29. Aspen
Chapter 29
Aspen
B efore the car even rolls to a stop I hear the cheers and screams of fans and paparazzi. I take some deep breaths, trying to center myself. I can do this. It’s just a red carpet. I’ve done hundreds of red carpets before, and I can do this one, too.
Then, before I know it, Grey is outside the car, holding out his hand to help me climb out too. I do, and we join the line of people waiting to walk the carpet. Our driver pulls away from the curb, disappearing into traffic to let another car unload in his place. Great, our ride is gone. We’re really stuck here now, with the only way out being through.
One foot in front of the other, Aspen , I tell myself, repeating the mantra my mom used to whisper to me during the red carpets of my childhood.
Another car pulls up where our car was just moments earlier. A tech ushers us forward, trying to give the new couple space, but my legs feel like lead. My throat tightens and my heart rate picks up, my racing thoughts only interrupted when Grey gives my hand a gentle squeeze. We join the short line of celebrities waiting to walk the carpet and before I know it, we’re next in line.
Just one foot in front of the other. That’s all I have to do.
“Next up is Grey Aldridge and Aspen Jordan,” one of the techs speaks into his radio, nodding us forward.
If I thought it was loud behind the divider that prevents paps from seeing guests before they walk, it’s nothing compared to beyond the barrier. The blinding flashes of cameras erupt like fireworks, illuminating the faces of fans who are straining against the barriers, their expressions a mix of adoration and desperation. The shouts of paparazzi ring out, overlapping and frantic, creating a disorienting symphony of demands and cheers that seem to envelop us.
“Let’s do this thing,” Grey whispers to me, pulling me forward.
Just one foot in front of the other. That’s all this is.
But my heart is racing and my hands are freezing, and I’m suddenly convinced that I’m going to trip and fall in front of everyone, despite never having tripped while walking a red carpet before.
Grey and I stop on the marks in front of the bulk of the paparazzi and his hand moves from holding mine to holding my waist.
“Aspen, this way,” someone yells.
“Look here, look here!”
Flash, flash, flash.
“Chin up, Aspen!”
“Over here!”
Click, click, click.
“Aspen, turn, let us see the hair!”
“Aspen, give us a real smile, show some teeth!”
“Grey, give her a kiss!”
Click, click, click.
Grey kisses my cheek gently.
“No, a real kiss!”
“Grey,” I whisper. “Grey, I can’t do this.”
“You can, we’re almost done,” he replies soothingly.
Flash, flash, flash.
“A real kiss! Act like you love each other!”
“Over here, Aspen! Look here!”
“No, I can’t,” I eek out, panic rising in me. I can’t get enough air and my entire body feels separated from me, like it’s outside of my control. “Please, Grey.”
He squeezes my waist reassuringly, before ushering me between him and the curtain behind us that reads “Young Hollywood International Film Festival” over and over.
“Enough pictures,” he says, holding out his jacket slightly to give me a little more privacy as he guides me down the carpet. “It’s hot as shit out here. I’m ready to get in the A/C and take this damn jacket off,” he adds gruffly for the paparazzi’s benefit as he steers us away from them.
We have to shuffle behind another couple making their way up the stairs in front of us, Grey confidently taking the lead the entire time. The doormen confusedly pull open the doors for us and finally I’m met with the cool air in the atrium of whatever building this is.
Grey continues pulling me forward until we reach a small room off the lobby. He shuts the door behind us and spins us around so he’s leaning against the door, making sure nobody else can get in. I vaguely register the scent of cleaning supplies.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m so sorry,” I reply, breathing rapidly. Panic has fully seized my lungs, crushing them until it feels like I can’t get enough air in.
“You’re fine, don’t worry. Shit, aren’t there any lights in here?”
My hand finds his arm groping around the wall. I gently tug on it, pulling it back to his side. “Leave them off,” I manage to get out.
Then I fully lean my body weight against him and bury my face in his chest. It’s either that, or sink to my knees and curl up on the floor because there’s absolutely no way I can keep supporting my weight right now.
“Hey,” he says lowly, wrapping his arms around me. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, tears beginning to fall. For a millisecond I register how mortifying this whole thing is, but I’m too panicked to be embarrassed right now.
Grey gently runs a hand up and down my back, just holding me. The warmth of his body envelops me like a cocoon and reminds me that I’m safe here, alone with Grey. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear, a comforting thrum that gradually drowns out the chaos of the outside world.
After a few seconds, the tingling in my extremities begins to ease, and I focus on controlling my breathing. I match it to the steady rise and fall of Grey’s chest, finding solace in the rhythm.
Deep breath in. Hold for two. Deep exhale. Repeat.
“You’re okay,” Grey repeats, his voice low and steady. He shifts slightly, moving one of his hands from my back to grasp my cold fingers. “Jesus, you’re freezing.”
He guides my hands to either side of his neck, encouraging warmth to seep into my skin, before returning to drawing slow, soothing circles on my back. The edges of my panic slowly begin to soften.
“I’m sorry, Grey,” I whisper, feeling absolutely exhausted.
“Don’t apologize. I’ll always be here for you. I’m your fake boyfriend, after all.”
I roll my eyes, then realize it’s probably too dark for him to see it. “Shut up.”
“There she is,” he says. “My spitfire girl is back.”
“I know I told you to keep the lights off earlier, but can you try to find them now? I want to check the damage to my makeup.”
“Aw, so we’re not going to get freaky?”
“Grey.”
The room is suddenly illuminated in light and I can see a slight apricot stain on his lapel from my foundation. I try to rub it off, but that only spreads the stain instead of getting rid of it.
“I think you’ve got bigger problems,” Grey says, eyebrows raised. He nods over my shoulder and I turn and see a small sink and hanging mirror tucked into the corner.
Shit. My mascara ran. How are my makeup artists still not using waterproof mascara? I mean, hello, I was literally in the mental hospital a few months ago. A few tears should practically be expected from me.
I turn the sink’s ancient handle and with a squeak, water sputters out of the faucet in an uneven stream. I wet my fingers and attempt to dab the black stains from my cheeks, which works well enough, except it takes some of my base layer off. So I have streaks of makeup-free areas on my cheeks.
I turn to face Grey. “How ridiculous do I look on a scale of one to ten?”
“A three.” He shrugs. “You got most of it off.”
“Should I just take all of the makeup off? Would that look less weird?”
“We can just leave,” he offers. “The press has their photos of us. We’re good to go.”
“I don’t want to make you leave.”
“Do you really think I give a shit about the Young Hollywood International Film Festival? You’d be doing me a favor by letting us leave. We can even pick up food on the way back,” he cajoles.
“But your driver left.”
“He’s around. I’ll message him now and he’ll be here within fifteen, I guarantee it.”
I turn back to stare at myself in the mirror. It doesn’t look great. And Grey’s jacket is stained.
“Come on, Jordan.”
“Fine. But I’m just taking all of this off. I look ridiculous,” I say, bending to wet my face in the dingy old sink. I squeeze out a pump from the orange soap bottle and begin lathering it on my face. Not the best skin care, but it’ll do. And surprisingly, it’s really effective. Mere seconds later, I’m bare-faced. Then I realize I don’t have a towel.
“Uh, Grey?” I sputter, holding my dripping face over the sink so I don’t get water on my dress.
“Mm-hmm?”
“Can I have your jacket?”
“Are you asking to dry your face on my jacket?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No. But you’re buying the food,” he replies, slipping the jacket off and passing it to me.
“This silk lining actually makes for a pretty luxurious face towel,” I joke. “Do you have any more of these?”
“I’ll trade you for some of your panties.”
“Eww, Grey, what the fuck?”
“Sorry, got carried away there. Unless…”
“No.”
“Ugh, you’re no fun.”
I toss the jacket at his chest. “Is the driver here?” I ask.
“He’ll meet us by the back door in two minutes. Ready to head?”
“Yep.”