Chapter 8
EMMA
The first thing the sake does is chase away my social terror. The second is to give my tongue a mind of its own.
By the time we stagger from the ramen joint, the ridiculousness of everything—Austin, the junket, the forced courtship—has unspooled into something blurry and effervescent, like a soda can shaken and cracked open in the Texas sunset.
I don’t remember what joke makes me snort ramen out of my nose, just that it happens and that Asher nearly falls off his seat in glee.
It’s a good kind of humiliation: the sort that grants me permission to be fully, spectacularly human.
In the hallway of the bar, he wipes my cheek with a cocktail napkin and laughs so deeply his sunglasses fog.
I think about his hands, how big and careful they are, and whether he’s ever touched someone gently on camera.
Our prey for the evening is a party at the W’s roof.
It’s not on the schedule, not even on my manager’s secret spreadsheet: the kind of party that never needs to be found, because it finds you.
Asher claims he knows a guy who knows a guy (he always says this, like he’s in a mob movie), but as we approach, a gaggle of girls in metallic jumpsuits spy him and let loose a chorus of “Ashhhhher!” They form an impenetrable wall of sequins and Instagram handles.
He accepts it, performing his persona with a glib smile, slipping into the rhythm of a man who’s done this a thousand times.
I love seeing it up close—the way he lets everyone believe they’re getting the real him while keeping the most genuine parts tucked behind this annoying persona.
Whenever I catch him glancing my way, there’s something private in it that heats my face hotter than the Texas air.
Bodies pack the elevator to the roof, and my dress clings to my thighs like wet tissue paper.
Asher crowds behind me, his chest a furnace against my back.
His lips brush my ear as he whispers, “If we get stuck in here, just know the reporter goes first.” A laugh bubbles up my throat before I can stop it.
I jab my elbow into his ribs, but stay pressed against him anyway.
When the doors slide open, electronic beats assault us, along with the tang of citrus and perspiration.
The rooftop is all glass, marble, and LED mood lighting.
The crowd is beautiful and blinding; everyone here is the protagonist of something, and every gaze is a camera lens.
I dodge the first three photographers on instinct, but by then Asher has his hand on my waist, guiding me through the swarm as if he’s shielding me from crossfire. I wish it were just for show. It isn’t.
We’re intercepted before the bar by a pair of cowboys in bespoke hats, who introduce themselves as “Gatlin” and “Parker” like it’s a package deal.
They look twenty-five but wear boots with the confidence of men who’ve seen cattle rustled and caught.
Asher apparently knows them from a shoot last year, and within seconds, the four of us are slinging tequila shots across a quartz counter.
The second shot burns so good my ears ring.
I’m not a drinker, but tonight I want to feel everything.
Parker, the one with the crooked smile and a turquoise bolo, turns to me and says, “You a Texas girl?” I say, “I’m from New York,” and he lets out a whoop like I’ve admitted to being part alien.
“No shit! You ever go honky-tonkin’?” Gatlin asks me.
“Once, at a wrap party in Burbank,” I admit. “I broke my heel and nearly my tailbone.”
“Then you’ve never really done it,” Parker says, grinning. “We gotta fix you up proper.”
There’s a current in this crowd, a cumulative daring that builds with each shot glass and each chorus of “cheers.” Someone snaps a photo of Asher and me at the bar, and before I see it, I know it’s going to look like old lovers on their tenth anniversary: my chin on his shoulder, his hand locked around mine.
We’re good at this, he and I. Too good. Sometimes I wonder if I’m falling for the man himself or just his ability to make me feel like a better version of myself.
I want to ask, so severely, what he thinks of me after hours, when there’s no PR handler within twenty feet.
A line-dance forms near the balcony, fueled by a local band—yes, a live band, at what’s nominally a film party, which I respect immensely—and suddenly Parker and Gatlin are dragging me along, promising to “make an honest Texan outta you.” Asher watches from the sideline, leaning against a steel post, jaw tense in a way that makes me itch to run my tongue along it.
I’m terrible at line-dancing, but also, spectacularly, not the worst. The cowboys teach me a simple step—heel, toe, stomp, spin—while a crowd of wanna-be starlets records me on their iPhones, probably shopping for memes.
My legs wobble, and I nearly wipe out on the stomp, but Parker catches my elbow and steadies me with a “You got it, Rowan!” The music’s so loud I can’t tell if my heart is racing from movement or from the way Asher never takes his eyes off me. Not once.
After three songs, I break free, sweating, cheeks molten, and stagger back to our claimed patch of bar.
Asher’s already got a ginger beer waiting for me, the polite kind of drink a boyfriend orders for his girlfriend who can’t keep up with the tequila.
The term feels sticky in my brain—girlfriend—like a daydream I dare not say out loud.
He rubs the condensation from the bottle and hands it to me, then says, softer than the music, “You look good when you’re flustered.”
I want to say thanks, but what comes out is, “This is the weirdest night of my life.”
He nods. “And you’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met.”
There’s nothing ironic about how he says it. I swallow the ginger beer, cold and sharp, and the idea that he finds my weirdness desirable makes me lightheaded in a whole new way.
The following two hours, time shreds. There are flashes of conversation, and a parade of minor celebrities who want their selfie with Asher. I'm impressed the way he turns every single interaction into a bit, a performance, until I’m genuinely unsure where the script ends and the improv begins.
We stand shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the pool, watching the city flash blue and gold beneath us.
Sometimes our arms brush, just enough to send a tingle down my side.
I listen for what doesn’t get said—the pauses, the way he ignores texts even when his phone hums with the persistence of a dying hornet.
At some point, Parker returns with a tray of fried pickles and a dare to join him and Gatlin in a two-step. This time, Asher comes too, his hand outstretched and a challenge in his eyes: “You ready, partner?”
I take his hand.
The two-step is nothing like I remember—it’s slower, more intimate, a gentle rocking rhythm that almost feels like cheating.
The band plays a lonesome cover of “Stand by Me,” and Asher guides me through the pattern with nearly embarrassing tenderness, one hand on my lower back, the other cradling my right hand as if protecting it from injury.
He spins me once—ridiculous, we’re both a little drunk—and when we land, our faces are unreasonably close.
I can smell the sweet burn of whiskey on his breath, see the flecks of gold in his irises.
The whole world’s a blur, but he’s in focus, every detail rendered in high definition.
“Never said you could dance,” I mumble, grinning because I don’t know how else to hold onto the moment.
He leans in, resting his forehead against mine, voice barely audible over the music. “There’s a lot I haven’t told you yet.”
The song fades, and people roar, and we stumble off the impromptu dance floor laughing so hard I nearly trip over his shoes. He steadies me, hands lingering at my waist much longer than necessary.
The party doesn’t wind down. There are even rumors of an after-party at someone’s Airbnb in South Congress, and a cluster of us—Parker, Gatlin, a trio of girls in matching feathered earrings, and a tech guy everyone calls “Egg”—pile into a convoy of Lyfts.
Inside the car, crammed thigh-to-thigh, Asher tucks my hair behind my ear with a care that makes my throat tight.
I rest my hand on his knee, just to see if he’ll flinch.
He doesn’t; he covers mine with his and squeezes once.
At the party, the house is packed with more Austinites, mostly soft-drunken and friendly, everyone in denim or pajamas. There’s a pool out back, and a hot tub, and already people are shedding clothes. Parker shouts, “Last one in’s a New Yorker!” and cannonballs in cowboy boots.
Asher and I stake out a corner by the fire pit, away from the blast of the stereo. He wraps his arm around my shoulders, casual but not casual, and pulls me in close. “You’re freezing,” he says, which is a lie. I’m burning.
He looks at me like he’s trying to read a script that’s been redacted. “What do you want out of this?” he asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.
I want everything, and I want nothing to change.
I want to keep this feeling, the feeling I haven’t had since I was seventeen, when nothing was set in stone, and every brave choice was still possible.
I say, “I dunno, but it’s not... this. The press, the show.
I just...” I’m so tired and so honest. “I just want to pretend a little longer, but only if it’s you. ”
He closes his eyes. “Nobody pretends better than me,” he says, but then he kisses me, fast and soft, the kind of kiss that tells me he’d rather be awful at pretending than good at anything else.
We make out a little, on a patio chair, while the rest of the party sets off bottle rockets into the inky dark. It’s chaste, kind of—no tongue, just a lot of heat and more clumsy nose bumps than I’d ever admit. Whenever we break apart, he buries his face in my hair like he’s starved for oxygen.
After a while, the party dials down to embers.
The air is thick with smoke and the mosquito whine of a late night.
Inside, people are falling asleep on couches, their SXSW badges drooping from lanyards, stained with ramen and lime.
I motion to leave, but Asher shakes his head and says, “Come with me.” He leads me up a flight of stairs to the roof terrace: private, nearly dark, the whole city unspooling in silent neon.
He sits down hard, back against the wall, and tugs me gently into his lap.
I go, not because I’m drunk or because people are watching, but because it’s the first thing tonight that feels true.
We sit like that, my knees curled under, cocooned in his arms like two kids at a sleepover. He hums old country tunes, off-key but heartfelt. I feel him harden under my thigh and giggle despite myself; he flushes, but doesn’t shift away.
“You’re one hell of an actor, Asher Dixon,” I whisper, nipping his ear. “You ever break character?”
He turns me to face him, dead serious in the dark. “I did,” he says. “After our first date.”
I kiss him then, all the way, tasting the salt from his neck, the bitterness from his jawline. When I pull back, he’s staring at me like he’s trying to memorize every syllable of my face. “What?” I say, shy now.
He shakes his head. “Just never want to forget this.” The confession spills out between us, raw and pulsing.
I can’t answer. Not with words. So I slide down and kiss him again, this time not holding anything back.
His hand finds the small of my back and pulls me closer, flush, until there is nothing but him.
The city lights below, the drunken insects, the muted holler of partygoers—gone, as if the world has been staged just for this single beat of two hearts drumming out the same wild measure.
He breaks away first, rests his chin atop my head, and strokes my shoulder in slow, absent circles. For a wonder, we don’t say anything. Maybe the sake and tequila have burnt out all the pretense, or perhaps the space is just too fragile to fill. I drift, weightless for the first time in years.
After a while, the chill creeps up, and Asher laughs against my hair.
“You’re shaking,” he says, though he should know by now that I’m always cold, always just a little braced against whatever the next scene brings.
Still, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around me, smoothing the collar with exaggerated care.
I want to freeze the moment—not a literal freeze, but a capture, an encapsulation of this rare warmth and safety.
How it feels to be in the arms of someone who maybe isn’t pretending, or at least, not with me.
The script says I’d never admit this, but my lips are numb, and my guard’s been hijacked by tiredness and joy.
“You know what’s weird?” I murmur, half to myself, half to his shoulder.
He murmurs back, “I can guess.”
“I never thought I’d like this. Any of it. The scene, the people, the—” I circle a lazy finger on his chest. “—the circus. But with you, it’s just, I dunno.”
“Bearable?”
“Real,” I say, and his chest shakes with laughter.
“That’s a first,” he says. “Guess there’s a first for everything.”
There’s an urgency now, humming under my skin.
I’m not sure if it’s the city or the night or just the knowledge that tomorrow the whole world will snap back into place, but I want to be reckless.
For once, I like what everyone else has: the story, the memory, the chance to do something stupid just because it feels good.
So I cup his jaw, run my thumb along the stubble there, and say, “Let’s get out of here.”
He looks at me, both eyebrows raised. “You mean—”
“Yeah. I mean, like, the roof. The party. All of it. Let’s go find something that isn’t on any ‘must-see-in-Austin’ list.”
He laughs, slow and delighted. “I thought you’d never ask.”