Chapter 5 #2
An hour and a half later, as I’m deciding whether the dark green strappy summer dress makes me look like a sexy librarian or a lichen, Asher texts: “Meet me at the pool in 15?” There’s no emoji, no hint of urgency, but I know from experience that this means he’s spiraling.
I throw on the dress, dig up a pair of old sunglasses, and ride the elevator down, every floor another layer of nerves peeled away.
Asher is already there, standing by the poolside bar, elbow on the counter, talking with the bartender with a seriousness that makes me think he’s asking about poison.
The pool is deserted except for the early-morning guests: an elderly woman doing slow backstrokes, a trio of tattooed tech bros drinking mimosas, and one lone man in a “Chuy’s” T-shirt who I definitely recognize from a viral TikTok but can’t place.
He sees me and waves me over, sliding me a glass of water before I even sit. “You made the best choice,” he says of the suit. “Everyone outside of LA is going to fall in love.”
I slouch, wishing I could wear a cloak of invisibility instead. “Did you sleep at all?”
“I tried, but my pillow sucks. I’ve grown used to this fancy cervical pillow I bought off TikTok a few weeks ago, and now I regret not packing it.”
“You know you’re adorable, right?” He tries to make me laugh, but he’s not hiding the nerves. His foot is jiggling under the table, and he keeps glancing behind me, as if expecting someone to materialize from the hedges.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “What’s wrong?”
He rubs a hand over his mouth, thinking about it. “I just want the night to go well. For you, I mean. If we can get through this without any drama, the press will lay off. The right people will see you for who you are. That’s what matters.”
“I thought this was about the movie, not me,” I say, confused.
He shakes his head. “It should be both. You should get something for your troubles.”
Then Asher says, “They’ll want us at the theater soon. The festival’s a zoo, apparently, but PR says we can’t be late.” He stands and holds out his arm, cartoon-gallant, and I accept. The sun is so bright I have to squint at the world, which helps keep the nerves at bay.
As we walk through the shaded breezeway toward the entrance, every person we pass tracks our progress. Some stare, but most just store us away, little snapshots to be traded later: “I saw them together by the pool—looked like the real deal.”
We’re intercepted at the curb by Frances, my publicist, who has that look on her face, the one she saves for when the event is three ring sizes too big for her finger.
She launches into a sprint-walk and hisses, “Red carpet in thirty, press is already there, and there’s a TikTok duo they’re calling the ‘alt-Emma and alt-Asher’ waiting for you on the steps.
Please don’t, like, push them into traffic.
Just smile and tell them you love their work. ”
“I do love their work,” Asher says. “They’re hilarious.”
Frances closes her eyes, “Great, but don’t say that on camera. We want you two to be the original, okay? Stay in the lane.”
She herds us into a waiting car, where the black-suited driver is blasting Lizzo and doing nothing to look unimpressed by our entrance.
I catch myself in the window reflection and cringe a little: the sunglasses are too much, the hair too long for the heat, but at least the strappy dress looks less lichen and more “retro future.” I risk a glance at Asher and, as always, he looks like he walked off a smart-casual runway. It’s not fair, and I tell him so.
“They do something to you at birth in Nebraska,” he deadpans. “We’re corn-fed, but the secret is in the cheekbones.”
I almost say, “I thought the secret was your weird, earnest obsessions,” but the words catch, sticky on my tongue.
The Stateside Theater is packed. The curb is a mirage of young influencers, film nerds, and an alarming number of unrelated bachelorettes, making the event into a pre-game. A giant cardboard cutout of Asher and me, mid-run, is propped at the entrance like a nightmare version of American Gothic.
We hit the photo line and immediately, the crowd surges forward, and I forget how to breathe.
It feels like an assault—flash, pose, flash, step forward, pivot, pose again.
A handler materializes nearby to show us the “cute” talking points which make me involuntarily roll my eyes.
I grab Asher’s hand and we do the routine: tell them about the stunts, laugh at the director’s on-set pranks, and talk about how surreal it is to be here.
But then, suddenly, Asher says, “I’m just grateful for Emma. She’s the most genuine, absurdly talented person I know. I wouldn’t have made it through this if she weren’t in my corner.”
The interviewer, a woman in a neon suit who only blinks once every thirty seconds, says, “You two are already the festival’s it couple. Are you ready for everyone to care about your relationship more than your work?”
I expect Asher to play coy, but he doesn’t. “Honestly? If they pay attention to Emma, that’s all I care about.”
I feel my face go warm, and for a second there’s no photo line, no crowd, no marketing plan—just me and him, in this weirdly honest feedback loop.
“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” I say. “They’re supposed to care about you.”
He shrugs, face unguarded. “You’re the story.”
The press line shifts and we’re pulled away, the moment dispersing like dry ice on a soundstage.
In the theater, we’re escorted to front row seats.
The house is so dark I can just make out the other actors, all of them playing their own parts in the festival’s endorphin economy: Ciaran, thigh crossed over knee, already deep in whispered conversation with a YouTube starlet; the director arguing in the aisle with someone wearing a festival badge and a sportscoat made of actual velvet.
The lights dim. The festival emcee, a man with a not-so-super-secret career in standup, launches into an overlong introduction that includes the phrase, “She’s the brightest sunbeam in the dystopian galaxy that is modern Hollywood.
” Then right before the house lights drop, Asher leans into my ear and says, low, “You got this.”
The movie comes at me in waves. In the dark, I forget to watch myself as a product, just see a girl who wants to break out, who’s always a little bit outpaced by the action, who’s never quite sure when she’s the joke or the punchline.
There are good scenes, some with genuine pathos, and a few so overwrought I want to slide out of my seat—but when the lights come up, the applause is both sharp and real.
Even the cynical crowd can’t fake this pitch of surprise.
Someone taps my shoulder. It’s Frances, eyes glassy. “You’re trending,” she stage-whispers. “There are five hundred new memes, and they already want you for the sequel.”
My first impulse is to scan for Asher, and he’s right there, grinning in a way I’ve never seen before, like maybe—for a minute—he doesn’t regret a single thing about this.
There’s a rush to the exit, and suddenly it’s all noise and color, the night outside warm and sticky with possibility. Asher and I are swept along, high on the shared vertigo, past the velvet ropes, into the street where the crowd parts for us.
It feels, for a second, like we’re the last two people on earth. He stops me under the sticky glow of a streetlamp and says, “You did perfectly.”
I don’t know whether he means the performance, the junket, or just getting through the day, but it doesn’t matter—I believe him.
And when he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, and I let him, for the first time, I don’t care that someone might be watching.