Chapter 14 Emmy
Chapter 14
Please God and Tom Hanks, just… no.
Emmy
THE LA TRAFFIC is a horror show, so I arrive late to the lot. I try to look like I know where I’m going as I navigate the fake street cafés and walkways between sets. I dodge a courier laden with bagel bags and give a wide berth to a gaggle of extras screaming and running from a guy holding a sign over his head that reads MONSTER .
Jason said it was Stage 10. I swivel my head in all directions, searching for numbers. The longer it takes me to find the studio, the greater the chance Jason will find out about the bar scene. I know Miles wants “complete creative control,” but nothing’s off the table as far as I’m concerned: begging, pleading… my next-born child. Hugging my hoodie close around me in the cool morning air, I flag down a nice golf cart driver who finally points me in the right direction.
I slip in the back door and blink in the dimness. At the front of the room, the crew is working on lighting and moving props around. The director’s chair and all the other chairs around it sit empty. They haven’t started filming yet. I’m not too late.
I think I spy Jason’s brown curls for a moment before they disappear behind a false wall. He phone-kissed me last night! Granted, he’d been drinking, but I don’t think it was the alcohol doing the kissing. I think it was more. But before I can celebrate, I’ve got to take care of this problem.
To the right is some seating with a decent view of the action. To the left is a folding table with a gorgeous spread of food. My stomach makes a long, low rumble, reminding me I was in such a rush this morning that I skipped the free breakfast at my hotel. I didn’t even pick up one of their addictive little cinnamon buns on the way out.
“Tourists aren’t allowed in here.” A tall, frowning woman with a headset surprises me.
“Oh, hi!” I say brightly. “I’m Emmy Ellison, the author of the book. Jason said I could come watch the filming today.”
“Yeah, okay.” Recognition flickers in her eyes. “You can sit over there.” She points to the lonely faction of chairs in the shadows.
“Any chance I could see Miles Gauthier for a minute?” I hold out my finger and thumb about half an inch apart to show her just how little time I need.
“I doubt it,” she says over her shoulder as she walks away.
So it’s not going to be easy. That’s okay. I just need an excuse to hang around the director’s chair so I can waylay him. I head for the buffet.
One of the things I love about California is the prevalence of avocado toast, and today doesn’t disappoint. As I stack two hard little green-smothered toasts onto a paper plate, I glance over my shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Miles. No such luck. I pop a piece of pineapple into my mouth and grab a Fiji water. As I loiter with my food, something catches my eye—a booklet of papers with its spine broken sprawled on a chair just a few feet in front of me. It’s a script! Nobody seems to care much about it at the moment, so I’m guessing it’s okay if I take a peek. I can see for myself whether or not there’s a reason to panic.
Balancing my plate in one hand, I lean forward and reach for it with the other. A second before I can grab it, one of the actors swipes it up. I stretch out my arms and force a yawn. “Whoa, that’s a good stretch! Boy, I’m stiff! I should go to the spa or something. Get a massage. Or do some… goat yoga.”
He doesn’t even look at me. I scan the room for more orphaned scripts lying around, but, alas, no success. I take another bite of my avocado toast instead and look for Miles. Jason is on set now, talking with one of the cast members. His face is drawn, and his body language is all weird and limp. In fact, he looks kind of upset. A part of me wants to be totally inappropriate, barge up there, and make sure he’s okay, but then I spot him ! Miles Gauthier. At the buffet table.
He’s perusing the danishes. Damn it, I should’ve waited to go for the food. Frickin’ story of my life. I shove the rest of the avocado toast into my mouth and push through the chairs to the table where Miles stands with his back to me. Even though I chew as fast as I can, my cheeks are bulging when he turns to me, and my mouth is too full to say a word.
I make a tight-lipped smile, sign eat with my hand, and give him the thumbs-up. So lame! I turn away and chew furiously, finally managing to gulp it down, but when I turn back, he’s already heading to his seat.
“Mr. Gauthier!” I croak, but it’s too late.
I’m planning on the best trajectory to tackle him, when he says, “We ready to run the bar scene?” Instantly, my blood turns to Waldorf Astoria pool water.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no.
The actors find their places, and I don’t take my eyes off the set as I slink across the room and sink into my chair. This is it. This is the dreaded scene. How did I not notice it earlier? The pool table. The beer mugs. The spaghetti straps and Daisy Dukes on the female actors. It’s the flashback scene where Gage beats up his girlfriend’s husband. It’s really too late. No wonder Jason looks so unhappy.
I can imagine how it all went down. Early this morning, he read the lines, preparing for work. It was probably confusing for him because he just told me the story last night. He probably thought, Is this déjà vu or something? And then he probably realized, Oh my God, she knew all along. She let me tell her this story, this horribly painful story, and all this time it was already in her book.
A sour taste overwhelms my palate. I want to hug myself, but I don’t deserve it, so instead I grasp the chair seat and force myself to watch as someone pinches last-minute pomade into Jason’s hair. He looks sexy as all get-out in a white tee, jeans, and cowboy boots. My body still remembers the feel of his arms around it. My heart remembers the intimacy of last night’s conversation. Tears jump into my eyes. Whatever this could have become, it’s all over now. I’m pretty sure he’s never going to speak to me again.
What kind of a person does what I did? I guess back when I wrote that scene, I wasn’t thinking of him. I was just thinking of myself.
I wipe a hand across my eyes. He doesn’t deserve this. They’re still prepping, so I might as well use the time. I said I would help Jason with his social media presence. I’m pretty sure that deal’s off, but at least I can defend him.
I pull out my phone and navigate to his breakup video. There are nasty comments and plenty of them. Some are awful toward him, and some are awful toward Margarita or me. People can be real trolls. I log in to one of my fake accounts and respond to as many of them as I can. I defend him. And I defend her, too. Their business is nobody else’s. It’s not even mine, and I’m his friend.
At least I almost was.
Then, as a comment on the video itself, I type:
Are you seriously going to suggest there’s a GOOD way to break up with someone? The last time I broke up with someone it was at his sister’s wedding. I caught the bouquet. He was happy about it. I wasn’t. There’s #NoGoodWay. Leave them both alone. #HowNotToBreakUp
“All right, let’s run it,” Miles says.
I force myself to watch, my heart breaking as Jason sets up his pool shot and a beautiful brunette cheers him on. The crack of the cue ball against a stripe rings through the room. The door bursts open, just like in his story. I wait for whoever is playing the unfortunate husband to enter—the guy Jason is going to have to fake punch as he’s forced to reenact the moment he’s most ashamed of.
My stomach clenches as I drop my face into my hands. I can’t watch. I just can’t. Then Jason’s voice rings out. “Nora!”
Wait. That’s not right.
I look up. It’s Margarita standing in the doorway. She crosses the set and says, “I knew I’d find you here.”
This isn’t right at all! I sit up straight, my heart ping-ponging through all the different sectors of my body. There’s more dialogue I don’t catch. Then suddenly, Duran Duran’s “Rio” is blasting over speakers. Jason does a total Grease move, riding a chair to the floor, and everyone sidles into place for a huge dance number. Suddenly, people are everywhere—on top of the pool table, perched on bar stools, swinging and being swung, tossing and being tossed.
Oh. My. God. Miles turned my book into a musical… to Duran Duran! It’s genius. It’s insanity. It’s a thing of beauty.
My open mouth is wide enough to catch a murder hornet. My brain is exploding into tiny, happy bits of confetti as each song clip melts into the next and the bar set transforms into Footloose meets TikTok meets all my wildest Simon Le Bon dreams. They run the dance like twenty times, no kidding, while my shock slowly wears off. By the time Miles calls, “That’s a wrap!” I’ve pretty much got it memorized myself.
“We’ll take a break.” Miles’s voice carries across the room.
I check my phone. It’s almost one o’clock. When I look up, Jason has disappeared again. Is he not going to talk to me at all? Although, a couple of hours ago, I was convinced he’d never talk to me again.
The buffet is being rejuvenated with sandwiches and fruit by a pair of caterers in purple polos. I’m just making a move to check out the facelift it received when the scent of jasmine and vanilla overwhelms me. I turn, and startle to find Margarita standing there in Nora’s white shorts and yellow halter top. I check to see if she’s come to talk to someone behind me.
“You must be Emmy,” she says.
“H-hi.” I run my suddenly sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. Frickity frack, she’s even more beautiful in person. Half a foot taller than me. Straight, shiny black hair with the ends lopped off just at her pointy shoulders. Body with curves in all the right places. I feel like one of those orange-hued 1970s photos next to a high-res digital image. “It’s so great to meet you, Margarita.”
“Jason has told me a lot about you.”
Even though she’s technically my competition, I start fangirling. Hard. “You were amazing out there. Thank you for bringing this book to life. It’s a dream come true for me. The dance scene was… There are no words!”
Her eyes flick up and down me, like she’s an android and I’m a crate that has mysteriously appeared in the airlock. “Are you enjoying yourself in LA?”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
“I’m sure Jason is helping you feel welcome.”
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. “He is.” Surely that can’t get me in too much trouble. “I was just headed to the buffet. Do you want to come with me?”
Margarita’s lips press together in a grimace, either like that was a terrible idea or like the whole idea of eating is abhorrent. She doesn’t even bother answering me. “If you get bored here later, I think they’re filming the Little House on the Prairie remake just across the way. It was nice to meet you.”
She walks back to the set, her hips rocking sensually even though nobody but me is watching her go. It takes me a minute to decipher her insult. The Little House on the Prairie reference is her way of calling me small potatoes. It stings, although I can’t blame her for being in a bad mood. She did just get dumped.
Still, despite everything, I really want Margarita to like me.
I’ve lost my appetite for the buffet, and even during the break, Jason doesn’t come looking for me. Finally, he appears on set again, and I watch him interacting with Margarita. Miles says something about shooting a few close-up scenes in the bar, easing into his chair with his refilled coffee tumbler. The crew pushes a large camera up to the pool table.
Even though they supposedly broke up last night, Margarita reaches up to pick lint off the collar of Jason’s T-shirt as he’s talking to one of the crew. When he notices it’s her, he peels her hand off but doesn’t let go right away. Instead, he holds it for a second before letting it fall.
This is all too weird and uncomfortable and confusing. I should just go.
I start to get up just as Miles calls for action, and about three seconds in, all the weird uncomfortableness and confusion gets ratcheted up to twenty when I realize what scene this is. It’s a kissing scene. And not just any kissing scene. It’s the scene where Gage and Nora finally get to unleash all the burgeoning sexual tension that’s been building between them. It’s not in the same place I wrote it, but I’d recognize it anywhere.
Oh no. Please God and Tom Hanks, just… no .
My face and neck grow hot as Margarita hops up on the pool table, long legs dangling. She tears Jason’s shirt off and throws it to the floor like it’s on fire and about to kill him. He does the same to hers. I sink into my chair, trying to disappear into the collar of my hoodie as their mouths lock in a deep, hungry, shirtless kiss that seems to go on forever. Then he lays her down on the pool table and climbs up, pinning her with his body. As he devours her in delicious, slow-motion kisses, one hand reaching for his belt buckle, I’m caught in the awkward and excruciating place of being totally turned on while at the same time roiling with jealousy. When Jason’s pants hit the floor, I audibly whimper.
Holy freaking mother of pearl. I should have gone for low heat. Young adult. Sweet Valley High . Amish romance, even.
“Cut!” Miles calls out.
Thank God and Tom Hanks that’s over. But then they do the whole thing again, and it’s worse for me the second time because I know what’s coming. Little House on the Prairie is sounding better and better.
“Jason,” Miles says, “on this next take, grab her breast when you go in for that kiss.”
I shoot out of my chair, tripping over my own feet on my way to the exit. I shove the back door open into the bright outside, blinking my vision into focus just in time to see a tour tram barreling my way. I dive clear and try to remember how to get back to the parking lot, zigzagging this way and that through the false streets, my head swimming.
I don’t know why I’m so upset. Jason’s just doing his job. It’s not like he’s with Margarita. It’s not like he’s with me , either!
Plus, he was with her for real until yesterday. The only thing that’s changed in twenty-four hours is me getting stupid ideas in my head. Ideas that he might really want me. That I might have a chance against the likes of Margarita.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but if I let them fall, I’ll never be able to respect myself again. Where the hell is the exit to this maze of lies? My foot strikes the Spanish tile at the edge of a fountain and down I go, just like a dystopian government at the end of a YA film. Right before my palms meet concrete, two strong arms catch me. For a split second I dare to dream, but Jason doesn’t wear Chanel. I crane my neck.
“Val?” I squeak.
He’s got more blue eye shadow on than all my mother’s ’80s photos combined. His tight, shiny, long-sleeved shirt makes him look like he’s about to meet the other cyclists at the starting line for the Tour de France.
I wince at his fingers digging into my armpits as he sets me on my feet again. “How did you know I was here?” I ask. “Do you have a tracker on me?”
He steers me in the opposite direction from where I was heading. “Precious, you shared your calendar with me, remember? And I see you’re attending a cast party tonight, which is not something we’re prepared for, so I am taking you shopping.”
My voice comes out kind of whiny. “Are you taking me to Rodeo Drive?”
Val stares straight ahead. “I will take you to Paris if I have to.”
A warm feeling spreads through my chest, and my shoulders straighten. We march out of the set area into the street, faces forward and purposeful, two people who know where they’re going and what they’re doing.
“Do I remind you of Laura Ingalls?” I ask him.
He scoffs. “Laura Ingalls wishes.”