Chapter 7
Now
Forget the Oscars—if there was an award for worst night of sleep, I’d be blubbering through an acceptance speech right now.
But even without a gold statue to broadcast my tragic achievement, my face would announce it for me.
The bags under my eyes are so heavy, they could be classified as oversized luggage.
Makeup artists are miracle workers, but the glam team Samira booked to beautify me for today’s press conference certainly has their work cut out for them.
I’m at least more prepared for what’s coming than I was last night.
After a frazzled call to Joanne and an hour spent poring over the itinerary provided by the studio, I’m now up to speed on what I’ve signed up for during my week in Seafolly.
And while I’m still feeling a sense of existential dread, I feel slightly more comfortable knowing what I’m walking into.
Today’s press conference is being held at a large amphitheater on a college campus in downtown Charleston, and Ryder was correct—what I’d thought was going to be a low-key roundtable interview and photo call is now a public-facing event packed with both media and fans.
The intense buzz around this reunion means the images and sound bites from this press conference will be splashed across social media faster than you can say #HoldMe, so I need to bring my A game.
Once the makeup artist has worked her magic, the hairstylist has done her best to humidity-proof my coif, and I’m poured into the dress my stylist handpicked for this event—a pretty floral number with a fluttery skirt and built-in corset that lifts my cleavage to new heights—I survey myself in the mirror.
Not bad. My hair’s teased and glossy, my skin is glowing, my nails are lacquered to a high shine.
I look polished and poised, not at all like I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
To calm my nerves, I close my eyes and take the kind of deep, cleansing breath my yoga instructor would be proud of.
I wish Kendall were here. Every girl knows the best part of going out is the primping session beforehand, when you blast music, sip champagne, and gossip about guys—and I get to do that about once a week with my sister.
Now’s typically the time she’d start spouting silly one-liners designed to loosen me up before hitting the red carpet.
Things like: “You look hotter than a jalapeno’s armpit,” or “Hey girl, are you a beaver? ’Cause damn!
” I try to channel her voice now, but all that pops into my head is, “Keep your legs closed getting out of the car—no flashing the paps!” Womp, womp.
I spend the car ride into Charleston spiraling.
It’s particularly vexing that despite ripping the Band-Aid off last night, I’m no less jittery at the thought of seeing Ryder again today.
How is it possible that he still has this hold over me all these years later?
He’s like an addiction I can’t break. Despite quitting cold turkey, the dependence never left me, just laid dormant in my veins until it could roar to life again and take me down.
Sometimes I think he’s permanently altered my brain chemistry.
After Ryder and I imploded, I vowed I’d never date another actor again, a mandate I’ve stuck to despite it severely limiting my options.
Unless I was willing to join the celeb-friendly dating app so many of my peers swear by (I’d rather use a gas station bathroom barefoot), I was basically marooning myself on a dating desert island.
In a normal world, meeting a man who’s kind, smart, halfway handsome, and normal (read: not a serial killer) is hard.
Meeting a man who’s unaffiliated with the entertainment industry when I spend the majority of my time on film sets?
Even harder. But finding all that plus someone who can handle the baggage that comes with dating a global celebrity and isn’t emasculated by his girlfriend outearning him by a factor of a hundred? Damn near impossible.
I lost count of the men who claimed they could handle the attention I got, then grew irritated or resentful anytime I was recognized in public or asked for a selfie during a night out.
I got tired of the eye rolls, the bitterness, the passive-aggressive comments that felt more like veiled insults.
Tip-toeing around fragile male egos became an exhausting exercise in futility, the financial imbalance proving too difficult to navigate for even the most confident and successful of men.
Eventually I threw in the towel, praying God would one day take pity on me and place a decent man in my path.
Enter Elliott.
A financier with clients both in and outside Hollywood, he understood the industry lifestyle without being dazzled by it.
He wasn’t much of a film buff and had seen few, if any, of my movies, heading off the inevitable disappointment of my real personality not living up to my glitzy on-screen persona.
He favored sporting events over movie premieres.
He didn’t mind fading into the background on red carpets, and if anything, seemed to prefer it.
He was smart, dependable, and even-tempered, an ideal balance for an emotional creative like myself.
And what our relationship may have lacked in passion and intensity, it made up for in stability and calm.
My family thought he was perfect for me and weren’t subtle about their desire to see the two of us settle down.
And two years in, I still broke up with him. Maybe I’m the one who’s broken.
“I’ve been instructed to drive you around to the back entrance, where someone will be waiting to take you in,” my driver speaks up, jarring me from my ruminations. I thank him, then shove all lingering thoughts of Elliott in a drawer and lock it up tight.
Traffic slows as we near the amphitheater, a crush of cars, crowds, and cameras clogging the sidewalk in front of the auditorium.
My driver flashes some credentials at one of the security guards directing traffic, and he waves us through a makeshift barricade and along a winding road that dead-ends in a small parking lot behind the building.
Several people wearing lanyards and holding clipboards mill about outside. Our handlers.
As we roll to a stop, one of them, a dark-haired woman with a spunky, slicked-back ponytail, approaches the car just as I’m stepping out. Quickly introducing herself as Susannah, a member of the studio’s publicity team, she whisks me inside the building, then starts speaking in a rapid-fire rush.
“I’ve been in contact with your assistant so you should have everything you need, but if there’s anything I missed just let me know and I’ll handle it for you.
I want to show you the setup, so you’ll be prepared and I can answer any questions for you before you have to walk out.
You’ll be seated in a semicircle on stage,” she chatters as she leads me down a dim linoleum hallway that’s abuzz with activity.
People file past us in a steady stream, some of them doing double takes when they see me, others sneaking surreptitious glances they think I can’t see.
As is my standard practice, I make sure to give each of them a wide, warm smile. Gotta protect that Q Score.
“You’ll be placed in the center, with Ryder and Jason on either side of you, and Nate and the other cast members filling out the rest of the circle,” Susannah continues, and for the first time since I learned about this reunion, I feel some of my anxiety dissipate at the thought of seeing my old friends.
“The moderator will lead the discussion, then a question-and-answer portion with the media and fans will follow. They’ve all been instructed not to ask cast members any personal questions, but we can’t guarantee they won’t try it,” she says with an apologetic grimace.
“Don’t worry, I can handle it,” I reassure her.
If there’s one thing the last ten years has taught me, it’s how to deflect questions about Ryder and me.
Of course, I’ve never had to do it while he’s sitting two feet away, but I once filmed while floating in a freezing-cold water tank for forty-eight hours straight, so how much worse could this be, really?
The long hallway empties into the backstage green room, and the first person I see is Jase, chatting in a small group.
We lock eyes at the same time, and it’s like everything inside me unclenches and I can breathe again.
I practically break the sound barrier rushing over and launching myself into his waiting arms.
“Hey, fancy girl,” he says into my hair, squeezing me tight.
It’s hard to describe how special Jason is to me.
My friendship with him is one of the longest-running relationships in my life, and one I hold most dear.
We’re forever professionally intertwined, of course, but it’s how he’s shown up for me personally that’s earned him my lifelong devotion.
Over the course of the past ten years, he’s been an anchor, a buoy, a port in the storm, a safe harbor—basically, every maritime metaphor you can think of.
He’s my platonic soulmate, the DiCaprio to my Winslet.
He’s one of only two people in the world who understands what life was like before and after everything changed, and the other I haven’t spoken to in a decade. Until last night, anyway.
I stay too long in the hug, not ready to let him go. I’m so relieved to have him here, and with so much emotion and nostalgia already winding through me, I feel my eyes start to well up.
“Hey, no crying,” he warns, his voice a deep rumble. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”
I let out a watery laugh as I step back, doing my best to blink back the tears. “I’m just glad to see you.”
“This worked up already, huh? Not good, Everhart,” he teases, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.