“Told ya.”
After brunch we backtrack and spend a couple of hours at the bookstore. There’s a puppet show going on in the kids’ area, and he insists we sit on the floor and watch. This is when I learn that Graham and his older sisters used to make sock puppets and put on shows for their parents. This whole idea is so foreign to me that I’m sure he’s making it up. On the walk back to the hotel, I ask him what kinds of shows.
“We’d make puppets of ourselves, or our favorite book characters, like Where the Wild Things Are, gluing on wiggly eyeballs and yarn.” I try to imagine a sock puppet Graham. “One time we made penguins, coloring popsicle sticks like lightsabers and hot gluing those to the flippers, and then we did a Star Wars reenactment for my Dad’s birthday. He loves penguins, and anything Star Wars.”
Penguins puppets with lightsabers? There’s no way he could make this up.
“So according to one of the shots you tossed back last night, you’re an only child,” he says. “What was that like—being the center of attention all the time?”
My first thought is that after my mother died, I felt more like the invisible kid than the center of attention. And then I begin stressing about how I’m going to talk about my mother being dead. The subject of family always, sooner or later, brings the story of my mom forward. There’s no simple way to say it, no way to fully express everything those two words mean to me: she died. The feelings are muted most of the time, something only accomplished by the passing of time, but they’ll never go away. I know that now. There are moments I wish the pain would disappear, but mostly, it’s a comforting ache. I lost her, and I feel it—sometimes like a bruise that doesn’t hurt until it’s pressed, sometimes like a knife.
“I bet you were spoiled rotten,” Graham says, slowing at the window of a narrow storefront of skateboards and boarding gear.
“I seem like a brat?” I pout, ruining any defense against it.
“I didn’t say that. But I can picture you as a little girl: adorable, no one else around to steal the spotlight. That’s all it would take to wrap your parents around your little finger. I mean at that point it’s self-preservation, right? Darwin’s lesser-known theory: survival of the cutest.”
I smile, willing myself not to blush. “I guess I don’t really know if I was spoiled or not.”
“Fair enough. I was the youngest, and a little monster. Or so I hear from my sisters.”
He has no idea how relieved I am that we’ve strayed from talking about my family. “But aren’t they disqualified from judging, as your competition for attention?”
“You’d think… but my mother agrees with them.”
Examining hand-made jewelry through a store window, I’m caught off guard and can’t stifle a laugh. “That’s terrible!”
He shrugs as though resigned. “There are allegations of extreme tattling, tantrums and cookie hoarding. But don’t ask for details. I plead the fifth.” His phone beeps and he pulls it from his pocket, reading the text and typing a quick response.
“I have a career-related question,” I say, after we walk for a minute in silence. “What made you want to play Bill Collins? Have you read Pride and Prejudice?”
“I read it after I was up for the audition. I could say Collins is a complex character and playing him will widen my range, but honestly, I’m supporting myself as an actor. If my agent recommends a role and I get it, I do it. Being too picky would be economic suicide.”
“Huh.” I stick my tongue out at him when he smiles and holds up six fingers, which makes him laugh.
“What about you? Why Lizbeth Bennet?” His phone rings and he glances at the display. “Oh—I’ve gotta take this. Can we—?” I nod and he steps out of the path of foot traffic. “Hello?” I gesture to let him know I’m walking on to the hotel, half a block away. He nods before turning, his voice warm, happy. “Yeah, I’m here, what’s up?”
When I reach the hotel entrance, I look back. He’s moved to the edge of the sidewalk and is slipping his lighter back in his pocket, laughing, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
Chapter 15
REID
After ordering a room service breakfast at noon, I text Tadd and Quinton to see what’s on tap for tonight, knowing I might not hear from either of them for hours. I have the barest excuse of a hangover this morning; it should be worse. I think my adrenaline during and after the exchange with Brooke burned off most of my buzz. The last thing I need tonight is more of her. A guys night out is in order.
The more I think about Emma and Graham’s exit last night, the more premeditated it seems, at least on his side. I haven’t figured him out yet. He’s unanticipated competition for Emma, considering how he’s hanging around Brooke, too. Frankly, I’m not used to having to compete for a chick at all. I should probably find it refreshing. I don’t.
Tadd calls half an hour later. “First, goddamn it don’t let me drink that much again, and second, I’m up for guys night out. But I warn you, if I get lucky, it may turn into guys night in.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll text Quinton… I don’t have Graham’s number, but I assume we’re inviting him.” No way I want him left here with Emma down the hall.
“He’s next door to me; I’ll pop over and ask.”
Perfect. I get the feeling Graham would suspect an invitation coming from me; I can’t imagine that Brooke has kept her opinions of me to herself. I knew we hadn’t left things on congenial terms, but I had no idea she’d be that hostile. “Cool. Eight? Nine?”