“Actual y, she co-wrote the musical portion of the parent night program with the music director, and she’s in charge of the kindergarten performance.” Roberta’s obviously proud of this accomplishment, but it’s out of my sphere.
Church musical programs are the lowest form of community theater imaginable. Directing a religious musical program for five-year-olds? Kil me first.
“Wow. That’s awesome.” (Seriously. Kil me first.)
“Hi, Reid.”
Ah, Gabriel e. Just the distraction I need. “Sitting with me today?” I say, smiling down at her. She must have forgiven me for that comment about wanting nothing to do with her.
Gabriel e tosses a look of defiance at Roberta before smiling and poking me in the chest. “Duh, that’s why I came over here.”
Roberta purses her lips, wracking her brain to come up with a reason why the two of us can’t fraternize at lunch.
When she comes up blank, I pretend not to notice.
*** *** ***
Dori
Three days with no Reid, and I am so not conquering that temptation. I’ve alternated between wondering if he caused any trouble in my absence and wondering if he was disappointed that I wasn’t there—if he noticed at al .
Tonight, in the privacy of my room, and in opposition to any good judgment I’ve ever thought I had, I google Reid Alexander. First up: the sil y photos of the two of us, with me sprawled atop him like a linebacker sacking a quarterback.
There’s rampant speculation online about who I am, and whether or not I’m something more than just an uncoordinated girl from his volunteer site (I grit my teeth
— volunteer, my eye). His fans are also debating what we’re doing in the photo, but we had more than enough eyewitnesses, so real y, the worst anyone could say is that I stupidly fel on him. Or, as Kayla and Aimee think, bril iantly fel on him.
The majority view is that I’m a plain, unattractive nobody
—stated more harshly in most cases. I shrug it off because on one hand I am a plain, unattractive nobody, and on the other hand, none of these people know me personal y. They al base their verdicts on the same thing: what I look like in relation to him. Their assessments are superficial and excessive. Pretty similar to their appraisals of him, actual y
—based on little more than circumstantial evidence. (In his case, circumstantial y appealing.) I ignore further editorials and fan comments and go straight for the images link, because image is what Reid Alexander is al about. His beautiful face. His lean, muscular body. The blatant sex appeal that wel s up from that inner confidence and projects itself to the camera. I click on a cache of photos from a year-old GQ spread. He graces the cover shot and several outtakes in a dark pinstripe suit which was, I’m sure, precisely tailored for him and insanely expensive. He wears nothing but jeans in several shots, low enough to show off his chiseled abs. His chest and arms are defined and flawless without aid of computer graphics, as I know from multiple close-range shirtless encounters.
I click the arrow and the next photo appears—a mesmerizing close-up. My stomach drops and I exhale a dazed, “Oh.” Wearing a black tank, he grasps a tree branch angled just overhead. In the other shots, his expression is expertly arrogant—identical to his standard, now familiar veneer. But this one is the opposite. Open. Affectionate.
Sensitive.
I snap my laptop closed.
Googling him was a very bad idea.
Chapter 16
REID
I’m supposed to start filming in less than two months. Since I locked up the lead role by convincing the production team and the director that I could beef up and do the stunts, I can’t just be in decent shape. I have to be in prime form. My personal trainer commences the torture sessions tomorrow morning, so tonight ends early.
Which sucks because I’m out with my friend Tadd, a costar from School Pride, and he’s going back home to Chicago tomorrow. We meet for dinner and end up at the bar in his hotel after.
“Seen anyone since May?” he asks once the waitress, who’s trying her damnedest to act like she doesn’t know who the two of us are, leaves our drinks.
“Partied with Quinton once, and ran into Jenna at an awards show last month. She’s looking pretty hot.” Tadd pauses, his dirty martini halfway to his lips. “Dude, Jenna’s like sixteen.”
“God, what the hel is it with everyone and the underage girl alert? I’m aware, okay?” I sigh, running a hand through my hair and reining in my temper. In light of the whole Gabriel e-Dori issue, I may be overreacting a bit.
“Chil , dude—I’m not accusing you of anything.” Tadd leans up, elbows on the table. “I know you’re smarter than that.” He smirks. “As much of an asstard as you are in other matters.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Emma, right?”
“I was referring to the fact that you wrecked your car and almost kil ed yourself… but yeah, man, you screwed up your love life, too.”
We’re silent for a minute, and I know he’s waiting for me to ask what he knows I’m going to ask. “Have you seen her?”
He leans back, gives me a once-over like he’s gauging how much I can take. “We got together a couple of weeks ago in New York. She’s starting NYU in a few weeks, but she moved there last month. She and Graham, uh, didn’t want to be apart al summer.”
I imagine the two of them together, waiting to feel wounded, but it’s not real y there. “So that whole thing is working out, I guess.”
“So far, yeah.” Tadd takes a sip of the martini, checking my reaction through the pale fringe of a hair hanging perpetual y over his right eye. “I met up with both of them, actual y. They seem comfortable—like, they fit, you know? I can shut up now.”