Chapter 27 Emmy
Chapter 27
I might turn into an actual lovesick washcloth.
Emmy
WE WALK TO the end of the dock at Marina del Rey, and all I can think is wow .
Jason said the fundraiser was happening on a yacht, but the words scandalously huge don’t do it justice. It’s like calling Robin Williams “that kinda funny guy” or Oprah Winfrey “that talk show host from the ’80s.” When we step aboard, I look up, and, seriously, I can’t see any sky.
Jason’s eyebrows go up. “What do you think?”
“I thought it’d be bigger.”
He laughs as we make our way to the gangplank, but it’s Val who’s the real hero here. I finally understand what he means by “butter.” I’m in a slinky, low-cut, yellow Carolina Herrera dress kind of like Kate Hudson’s in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days , but knee-length and with a built-in bra. He straightened my hair, which now reaches halfway down my back. He also added a couple of really thin braids in there, hippie-style, which, believe it or not, pair really well with Jason’s fitted navy suit.
The boat has many, many decks, all brilliantly white. As we make our way around, I note the most important areas are the bow for when you want to be “outside,” the bar (actually there are two of them, a big one on the main deck and a smaller piano bar belowdecks), and the “disco” with a full DJ and video game floor so you can do a VR version of Just Dance or something like it.
Sean spots us and gathers us into a group hug. He’s wearing a ridiculous rainbow-colored crocheted sweater and yellow pseudo-sunglasses. I can already smell the whiskey on his breath. “Snack, if this party gets boring, I may ask you to take your shirt off.”
Jason doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”
I could get used to this so easily! “Don’t worry, Sean,” I say. “This party is not getting boring. Not if we can help it.”
He looks at me with desperate joy and leans forward open-mouthed like he’s about to plant a huge, sloppy kiss on me. I scream/laugh and dodge out of the way. The kiss winds up landing wet and scratchy on my cheek.
“It doesn’t mean anything!” Sean cries as Jason tugs me out of his reach.
“Get your own.”
We run into Ramirez, who’s talking to a very rich-looking lady holding a papillon. I reach out to pet it, and it growls at me.
“Bellatrix is not very friendly,” she apologizes as I retract my fingers.
We greet Amanda, Andrew and Renee, Kayla, and some of the crew. Jason hands me a tumbler of something orange. “Mimosas on the lido deck.” The glass is thick and expensive.
“Can we look at the things they’re auctioning?” I ask.
“But of course, madam.” He holds out his elbow all Hugh Jackman–like, and I take it.
As we climb the stairs to the next deck, the engines rumble in my teeth as the yacht prepares to leave dock. Up here, the tables and turquoise lounge cushions are covered with carefully laid-out items from the show, and people with an obvious overabundance of cash peruse them. There isn’t even the tiniest indication in their eyes that I don’t belong.
“This is the laser gun Sean used for the first three seasons.” Jason hands me a gray blaster.
I heft it. “It’s so light.”
“That was the problem. You could tell there was no weight to it, and Sean had to constantly compensate to make it look like it wasn’t a toy. Plus, it would always fly out of his hand. We named it after Thor’s hammer—Mjolnir.”
I set it back into its place. “Is that the original Orbit?” I snatch up the blue furry puppet. “Oh my gosh, it is! This is the one Ruby smuggled onto the ship in season two—the one that used mind control to make people take care of it before it got crossed with Mittens in a transporter accident.”
“The one that tried to kill everybody in their sleep—yes, that’s him. Although I never understood how crossing a hostile alien with a cat made it less nasty.” Jason slips the thing over his hand and changes his voice as he works the mouth. “Take me home, Emmy. Feed me. Love me.”
“Sorry, Old Orbit.” I shake my head. “My best friend hates puppets. Besides, New Orbit is better.”
“Yeah. He’s quite popular.” Jason gently replaces the puppet onto its spot. “If you put him in a celebrity crush poll, he’d probably win.”
We move on, and though we’re careful to keep everything looking professional, when Jason’s fingers brush the bare skin of my back, it sets off a chain reaction, and all I want to do is drag him into some closet full of smelly ropes and join the “mile-out-to-sea” club. At the very least, I wish I could press myself to him right now and kiss him. After the night we shared, it doesn’t seem fair that I can’t. It makes me feel kind of cheap, to be honest. What’s so wrong with us being together? I know the network wants him on his best behavior, but what we had wasn’t some tacky hookup. It was special. And beautiful. At least, for me it was.
Jason continues pointing out all the auctioned items and how they were used in the show. Zipping my feelings up, I write my bid down for a leather jacket he wore for two seasons before they changed his uniform. It’s a first for me—writing four figures down on an auction sheet. Heck, I’m a New York Times bestselling author, firmly hanging on to the number two slot! Why not? One day, those royalties will come rolling in. In the meantime, there are always credit cards.
Speaking of my spot on the list, the smoothie selfie I took this morning has been burning a hole in my gallery. It’s the opportunity I’ve been waiting for: my hair is sex-tousled, and Jason is shirtless in the background. Of course, there’s no proof our disheveled looks are related to nighttime escapades, and I’ve blurred the background with a vignette so you can’t even tell where we are. My hope is there’s enough innuendo in it to make Jill happy and boost the book, but not enough to hurt Jason’s image.
I haven’t shared it yet, and every time I think about it, I get a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach. I don’t know why. Nobody ever got canceled over a smoothie—that I know of.
I dart a glance at Jason, all dapper and smiley, chatting with a middle-aged couple about a futuristic-looking plastic box with clear tubes sticking out of it that I only sort of recognize. In midsentence, Jason catches my eye and winks, sending flutters from my stomach all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. Last night was even better than my fantasies. The things he said. The things he did. His rock-hard body mine to explore and discover. How slowly, delicately, he brought me teetering to the brink until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Then, together, we plunged.
Jason ends his conversation and grabs my hand for a quick, secret squeeze as we move farther down the line of items. If this keeps up, I might turn into an actual lovesick washcloth.
He waggles a penlike prop between his fingers. “This is the injector I supposedly used to stay alive before they discovered the cure for my mysterious space illness in season three.”
“Mm-hmm.” I try not to look too distracted. Right next to the smoothie-after photo in my gallery is the other selfie we took in the kitchen with his arms around me. That one would make Jill happy, too, but I don’t want to share it with anyone else. That one’s mine. It’s the one I’ll take to bed with me at night as I weep into my pillow because, oh yes, that’s coming. I may be soaring on cloud nine right now, but that just means one thing: there’s nowhere to go from here but down.
But I don’t want to think about that right now.
I sneak a hand under his suit jacket and run it over his back and around his waist. A gentle hand removes it with a playful-yet-warning eyebrow raise. It’s not a rejection, but it feels like one.
“Not here,” Jason whispers.
I force my frown into a weak smile. I shouldn’t feel hurt—he did warn me. But I do anyway.
The line of items up for auction comes to its end, and that’s when I see her . Exquisite in white with a silver shawl, her hair pulled away from her perfect face, her lips as red as the imaginary shirt I’m wearing, Margarita is here.
I turn to warn Jason, but a second later, she’s next to us, like a phantom.
“Hello, Emmy. I missed you at the house.” When I don’t answer, she clarifies. “I was there to pick up Mattie.”
She knew I was at the house? Of course she did. Margarita would have recognized that the videos were done on Jason’s patio. “Oh, ummm, I’ve been… out… with my stylist…”
“Mattie had a bit of a stuffy nose last night,” Jason interrupts. “You might want to keep an eye on it.”
The way her eyes move from me to him is smooth and void of emotion. Her face looks puffier than I remember but still gorgeous. Again, I can’t tell what she’s thinking. If this were a video game, I’d have to level up at least six times before I could fight Margarita.
“Relax, Jason. I was simply hoping Emmy would autograph this for me.” She holds up a copy of #CelebrityCrush and a pen. “I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
“Oh, thank you.” I take the book and the pen from her. Her eyes tell me nothing, but her barely there smile feels like a threat. Surely she knows about Jason’s fight and the arrest. She would recognize the scene! I open the book to the inside cover, trying not to fumble, and click the back of the pen. To Margarita , I write. Thank you for bringing Nora to life. I sign my name with too many humps on the m ’s and hand the book and pen back to her, almost dropping them.
“It’s very well done.” Margarita catches both deftly, totally in control of her hands and everything else. “Have you read it yet, Jason?”
And there it is. She’s about to out me.
I gulp down the rest of my mimosa. “Oh, look at that. My glass is empty, and I’m so thirsty! I’ll be right back.”
I duck out and swoop down a level to the main bar, my heart racing. If Margarita intends to complete my downfall, she’s going to want me there to witness it. I’ll just avoid her the rest of the party. I fly out tonight. My bags are in Jason’s car. I can tell him the truth later over the phone. Or… never.
Or maybe she’ll just tell him anyway, whether I’m there or not. Maybe she’s doing it right now!
Of course she’s doing it right now. She doesn’t need me there. She’s got the proof in her hands—I just autographed it.
My reckoning has come.
We’re chugging our way up the channel out to sea, the sky dulling from perfection blue to something edgier and secretive. “Another one of these.” I slide my glass across the varnished surface toward the bartender. I tap my nails until he serves me an overfilled replacement, which I slurp down to a reasonable level with a self-conscious look around.
I recognize some more familiar faces from Sean’s party, but mostly it’s just rich people who’ve paid huge sums of money to hang out with their favorite celebs. Amanda is caught up in a conversation with a tall, lanky man who can’t seem to stop talking. Ramirez has been cornered by yet another Golden Girl. Poor Kayla stands in the middle of a group of well-groomed young men looking like a deer surrounded by hungry wolves. Andrew, cool as a cucumber, entertains two couples with practiced poise while keeping one hand on the small of Renee’s back. A few days ago I would have been fangirling hard right now, but now I see the cast for what they are—regular people who just happen to have a job that makes people love them—Jason’s friends, maybe mine, too, if I can carve out a place here. Jason will surely hate me, but the rest of them may never know why.
I reach into the tiny Michael Kors purse Val picked up for me and dig out my phone. I snap a few pics of the crowd on the boat and post them to my Stories. Here I am at a swanky fundraiser with the Lost Star gang. It’s so fancy. It’s so fun. That’s the image I project to the world. I use all the right hashtags. I tag all the right accounts.
But Jill will tell me it’s not enough, and I know she’s right.
Side by side in my camera gallery, the pictures of Jason and me from this morning glow brightly in the dim evening light. I tap them and swipe through them for a better look. The story everyone wants to hear is written in our easy smiles, mussed hair, and the subtle yet unmistakable intimacy of the moment. These are the photos that will complete my fake Cinderella story. They are the ones that will go viral and launch me to the moon, because the real happily ever after is off the table now. It was never on the table in the first place.
My thumbs tremble over the screen. What am I waiting for, anyway? Nobody’s going to hand success to me. Rhett didn’t, and Jason won’t, either. It’s up to me to get my name on everyone’s lips so I can sell the next book, the next screenplay, and the next, and the next. Hollywood’s on the ground with my knee at its throat. I did that. All that’s left is to sink the dagger.
Why am I hesitating? Why won’t I just do it?
Elbows on the bar, I log in to my scheduler and draft a quick post with the first smoothie-after photo. A wave of nausea passes over me, like I’ve just been dosed with radiation. It’s the way I felt when Rhett told me I didn’t have any talent. And again when I read those comments on Jason’s profile calling me low-hanging fruit . Just minutes ago, his tiny rejection and Margarita’s thin smile brought on the same feeling. They’re stars, after all, and I’m the expendable, forgettable redshirt. I always will be as long as I’m unwilling to do what I have to.
Take off and nuke the site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.
I stare at my screen. Then, with a few swipes, the posts are launched across the digital universe. All at once. On all platforms.
The phone makes a solid thunk on the bar as I let it fall from my hands. It’s not like Jason and I had a future together anyway. And if we never had a future together, then what am I really sacrificing? The picture isn’t that bad anyway. It shouldn’t get him into too much trouble.
At least I hope not.
I take three slow, deep breaths and a big gulp of my drink. Whatever. It’s done, and I’m on the brink of all my dreams coming true. I feel like a Cylon, waking up with a blinking detonator in my hand. Except the Cylons didn’t know they were traitors. I chose it.
Just then, Jason barrels down the stairs. “Come on, let’s go get some air. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”