It doesn’t necessarily surprise me that Aspen has a smoothie named after her here, but it does disappoint me a little. Why would she encourage people to spend twenty-five dollars on a smoothie? Seriously, is the fruit they use made of solid gold or something?
We take my car this time instead of Aspen’s baby-blue Bronco. As promised, our bodyguards are flanking us the second we exit the car. Already, heads begin to turn, and as we walk toward the entrance, the growing crowd’s chatter intensifies.
“Oh my gosh, it’s Aspen Jordan,” someone says.
“And Grey Aldridge!” another adds.
“Do you think they’re going to get her smoothie?”
“Are they dating?”
“I thought they hated each other.”
“That’s a sick car.”
“Who are they?”
“She’s taller than I thought she would be.”
“Holy shit, Aspen just made eye contact with me.”
We take some photos and sign some autographs to appease the crowd—and our PR team. While we’re occupied with fans, some of the Eldora guards—yes, this place has guards, that’s how overpriced their stuff is—come outside to see what all the ruckus is about. One of them speaks “code gold” into his radio, which I guess means “celebrities outside.” I inwardly roll my eyes at the fact that celebrities come here so often that they have a code word for it. And that the code word is “gold.”
By the time Aspen and I have greeted every fan, the amount of Eldora guards has doubled. As we cross the threshold into the store, the store security makes sure that nobody comes inside just to follow us around the store. Our personal guards remain with us as we make our way down the cereal aisle, Aspen leading the way to the smoothie bar in the back.
Unsurprisingly, Aspen’s face is plastered on an A-frame sign propped up in front of the tropical-themed smoothie bar. There’s a couple of people in line, none of whom turn around to look at us, thankfully. At least we’ll have a few minutes of peace and quiet before we have to brave the public again.
“So, what are you going to get?” I whisper to Aspen.
“The ‘Aspen Jordan Smoothie.’ I’ve never heard of it before but the girl on the posters is really pretty. I trust her,” she responds.
I pretend to ponder that. “I don’t know; she looks pretty young to me. I bet her smoothie is nasty because she has an underdeveloped palate.”
Aspen wrinkles her nose. I’m ashamed to admit how utterly adorable the gesture is. “I’m twenty-one, you asshole, and my palate is perfectly developed. But no wonder I seem young to you. You’re how old again? Forty?”
“Ha-ha,” I say blankly. “Twenty-nine.”
“No shit, really?”
“Don’t act so surprised, Jordan. It’s insulting.”
“I thought you were older. Not forty, but early thirties for sure.”
“I guess the stress of working with you is starting to show.”
“You don’t have an old face, it’s more of an old aura.”
“Spoken like a true Angeleno.”
She furrows her brow. “I’m from New York.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. Look it up.”
“I don’t want you staining my search history. And I think you’re the first person who’s ever said I have an ‘old aura.’ Most people would say I’m too immature.”
Aspen doesn’t have a chance to respond before we’ve reached the front of the line.
“Oh my god, you’re her. You’re Aspen Jordan,” the male cashier exclaims.
The other two employees immediately whip their heads around to stare at us. “Holy shit,” they say in unison.
“You’re even prettier in person,” the cashier gushes.
Aspen blushes. “Thank you.”
“So, what can we get you?”
“Two Aspen Jordan’s please,” Aspen responds.
“Actually, I’ll have the Power Punch one, please.”
Aspen looks at me with raised brows. I shrug. “I don’t like bananas.”
“So, one Aspen Jordan and one Power Punch.”
“Sounds good,” I reply. “How much do we owe you?”
“Oh please, it’s on the house.”
“No way, save that for someone who needs it,” I respond.
“But you two are VIPs.”
I open my wallet and try to find some cash to give him to pay for some orders behind us, except my cash fold is empty. All I have are credit cards. And I remember from our time at the farmers’ market that Aspen doesn’t even carry physical cards, much less cash, she just uses her phone wallet for everything.
“Fine,” I resign. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he responds.
We get our drinks before the man in front of us gets his, earning us a glare. We thank the staff at the stand once more before we make for the store’s exit to find a table outside. As we’re walking, Aspen suddenly barks out a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
She holds her cup out so I can see. “He left his number on the cup.”
“No way.” I frown. “You’re with me. Why would he do that?”
“I guess he figured you weren’t any competition.”
“I’ve won Sexiest Man Alive, twice !” I protest. “I’m the only person to ever do that!”
“Calm down, Grey. I’m sure he just thought we were friends.”
“Us, friends? Out together one-on-one?”
“Well, isn’t that what we are?” she asks before turning her attention to one of her guards. “Hey, Edgar, do you have a Sharpie I can borrow?”
He reaches into a pocket and pulls one out for her. “Sure, here you go.”
“Thanks,” Aspen responds, completely blacking out the phone number on her cup. “What?” she asks, noticing my stare. “We can’t have people spamming the poor guy’s phone when they see the photos of us from today.”
“We could. ”
“Grey, play nice.”
“No.”
We find an empty metal two-top table outside and decide it’s as good a spot as any to publicly drink our smoothies. How did this become my life? I’ll admit, it’s certainly a first-world problem, but there are about a thousand other places I’d rather be after a long day than melting in the California sun outside Eldora with my twenty-one-year-old costar, who I’m fake-dating.
I sigh and put on my sunglasses, not caring that they partially obscure my face. It’s fucking bright out here. I expect Aspen to frown and remind me that we’re supposed to be noticed.
To my surprise, she pulls her own pair out of her bag, slides them on, and says, “Oh, thank God. This sun is blinding.”
I tip my head to the right, toward a few teenage girls casting glances our way from the parking lot. “I think some of our friends from earlier have spotted us again.”
“I guess we better start pretending to be deep in conversation.”
“What should we talk about?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just take turns asking each other questions.”
“Fine. You first.”
“Where’s your family from?” she asks. “I mean, clearly you’re not American.”
“What, because I’m mixed? Wow, Jordan. Wow,” I kid.
The color drains from Aspen’s face. “No, that’s not what I meant at all. I mean because of the accent?—”
“I know, I know, I’m just yanking your chain, relax. To answer your question, my Dad was born in England and my Mum immigrated there from the Philippines. Before you say anything, I know you didn’t ask, but I want to tell you anyway,” I preface this next part. “Racially I’m a quarter Asian, a quarter Black, and half European. My mother is half Filipino and half Spanish and my father is half English and half Ghanaian. In other words, I’m a mutt.”
“That combination makes a very attractive mix. Do you have any siblings?”
“That’s your second question in a row, but I’ll allow it since you gave me a compliment. Yes, I have one brother, Piers. But he’s married, so don’t get any ideas.”
“Don’t worry. Your turn,” she responds.
“Tell me something embarrassing about yourself.”
“My middle name is Robert.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yep. My parents thought I was going to be their last kid and my dad always wanted a boy named after him. So they just used Robert as my middle name.”
“Why not Roberta?”
“They both hate the name Roberta. I don’t know, they’re weird, clearly. They named all three of their kids after trees.”
“I like the name Aspen, though,” I reply.
“Thanks. I like Grey too.”
“So, wait, they thought you were their last kid? I thought it was just you and Willow? You have another sibling?”
“Yeah, her name is Maple. She was a surprise, obviously, and she likes her privacy so most people don’t even know there’s a third Jordan sister. And it wouldn’t have made a difference with the name Robert anyway, since she’s a girl.”
“What are your sister’s middle names?”
“Willow’s is Elizabeth after my dad’s mom and Maple’s is Isabelle after my mom. I think she got jealous that my dad got a kid named after him but she didn’t.” Aspen smiles. “I think that was your third question in a row, Grey. Be careful, I might start to think you’re actually interested.”
“I am interested.”
“Yet, getting coffee with me was your worst nightmare a few weeks ago.”
“Aha, touché.”
She changes the subject when she realizes I’m not going to elaborate further. “So, why didn’t you get my smoothie? You really don’t like bananas? Do you think the studio is going to be mad?”
“They don’t give a damn as long as pictures of us circulate online and judging by the growing mob”—I look around at the fifteen or so people surrounding us, including two paparazzi—“I think we’re fine. And I actually do hate bananas. But I also ordered a different smoothie so we could sample each other’s and get that romantic shot.”
Aspen nods approvingly. “That’s actually a really good idea.”
“Don’t act so surprised, Jordan, I’m full of them.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
“In fact, I think that it’s such a good idea that us taking sips of each other's smoothies will be the shot that the tabloids use.”
“I doubt it,” she replies skeptically. “They’ll probably use one of us laughing or smiling lovingly or something. Not drinking each other’s smoothies.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” I goad.
“Fine,” she says, handing me her smoothie. She takes a sip of my straw and smiles widely for the benefit of the cameras. “That was disgusting,” she says, in a tone that doesn’t match her face.
I laugh genuinely, though she probably thinks it’s just for the cameras. “Yours was disgusting too. I want to personally sue Aspen Jordan for creating this monstrosity.”
“Yours tastes like grass.”
“Yours tastes like shit.”
“Mine was made with bananas and chocolate and yours was made with spinach and ginger. Objectively, mine wins.”
“Maybe if a monkey was the judge.”
I watch her fake-smile falter and can see her fighting the urge to roll her eyes, flip me off, or something equally aromantic. “Do you think we’ve been here long enough?”
I check my watch. “It’s been forty minutes since we got out of the car.”
“But who’s counting.” She smiles blithely.
“They said what? Forty-five?” I think aloud. “Yeah, I think we can leave.”
“Thank God.” She sighs, then stands.
“You forgot I have to give you a ride back to the studio to get your car.”
We throw our smoothies away and Aspen grabs onto my arm as we walk toward the parking lot, a fake smile plastered on her face. “This is hardly worth ten million,” she whispers to me.
“I’m not growing on you yet, Jordan?” I reply.
“Maybe like a fungus.”
“How sweet of you, darling.”