Me: Is that a jab at my sometimes limited attention span? Cuz i promise i’m proud of you and can sit still for the WHOLE THING.
Graham: Haha, ok sure. That would be cool.
I am not content to wait a week and a half to pop up in New York… With Emma safely stuck on an LA publicity tour with Reid, it’s the perfect time to pay a friendly impromptu visit to Graham’s home turf. The romantic comedy I’m filming there in the fall calls for a short-term apartment, I think. One that could become long-term. My stated purpose for being in town will be meetings with producers—entirely feasible, so it won’t be questioned.
If I’m going to be with Graham, I’ll have to win over his mother, his condescending sisters and his kid. I’ve only seen Cara once, and it was a couple of years ago so there’s no way she remembers me. That trip also included a disastrous, drunken kissing incident that (luckily) Graham decided to play off as though it never happened.
Life’s a Beach was filming an episode where several characters go to New York. (LA beach characters in New York—what the hell, right? But hey, it was ratings week, and I do what I’m paid to do.) I’d somehow contrived to stay with Graham while I was in New York, so when I got word of a party in a Union Square penthouse apartment owned by the friend of one of my costars, I invited him along.
We’d been dancing and got hot and ended up on the rooftop, stargazing. Or he was. I was gazing at him. I was accustomed to guys like Reid, who take advantage of opportunities like girls drinking themselves stupid, or pretending to, in order to land some hot guy. I should have known Graham wouldn’t respond to that.
Not that he was unresponsive. When I moved into his arms and kissed him, for a few mind-blowing seconds, he kissed me back. I thought I was going to melt, it was so good. And then he grabbed my shoulders and held me away, saying, “Brooke, no.” I was just wasted enough that I didn’t realize what he was doing, at first… and once I figured it out, I was just sober enough to be humiliated. And pissed.
God, I was pissed. I stormed back inside, shaking and furious, and grabbed the first decent looking guy I encountered. Backing him against a wall with the thump of the music pounding through the sheetrock and into us both, I closed my eyes and pretended he was who I wanted. I don’t remember much about that part, just that I couldn’t fool myself, no matter how hard I tried. Moments later, Graham separated me from the guy, who nearly slid to the floor because I hadn’t really allowed him to breathe. “Let’s go,” he said, his hand gripping my arm.
I yanked loose, crossed my arms and glared. “I’m not finished with this party.”
“Yeah, you are,” he said, leaning in so I could hear him. “You’re completely trashed, and you’re going to do something you’ll regret if we don’t leave now.” His proximity was killing me.
“I already did,” I mumbled, my eyes filling. I blinked back the tears and pinched my own forearms, determined to stay enraged.
“What?”
I snapped my arms straight, fists at my side. I felt hard, but brittle, like I was made of concrete. One solid whack and I’d crumble into dust. “I said I already did. You’re going to hate me now, and I’ve ruined our friendship.” My voice broke again and I realized I was more angry at myself than I was at him. “I just want someone to care about. Why is that so wrong?”
He closed his eyes. “It’s not wrong.” When he put his arm around me and led me to the door, I didn’t fight him. We walked a couple of blocks before I pulled to a stop and whined that my feet hurt and I was tired, and he hailed a taxi to take us back to his parents’ house.
It was late, and the house was quiet. He stopped outside the guest room door, his voice hushed. “Brooke, you haven’t ruined anything.” He sighed. “Can we just forget this happened? You mean a lot to me. You’re one of the few friends I have who even know about Cara. You had a lot to drink. It was a silly mistake. And I could never hate you.”
For a moment, before I call my travel agent and make reservations for a Tuesday flight, I mull over that sentence: I could never hate you. What it meant to me at the time. What it means to me now. And I almost chicken out.
But I’m right for him. I know it. I just need the chance to prove it.
Chapter 17
REID
No matter how many times we’ve woken up hungover, or how many times we’ve mumbled I will never do that again to ourselves and each other, John and I tend to slam back drinks until we can’t see straight the next time we go out. The exception is when we get high instead.
We didn’t even bother with a hangover Saturday morning—we just went straight into the next binge, making Sunday’s hangover a real bastard. It’s late afternoon before either of us can move, and somewhere in the back of my mind is the nagging philosophical question of the moment—was it fun if I don’t remember it?
There’s some chick passed out on John’s couch, and neither of us remember who was responsible for bringing her back to his apartment, or what was done with her once she was here. For all I know, we all fell asleep. Her makeup is smeared to hell and she’s lying on her stomach with her skirt and top weirdly twisted, lots of skin exposed, and all four limbs extended as though she was tossed there.
“She’s kind of tall. Probably yours,” I say, due to John’s known weakness for models.
“She’s kind of blonde. Probably yours,” he returns. He prods her hip with his foot. “Hey. Wake up.” She releases an annoyed grunt but otherwise doesn’t react.