“Of course.”
We pull into traffic and I’m glad for the heavily tinted windows. The last thing either of us needs right now is more public scrutiny. “You looked miserable at that prom. Anyone talk to you at all?”
Shrugging, she says, “The waiters were nice.” I laugh and she gives me a grim smile in return, her head angled. “How did you know? I mean, practically everyone fell for the story that I’m so conceited that I wouldn’t lower myself to speak to regular people.”
I make a disgusted sound. “Please. You’re one of the least conceited people I know. Your best friend is a non-celeb girl—that’s evidence enough that you’re not above mingling with commoners.”
She smirks and I smirk back.
“Let me guess—you told him you’re moving across the country to go to school, so you can’t imagine a relationship between you going anywhere—something like that—and he got pissed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted you to give him a leg up in the industry and he saw his chance at that falling away.”
She blinks in surprise, and her hands open on her lap. “I can’t blame him for being disappointed about that, if that was the case.”
I’m shaking my head before she stops talking. “Why should he put forth no more effort than cozying up to the right girl? Yes, there’s a lot of luck and who-you-know, but we both had to work like hell to become successful actors. We didn’t just get it handed to us. Even if you are planning to toss it all aside to become an ordinary little co-ed.”
She clears her throat, a light blush across her cheeks.
In the silence, I begin ruminating over John’s usual phenomenal luck holding steady with that under-aged girl. Once I was gone and he got her to wake up, she was more than happy to be given cab fare to get to a friend’s house so her parents wouldn’t find out she was at some strange guy’s apartment overnight.
“I’m 99 percent sure we all passed out when we got to my place,” John said.
“What about the other one percent?”
John sighs, passing on a rare piece of insight. “Dude, I hope we never have daughters.”
My best friend doesn’t know about the possible kid with Brooke. I love John, but unlike Brooke, I don’t trust anyone with that information. Thanks to her, Emma and Graham both know about it.
“Do you mind if I ask you about your relationship with Brooke?” Emma asks. I’m glad she can’t see my eyes behind these shades. I mean damn, does she read minds? “You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s not my business. But you guys weren’t friendly a few months ago and now you’re, uh, hanging out together.”
I shrug, exiting the freeway in a split-second decision that will keep her with me a little longer today. “You know that old photo of us that Wynona put up this morning?” She nods. “I guess I can’t blame either of those kids for what they did back then. Growing up in the spotlight, as you know, isn’t all that easy to handle.”
“So, you’re what—friends—now?” I can’t blame her for being incredulous. The idea of Brooke and me ever being friends is ludicrous. She glances out her window and adds, “And where are we, by the way?”
I chuckle. “We’re stopping for breakfast tacos at this very authentic place I know. And let’s just say Brooke and I have reached an understanding.”
Her brow knits as she takes in the East LA scenery. “Is this a safe spot for us to stop?”
“This car is like the Batmobile. It’s bulletproof.”
She peers at me. “Is that true?”
“Um…” I laugh at her gullibility and she swats my arm.
Pulling into a patchy, fissured parking lot and trying to avoid the potholes, I park and pull out my cell. Emma stares at the row of multi-ethnic businesses while I make a short call. With a limited Spanish vocab stemming from a lifetime of Hispanic caregivers and housekeepers, I request my usual order, doubled. Five minutes later, a tattooed guy in a wife-beater and a loosely-tied apron exits the restaurant storefront with a paper bag and two coffees. He makes a beeline in our direction. The Lotus would stand out in this lot even if it wasn’t yellow.
My window slides down noiselessly. “Gracias, Raul,” I say, passing the coffees to Emma and swapping a twenty for the bag.
Raul pockets the money and tips his chin up once, murmuring, “De nada,” before sauntering back inside.
Handing off the cream containers and sugar packets to Emma, I unwrap one of the small stuffed tortillas, suddenly starving. I’ve already finished one and am starting another while she’s mixing her coffee. By the time I’m backing out, I’ve finished a second burrito and Emma is taking her first tentative bite.
“Good?”
She nods. “Potato? And—?”
“Cabrito.” I hope she doesn’t know what that is.
Her brow furrows. “Is that… goat?”
Damn. “I said it was authentic…” She doesn’t look too disgusted. “Not as bad as tuna, huh?” I remind her of our first official onscreen kiss. MiShaun had admonished me for eating tuna sandwiches beforehand, and I’d played cool about it in front of them and then sprinted to my PA and demanded a toothbrush and toothpaste before we did the scene.
Emma laughs while finishing her bite, holding a hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
My answer is an indirect smile and nothing more, because all I’m remembering right now is the sweetness of her kiss. Brooke can’t get her half of this insane arrangement completed quickly enough for me.