Chapter 16
Sebastian
MyEmma:
I won’t be available tonight. I’m not on call. DO NOT CALL ME FOR ANYTHING. Matt can take care of all your remote-control needs. I have a date.
Me:
Been hitting the grocery store again? ;)
MyEmma:
No. But I might hit you when I see you next.
It’s not working. I only have a few days to convince Emma to stay. And now it’s Saturday, and she has a date?
Worse? The date is with Simon fucking Reeves. I’m going to kill Olivia and Chase for setting this up. The man never misses. Every woman wants him. All these years, and Emma’s always sworn that she would never be with someone in the industry.
She hasn’t been acting like herself. She quits her job. She gets smashed. And now, she’s going out with a movie star.
I try to distract myself, but I’ve been pacing around my house all night, messaging Chase, asking for updates.
And he keeps sending me annoying emojis back.
So far, he’s sent multiple heart emojis. The peach. And just now, the eggplant. He thinks he’s hilarious. Dick.
My fingers are itching to call Emma. But I fear I’ll destroy any chance that she’ll keep working for me if I go back on my promise to respect her boundaries.
But I can’t stop worrying. I’ve hung out with Simon enough to know his playboy ways haven’t changed.
He’s still a love-’em-and-leave-’em type.
Emma may think she’s equipped to handle a situationship with a celebrity, but what if she’s wrong?
And what if she’s photographed with him?
The tabloids have just died down about the image of me carrying her out of that club.
They will go wild if she’s also seen with Simon.
The paparazzi could even now be at her doorstep if he comes back to her apartment.
She wouldn’t invite him back there, would she?
I’ve never even been to her place.
I hate the idea of the paparazzi finding out where she lives. It makes her vulnerable.
Maybe I should go there. Just to make sure it’s safe and quiet.
She only asked me not to call her. She didn’t say anything about not going to her apartment. I know. It’s a technicality. But I grasp onto it like a lifeline. I won’t actually interrupt. I’ll just see if everything’s okay.
Is that too stalker-ish?
It’s not like I’m going to wait outside her place all night like a weirdo. I’ll just drive by on my way to… somewhere.
It takes digging, but I eventually find her address. I slip behind the wheel of my second-favorite car. My usual vehicle of choice, my grandfather’s Jag, is on its second round of detailing following Emma’s drunken night.
Even though she lives a long commute from Malibu, traffic is lighter than usual at this hour.
I pull into the parking lot, and relief flows through me that there don’t seem to be any paparazzi idling and waiting. I’m even more relieved to see that none of the cars looks like they belong to Simon Reeves.
Okay, it’s clear, I tell myself. Now it’s time to go because I understand that what I’m doing is not quite sane. Ever since Emma quit, I’ve been behaving out of character.
Before I reverse out of the lot, I look up at the apartment building, wondering which one is hers.
And that’s when I really look at it. And the surroundings.
It’s dark, so it’s hard to make out the details clearly. Shadows take up much of the parking lot. A loud bang reverberates, and two men walk past my car, laughing and carrying brown bags from the liquor store on the corner.
I look around with more discerning eyes. I’m used to most places being shabbier than the spaces I inhabit. The average person with the average job doesn’t live in a mansion or a penthouse.
But this is different.
Emma’s supposed apartment is a building inspector’s nightmare.
The wooden structure and peeling paint seem as if they would come crumbling down in a slight wind.
There are narrow and precarious-looking balconies fronting each apartment.
Some have laundry lines with clothes hanging, others have plants in varying stages of life, and a few have furniture squeezed onto the small space.
Could any of those units be Em’s?
I pull out my phone and double-check the address.
Then I double-check my GPS. They both say this is the right place.
But this can’t be her building. I can’t imagine why she’d live here.
I’m sure Emma can afford something nice with the amount I pay her.
She’s paid above any other assistant in LA.
And I give her a generous raise every year.
A child cries in the distance. And what could be a drug dealer stands on the corner of the street, looking shifty.
I was planning on leaving, but I can’t now. I have to get to the bottom of this. There’s got to be some kind of mistake.
A sense of deep unease fills my stomach as I make my way up the cement steps to the fourth floor because the elevator is out of order.
I walk down a dark hall with stained wallpaper and an old carpet that smells like mold, hearing the sounds of life from behind the door of each apartment I pass. Arguments, laughter, music, television.
And then I’m at her number—412.
I knock, sure that someone else will answer.
The door swings open. It’s Emma.
I’m off-kilter, winded, and not because of the flights of stairs I just climbed.
This moment feels heavy. Important.
Emma stands before me. Her big blue eyes are wide with shock. She’s in a sleek black dress that skims her curves to perfection, an outfit she put on for Simon Reeves, I think darkly. Her hair is up in a familiar chignon. Her makeup is perfect. She looks… elegant. Put together. Expensive.
The opposite of her surroundings.
“W-what are you doing here, Sebastian?”
“Can I come in?” I ask, not wanting to talk in this dingy hallway.
Her face shutters, and her soft, parted mouth firms. There’s something bleak in her eyes. Something like resignation.
Silently, she moves aside, and without a word…
I step into her world.
“Why are you here?” she repeats.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I live here,” she says flatly.
“Why?” I ask, looking around.
Unlike the outside of her place, inside, everything is orderly, with a precision I expect from Emma.
This at least feels like her. The living room is cramped but tastefully decorated, and the paint on the walls looks fresh.
The couch is a deep indigo, soft and inviting, with throw pillows in various shades of cream.
There’s a small desk, chair, and bookshelf in a little alcove between the living room and kitchen.
A small wooden café table is in the corner next to a window, just barely fitting two clear plastic chairs.
Photos I recognize of Paris and London, Berlin and Cannes, and other cities we’ve visited together decorate the walls.
There are framed pictures of both her and Sadie at various ages, along with her dad and another woman I don’t recognize.
I want to take a step toward the pictures and peer closer, soak in my impression of Emma as a child, analyze the ways she’s changed.
I want to smile at the framed inspirational quotes she loves that are intermixed with the photos.
Those quotes are so intrinsically Emma that it makes my heart squeeze.
But I can’t. I’m frozen in place because though she’s made the apartment as comfortable as possible, the fixtures and appliances are ancient and obviously in need of being replaced.
I look up at the ceiling and notice multiple areas of crumbling paint and stains where there are leaks.
The laminate cabinets are peeling. The tile in the kitchen is old and worn.
The apartment has wooden floors at least, but they’re warped.
Worse, though, is the door with only a flimsy bolt securing Emma from the outside world.
“Seriously, Em, why the hell do you live here?” I ask, upset.
“Because I can afford it. LA is expensive,” she snaps, her chin rising. “I need coffee. Do you want a cup?”
I nod.
She operates a fancy-looking machine efficiently.
I smile a little at that. Leave it to Emma not to skimp on her coffee, even in a place like this.
She sees me eyeing it and snorts. “Secondhand. I’m good at getting deals.”
“But why do you need deals? I’m confused here, Em.”
“You’re confused because you’ve been privileged and entitled your entire life.”
“But don’t I pay you enough?” I’m embarrassed to hear my voice break on the word ‘enough.’
“You do.” Her face remains closed as she puts coffee grinds into the machine and presses a button.
“Then why?”
She sighs and finally looks at me. “You’re being dramatic. This apartment isn’t that bad. And college is expensive.”
“But you graduated years ago.” I remember her studying for final exams when we were on location for one of the Wanderers movies. “Are you still paying off your debts?”
Her laugh is ironic. “Sebastian, most people take more than a few years to pay off school debts. They can take decades.”
“Okay. But even with a student loan…” I’m more uncertain now. Did her university cost that much?
She rolls her eyes. “You won’t let this go, will you?
Fine. Sadie worked really hard to make it into one of the best universities in the country.
And my father, as much as I love him, has never been financially stable.
His counseling work with refugees is important, but the pay isn’t much.
I didn’t want Sadie to take on any debt, and I couldn’t afford to pay for her tuition and expenses as well as my bills, not while I lived in a nice place.
Now you know. Are you happy that you’ve pried into my personal business? ”
She hands me a black coffee and shoots me a glare as she readies the machine for the next. Red infuses her chest, and I notice her hand shakes a little while she puts several large spoonfuls of sugar in her cup.