Not in the Script (40 page)

Her line of vision rises to meet mine.

I have to push through this. “Thanks for not hating me for dating Jake,” I finally get out. “But I can't talk to you about him, for obvious, awkward reasons. And he's only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how guilty I feel about having so much of what you want—what you deserve.” She's really taking this in, so I keep going. “
Stars in Their Eyes
will have its best season yet with you on it. But realistically, it will be a while until, you know …”

“I have anywhere near the fame you do,” she says.

I nod, crying myself now, and reply, “You need some space to find your own happiness. And that will only happen if you're not comparing
your
life to
mine
.”

Rachel swings her carry-on bag over her shoulder. “Well, I guess if you can't talk to me about your super-hot boyfriend, or
your fancy job,
or
your big Hollywood parties, then you're just a boring friend anyway.”

She hugs me, and we both laugh through our tears. It isn't a perfect ending, but it feels right. “I'm curious about one thing, though,” Rachel says. “What does Jake think about all these fake publicity stunts between you and Brett? I mean, I get it that it's helping the show, but—”

“They aren't publicity stunts,” I reply. “We've never meant to stir up any speculation about romance—the opposite actually. The media just keeps blowing things out of proportion.”

Rachel's bag falls off her shoulder. “Then what was up with that kiss last night?”

Somewhat in a daze, I ask, “What kiss?”

“You know. With Brett. And the cookies.”

Cookies?
My entire body explodes into tiny pieces. “In the atrium?” I choke out. “You …
saw
that kiss?”

If she saw it, Jake could've seen it.
Anyone
could've seen it!

“Oh. My. Gosh,” Rachel says. “You're gonna flip. You're gonna—”

“What, Rachel? Tell me. Please!”

“I couldn't sleep,” she says, “so I watched your DVR recording of the premiere coverage on StarTV. And they showed it—you and Brett kissing.”

“Wait, they …
what
?” I grip my hair by the roots. “How?
Who
?”

“It was a video, Emma, not just photos. I'd figured stuff out about you and Jake by then, so it sort of threw me off. But then I thought you must've been faking it with Brett, and—”

“But I didn't kiss him back! Wasn't that obvious?” I tear my blankets off the sofa and find my cell. Jake still hasn't returned any of my calls or texts from last night.

“Nooo,” Rachel says. “It looked like you were totally into it.”

“Holy CRAP!” I redial Jake's number—his phone still goes straight to voice mail—and race into the kitchen for my bag. “How's that even possible? Did someone tweak the footage?”

Rachel follows. “Jake doesn't know Brett kissed you? Oh, wow. This is bad.”

I hug her again. “Go to L.A., have a great time, and let's e-mail in a few weeks.”

“There's just one more thing,” Rachel says when I step away. “I'm the one who told
Celebrity Seeker
about your longtime crush on Brett. They saw my Twitter feed and direct messaged me, asking for a fresh story no one else had. And they paid me
five hundred
bucks for it, Emma. You
know
how bad I needed that money. So please ask your mom to stop blaming my mom. She's really upset about it.”

I stare at Rachel, my eyes burning. “Oh … kay. Thanks for telling me.”

My flip-flops are by my front door, so I step into them and run outside, grabbing one of Rachel's suitcases along the way. I leave the suitcase on the curb where the taxi driver takes care of it—but not before he gives me a funny look that says,
Pajamas, flip-flops, and a Gucci handbag?

I get my first speeding ticket ever driving from Sabino Canyon to the other side of the city, and my second on the freeway between Tucson and Phoenix. Both cops say it's great to meet me, but neither one gives me a break.
Hello?
Can't they see that I'm already having a bad day? I look like I was dragged out of bed by zombies.

So much for preferential treatment of celebrities.

I call Jake over and over, also trying his mom's house, but no
one picks up. I leave a ton of messages on his cell—at first, just brief ones saying to call me. Then I finally spill everything, explaining to Jake how I'd ended up with Brett in the atrium, what happened, and that I hadn't told him about it yet because Rachel was staying with me. And that's why I had asked Jake if I could meet him in Phoenix, to tell him the whole story. But nothing. Not a single word from him.

Not one reason to stop panicking.

I had turned off my phone during our double date yesterday, and my voice mail was full when I turned it back on after my fight with Rachel. Timing wise, it wouldn't make sense for any of the messages to be from Jake, but I check anyway. It turns out that several are from my mom, one is from my publicist, and a bunch more are from friends congratulating me on the premiere. The last message is from McGregor. He says, “Ah, lassie, I think we need to talk.”

I only listen to the first few seconds of each of my mom's calls, which pretty much start the same way. “Where are you? Can you
please
explain this?”

The message from my publicist begins with the usual: “Do you wish to comment on …” This is where she always fills in the blank with my latest adventure in stupidity.

The thought of Jake already seeing
the kiss
burns like acid trapped under my skin. I should've watched the premiere coverage before I left, at least to have an idea of how to explain why, according to Rachel, it looked like I'd actually kissed Brett back.

It's ten thirty by the time I reach Phoenix. Mrs. Elliott should be awake by now and picking up her phone. Is something wrong with
her
? Why haven't I thought of that sooner?

Jake used my phone to call Devin a few days ago, so I scroll through my call history and find his number. “Devin, this is Emma,” I say when he answers. “I can't find Jake.”

He doesn't reply for several seconds. “Well, I know he isn't in Phoenix. And I doubt he wants to be found. I was with him when he saw that kiss.”

I pull to the side of the road, instantly sobbing and unable to drive. “But I didn't kiss Brett back,” I say. “I promise I didn't. It was all him.”

Devin groans. “Look, I shouldn't get in the middle of this, but if you want my opinion, it seemed pretty mutual to me too. So unless you sent a body double into that atrium, Jake's probably had enough of this crap between you and Brett.”

“I get that, but—” I can't finish. Devin is right, I've run out of plausible excuses. “Just … please, tell Jake to call me. Or to at least listen to my messages.”

We say good-bye, then I send Jake yet another text, and I head back to Tucson … to wait.

My cell rings during the long drive home, and I answer in a hurry. It's only my mom, calling to act disgusted with me. Dad isn't happy either, since it was just two days ago that I told them I like Jake, not Brett. I explain everything that happened in the atrium, but Mom just says, “Good grief, Emma. This is dating, not brain surgery. It shouldn't be so difficult.”

“Do you really think this is
normal
dating?” I reply. “Most girls only have to defend their actions to their parents, but that's just the beginning for me. I'm expected to explain my every mistake to a publicist, a producer, and millions of strangers who somehow find out if a guy even calls me! And heaven forbid that I'm caught
holding a boy's hand—everyone jumps to the conclusion that I'm already planning my wedding. Does that sound
normal
to you?”

My mom hesitates. “Emma, I realize you're overwhelmed by the pressure of living in a fishbowl—or in this case, a glass atrium—but that's why I'm always reminding you to be more responsible with your choices. You have a career to consider.”

I let this sink in before I reply, so my words will sound as serious as they are. “I'm sorry, Mom, but I have to fire you. You never seem to know when I need a mother, not a manager.”

I spend the rest of that Saturday making hourly trips to see if Jake has returned to his condo. I check almost as often on Sunday. By Monday—which I luckily have off from work—I don't go anywhere at all. It's over. I know it is.

My town house is a mess of empty water bottles, dirty cereal bowls, and tissues. I'd finally found some that Rachel missed, and I used up half the box going over the video of Brett kissing me in the atrium. I've seen it several times now, but it only took once for me to realize that the footage had been slowed down, making a three-second kiss look like a five-hour marathon. And all that stupid talk about me dropping my plate of cookies—as if Brett had stolen my strength with some kind of mesmerizing kiss—what a joke!

The StarTV cameraman must've been hiding in the hedges outside the atrium. That's the only explanation for why the video didn't capture me escaping Brett's hold—we dropped out of view when my plate fell. StarTV would have had a much better story if they'd known the truth about my freak-out. But truth is hard to come by and guesswork is painless, so why bother?

The more time that passes, the angrier I get that Jake has so little faith in me. But if he were to show up at my door, I would probably still throw myself all over him—which is why I jump out of my skin when someone finally
does
break the silence in my living room with a loud knock. I part my blinds and squint into the sunlight, certain I'm seeing a mirage. “No freaking way!”

I spin around and start stuffing my mess under the sofa. The knock comes again, followed by, “Sweetheart, we can see you running around in there.”

It's no use. I can't shower, vacuum,
and
wash my pile of dishes before my family crashes through the door. So I finally open it.

“Surprise!” Levi says, squeezing me to death. Seven-year-olds have lobster claws for arms. Logan joins in on the screaming and squeezing. And now they're jumping in circles around me. I'm so stunned I can't speak.

My dad works his way in behind my brothers, his arms full of grocery bags. “That's enough, boys. Remember what we told you.”

“Oh yeah,” Logan says. His chestnut hair is sun-bleached from playing outside all summer, and his brown eyes have their usual mischievous gleam. Levi looks just like him, but with a few more freckles. “You're sad, so we have to
be-haaave
. That sucks!”

“Logan! Watch your mouth,” Mom says. Her arms are full of grocery bags too, and she shuts the door with her backside. “Hello, Emma. We … your dad and I … well, here we are.”

A baseball-size lump grows in my throat; my mom doesn't have a full sermon prepared? “Yeah, thanks. For coming. But … why?” I ask, and my parents both shrug at the same time, which is so weird. I look back to my brothers. “How did your tournament go?”

“We won!” Logan says, so I give them both high fives.

“Just the first game,” Levi adds. “We lost all the rest.” He throws open the doors of my entertainment center. “Why don't you have an Xbox?”

I shock myself by laughing. “Since when do you get to play video games?”

“Since Dad bought us a whole bunch!” Logan says as he leaps onto my sofa, shoes and all. He avoids my mom when she drops her grocery bags and runs over to stop him from jumping. Then he spins off the sofa and crashes on the floor. “He even plays with us sometimes.”

“Only the fishing game,” Dad says, snagging Logan before my mom can.

Mom grumbles something as she scoops up the groceries and heads into the kitchen.

“I don't have time for camping anymore,” Dad goes on. “So this is the best I can do for the boys.”

It's a lame excuse, but I guess virtual bonding is better than no bonding at all.

My dry lips crack when I smile. “In that case, I have something even better than video games. There's a river out my back door that's so shallow and slow right now, you can catch fish with your bare hands.”

“No one is
fishing
for their food today,” Mom calls from the kitchen, soliciting a chorus of groans from my brothers. “I'm making a nice family dinner.”

“Jake must be an outdoorsman,” Dad says in a hushed voice, guessing right. Obviously, I hadn't thought of the primitive fishing skill myself. Jake had talked me into trying it when we had a rare
day off together. No one even seemed to notice us playing around in the river.

I wrap my arms around my waist, attempting to squeeze away the memory.

“Dad!” Levi says. “Mom told us we couldn't talk about boys, remember?”

I find it funny that they set ground rules before they came. “Jake is actually an Eagle Scout,” I inform my dad, because he is too. “So, yeah, sorry I finally found a decent guy, then scared him off.”

Dad looks like I've punched him in the gut.

He takes the rest of the groceries into the kitchen. The twins run in there too, where Mom is now blocking them from the back door. Dad tells me about their day of flying out, chasing the boys around baggage claim, and shopping at a nearby grocery store.

Meanwhile, Mom warns the boys about the dangers of rivers—shallow or not.

“Don't worry, Mom,” I say. “In Tucson, you're safer in the water than anywhere else. On land you'll find rattlesnakes, scorpions, tarantulas, Gila monsters, coyotes, mountain lions, and bears. Even an occasional jaguar.” I learned all this at the local zoo, where I will
never
visit again. “And, oh yeah, javelina.”

“What's a hav-a-lee-na?” Logan and Levi both ask, their eyes round as quarters.