Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Katie
Had I said that the premiere wasn’t a big deal? That it wouldn’t be news? This premiere, apparently, was news.
I didn’t notice at first. While we were being driven to the theater in our hired car, I was distracted by staring at my maybe-fake boyfriend, who looked so good it made my eyes hurt. He was stretched out in the seat next to me, looking back at me.
I hadn’t seen Travis after I left Portland until twenty minutes ago, when my car had picked him up from the gates of Andy Rockweller’s house. I’d left a scruffy musician in Portland, but now he was clean shaven, his hair freshly cut and styled. And the suit—the suit looked like it had been made for him. Black, molded to his long legs and his lean hips and shoulders, the lapels dark blue satin that gave off a classy sheen. Contrasting the darkness was the shirt underneath—brilliant turquoise blue, a shade that matched his eyes. I had seen this man in rock star leather jackets, in sweatpants, in nothing at all. I had never seen him like this.
“You said you didn’t have any good clothes,” I said, as starstruck as if I was a groupie meeting him backstage at a concert.
Travis shrugged, his gaze never leaving me. “I called in a favor with a stylist I know.”
“And he found this suit for you?”
“She did, yes.” When he saw my expression, he laughed softly. “Relax, Katie. She’s Andy’s ex-wife.”
“Elena Petrova?” I gasped.
“You know her?”
“I know who she is. Of course I do. She was a big deal a few decades ago, and no one talks about her anymore, but I remember. You’re saying Elena Petrova came out of retirement to dress you?”
“It was a favor,” Travis said again. His gaze moved down my dress, then back up, taking its time lingering over my cleavage, then to my face. “You look beautiful,” he said.
He said that often, and he’d already said it when he first got in the car, but I felt a blush all over again. I really did like this dress. It was dark red and cut low enough in the front to be daring. I’d added red lipstick, which I never wore. “Gwen found the dress,” I said.
“She has good taste.” He picked up my hand and squeezed it in his, making me feel warm all over. Then he said, “What’s the plan for tonight?”
“Plan?” I asked.
“Do you want me to do anything specific? I feel like a kiss would be a bit much at an event like this. We don’t want to overdo it.”
My pulse clanged in my ears. The script. He was talking about the script. We were official now, ever since his Instagram post, and we were supposed to act like it. “I don’t have any specific plans,” I managed to say. “You’re right that, er, kissing would be too much. But we’ll need to look affectionate.”
“I can do that,” Travis said.
“There will be red carpet interviews,” I went on. “They might ask how we met.”
“The Lakers game.” He nodded. “Got it.”
Right. We’d met at the Lakers game, not in Andy’s kitchen, where I’d propositioned him with our deal. Where he’d read the script I’d written and printed out for him. That script had said premiere or awards show optional .
He was still holding my hand in his. I hadn’t seen him in four days. He’d kissed me at the airport with his hands cradling my face, slow and romantic. Pictures of it had made Instagram. Did he think that was all I wanted from him? To have a date to a premiere and make Instagram?
He was staying at Andy’s while he was in L.A. We hadn’t discussed him staying with me in my apartment. He hadn’t come because I hadn’t invited him. I opened my mouth to ask if he’d pack his bag tonight and stay with me instead, but then I heard the noise.
I turned to the window. We were pulling up in front of the theater. “What is that sound?” I asked.
Travis leaned past me to look out the window, and he smiled. “Fans.”
They were already cheering as our car pulled up, as if they knew who was in it. When Travis opened his door and stood, it became a roar. I sat stunned as Travis circled to my door, opened it, and took my hand to help me out. I nearly choked when I saw what was happening.
At a normal premiere, we’d get maybe a dozen autograph seekers. This was L.A., where a premiere of a third-rate Netflix movie was hardly an event. The people here saw celebrities more famous than me at Trader Joe’s every day.
The scene tonight was chaos. There were hundreds of fans lining the street, jostling along the red carpet security line, bumping into photographers and industry executives. Some of them held up signs. TRAVIS WE LOVE YOU. MARRY ME TRAVIS. And one waved by a teenaged girl, the sign spangled with glitter and hearts: TRAVIS+KATIE.
The sight of Travis drove them wild. They waved and screamed, making the unprepared and underpaid theater security guards wave them back from the car. The photographers given this boring assignment had turned away from the red carpet, and all of them were shooting Travis and me instead. They looked surprised and excited. The security guards looked worried. Our driver looked confused, because the crowd had moved in front of our car, and now he couldn’t drive away to park.
But Travis…Travis bloomed. His posture straightened and his expression lit up at the crowd, the noise, the chaos. Holding my hand in his, he turned to me, his blue eyes sparkling. “Go with it,” he said.
I didn’t have the chance to ask what he meant. He tugged me toward the crowd and raised a hand in a wave, greeting them all. They responded, chanting and screaming his name.
This wasn’t a premiere, this was a rock concert. I’d expected a dull industry event like dozens I’d been to before, but instead I was tugged into a crowd of adoring fans—right into the crowd. Because instead of standing politely back and waving at the people who had come to see him, Travis stepped past a security guard, unhooked the rope barrier from its post, and walked into the thick of the people, still holding my hand.
I didn’t have time to panic, and I didn’t need to. People greeted us, cheered, took photos and selfies. People put pens in our hands and asked us to sign things. I signed a woman’s white T-shirt and a young man’s arm. Fans hugged Travis, hooked their arms around his shoulders and took selfies with him. He tugged me toward him, put his arm around my waist, and people took pictures of both of us. Travis waved over the girl with the TRAVIS+KATIE sign, and we both autographed it for her.
We made our way through the thick of the crowd to the far edge, where a security guard was gesturing us toward the red carpet. “Okay, we gotta go,” I heard Travis say to the fans. “We have to do this premiere. Thank you! I love you!” Another wild cheer went up. I gripped his hand and found myself on the red carpet as the security guard waved the crowd back behind us.
People were staring at us. Photographers were still taking pictures and videos. Travis ignored it all and turned to me. “You all right?” he asked.
I nodded. I was flustered, but that had been fun. I could see why people got addicted to the rock star life. “Do I look okay?” I asked. Travis’s collar was askew, so I reached up and adjusted it back to perfection.
“You’re gorgeous,” Travis said, brushing a hand down the back of my dress and aligning the seam. He tucked back a loose lock of my hair and grinned at me. “Let’s do this.”
“People are mad,” I whispered, leaning in. “We’ve messed up the order of things.”
“They’ll get over it,” he said. “Your turn. You lead, I’ll follow.”
I led him down the red carpet. Travis was a pro—he knew exactly where to stand, what to do. He stood by my shoulder, letting me have the spotlight but never getting too far away. His hand always rested lightly on my lower back, my middle back, or in mine. He answered questions without hogging attention. He had done a million publicity events, and it showed. He hit every mark, followed every cue. He was nothing like the man who had spent months next to Andy Rockweller’s pool, too lost and depressed to put clothes on.
I relied on my own years of practice as the red-carpet questions came fast and furious.
“Katie, has Travis seen this movie? Has he seen any of your movies?”
“How did you two meet?”
“Is Travis going to do a cameo in one of your films?”
“That was quite a reception you two got. How does it feel to date a rock star?”
“Will you go on his next tour with him?”
When we got inside the theater, it got weirder, because those were the Hollywood people. Men I had never met before introduced themselves to me—every executive, writer, and producer who had come tonight. The Love Fix-Up ’s director, who had been so checked out that he called me Cathy at least three times during filming, was suddenly my best friend, pumping my hand in a shake and telling me how happy he was to see me. A terrifying woman who was a high-level Netflix executive kissed me on both cheeks and said we “should have a meeting.” I didn’t know what that meant. No one at Netflix had ever asked me for a meeting.
My co-star, Jason, swept in to pose for photos with me with a grin, his veneers glowing. He, too, was suddenly nicer to me than he’d ever been while we were shooting. “Katie,” someone called as we posed, “will Travis have a problem watching you two kissing in the movie?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
From the sidelines, Travis called out, “I’m a very confident guy.” Everyone laughed.
It was perfect. Travis was perfect, and so was I. It was exactly what I’d planned with this fake relationship.
I held his hand as we took our seats in the theater and the lights went down. I didn’t know how hard I was squeezing it until Travis leaned over in the dark and whispered in my ear, “Is everything all right? Did I do something wrong?”
I loosened my grip on his hand and shook my head. “No,” I whispered back. “You’re amazing.”
“I’m not actually going to enjoy watching you kissing that guy,” he said, and I smiled. The panic in my chest loosened. Why was I panicking? I couldn’t think of a reason.
I was going to tell Travis that Jason wasn’t nearly as good a kisser as he was—no one came close—but before I could speak, Travis leaned over and whispered again. “Do you want to ditch the afterparty? I know an amazing late-night teppanyaki bar.”
I felt the tension flow out of my shoulders. I could breathe again. I didn’t want to be on display anymore, following the script. I just wanted him.
“Yeah,” I whispered back, squeezing his hand. “I do.”