Catch a Falling Star (28 page)

his taste in girls. Of course, I couldn’t tell her this, but even if I

could, it wasn’t true. When I glanced at the picture again, my

belly-knot of rope twisted and yanked. I tried to sound uncon-

cerned. “Thanks for being outraged on my behalf.”

She glared at the photo. “You need to tell him this is unaccept-

able boyfriend behavior. I don’t care if he is a movie star.” She

shoved the article at me until I picked it up, folded it, and set it

beneath the counter. I’d bury it in the recycling later when she

wasn’t looking.

“Okay, okay. I haven’t seen him today; he’s working. I’ll talk to

him tomorrow. I’m sure it’s nothing.” I wiped the counter down

and started to prep for closing. “Now, if you’re looking for some-

thing to do, you could wipe down the drink cases.”

The next morning, I sat on the shaded front steps of Chloe’s house,

waiting for the Range Rover to pick me up, the early air still

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stained with leftover yesterday heat. The paparazzi outside my

house had multiplied, so I suggested to Parker they pick me up at

Chloe’s this morning. I’d set my alarm for five and slipped out the

back of my house hopefully unseen. Now, even at six a.m., morning

buzzed around me. Sprinklers shushed, a lawnmower hummed, a

low-playing talk radio whispered from the roofers working across

the street. One of them sat on the open tailgate of his truck,

sipping from a silver thermos, checking his phone. When he

glanced my way, I gave him a little wave. He held up his cup in

salute.

I surveyed the street for gawkers, one of those funny long cam-

eras looped around their necks, sitting in a tree or watching me

from across the street in a car. At least here, I couldn’t see anyone.

How did Adam live under constant surveillance? I hadn’t even

gone three weeks and my nerves felt shredded. I had taken to

wearing my huge sunglasses even when I didn’t need them just

to have an extra layer between the gawkers and me.

No matter, in a few days, this would all be over.

The last couple of days — the Little Club, that stupid photo of

Adam and Beckett, John’s breakdown in the café — had let the

fatigue I’d been fighting settle firmly into my limbs. When Dad

came home from practicing with Glory Daze last night, he’d nar-

rowed his eyes at me. “You okay?” I didn’t tell him about John;

instead, I’d shown him the magazine. As he studied it, I’d told him

it was part of their scene and the tabloids were making it up, but

my stomach flickered with doubt. “Shocking,” he’d said, pulling a

cold beer from the fridge. “The tabloids got something
wrong
.” I’d

tried to laugh along with him, but it came out flat.

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And this morning, it was still bugging me. Even though I knew

I didn’t have any grounds to be feeling this way (I was essentially

an employee), it felt like Adam had broken my trust somehow, like

he’d lied to me. Chloe was right. It was unacceptable boyfriend

behavior, even from a fake boyfriend. I needed this whole thing to

be over. It was too much, and I was sick of feeling like every

moment of my life was one lie patched to another. I just wanted to

go back to being me, my life before Adam came to town.

I made a terrible liar.

Because, honestly, the whole thing had stopped feeling like a job

sometime around our river kiss. At that point, my heart had become

a murky, foreign thing in my chest. And it was Adam’s fault. He was

supposed to be a jerk, a reckless Hollywood creep, and he had been,

he
was
at first, but then he wasn’t. At some point he’d become funny

and smart and I liked being with him. Now this stupid magazine

picture said, Nope, in fact he is a huge jerk. This was the problem; it

was right there on the page grabbing Beckett’s butt.

The Range Rover pulled up to the curb, engine purring. Adam

scrambled out of the passenger seat. “You ready?” He held the door

open for me. He had bed head and no shirt, just a pair of jeans,

and the sight of him, his bare skin, sent shock waves through me.

He was doing it again, breaking my movie-stars-going-shirtless-

around-regular-people rule. I should be allowed to ticket him. I

thought of the magazine picture, tried to push it from my mind,

but I imagined having to sit there on the set today and watch

Beckett flipping her lovely dark hair.

I pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head, fingering the skin

beneath my eyes. “I think I’ll skip the shoot today, if that’s okay.”

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“What’s wrong? You sick?” He frowned, reaching into the

backseat and pulling out a T-shirt. He slipped it on as if he just

hadn’t had time to get dressed before picking me up. He reached

out to feel my forehead. Even if it was cool before, I was sure it

went hot at his touch.

That stupid picture.

Even though I’d sworn to Chloe I didn’t care, I’d grabbed the

magazine out of the café recycle bin before heading home. Last

night, curled on the familiar pale pink quilt in my room, I’d stared

at the offending picture for much longer than I cared to admit.

Why
was
his hand
there
?

“I’m just tired.” I hitched my bag up on my shoulder and tried

to look casual.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I’d like you to be there today. You

should be there. You left early the other day, and I didn’t see

you yesterday. The script says you’re at the shoot today. It’ll look

like we’re having problems if you skip.”

Was he going to get contractual on me? “I think it already

looks like that, don’t you? I mean, according to
Entertainment Now!

you’ve been ‘Caught’ — exclamation point!” Even whispering,

my voice was razor-edged.

His brow furrowed with confusion. “What are you talking

about?”

“I’m referencing a little move I like to call the Beckett

Butt Grab!”

“The what? Who’s Beckett?” He shot a nervous look around

the neighborhood. This particular fight was
not
in the script, but

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he didn’t need to worry; the construction guy wasn’t sitting on his

tailgate anymore, and miraculously there was no one around.

“Beckett Ray!”

His face clouded even more. “I’m going to need more than that.”

“How about a visual aid?” I dug into my bag and pulled out

the inky magazine, folded to the article. I held it up for him to

see. “Look, here’s you — grabbing Beckett on what can only be

described as her rear region. And me, sad local girl, licking my

wounds — only I think they caught me having just cleaned the

espresso machine. It’s not an easy job. I can’t really help clean up

your image if you’re going to run around messing it up.”

Adam gave the photo a once-over, his brow furrowing again,

then relaxing. “We’re not worried about that one. Last week, they

reported on Steven Spielberg’s alien alliances. No one believes

Entertainment Now!
It’s garbage.”

I didn’t get angry very often. In fact, I prided myself on being

a calm person who could really hold it together, but at that exact

moment, I wanted to punch Adam Jakes in his movie-star face.

That would be just what Hunter Fisch needed — protesters
and
a

leading man with a black eye.

I shook the magazine at him. “I don’t think you should be

blowing this off. No matter what magazine it is, it looks bad. Robin

Hamilton warned me about the kissing scene with you and Beckett

and then this?”

“Robin Hamilton
warned
you? Because you two are BFFs now?”

He tossed the magazine onto the sidewalk. “Don’t look at that.”

His somber expression stilled my anger. His voice came out quiet

225

but clear. “She played a waitress in a scene we shot. She had one

line. I believe it was, ‘More water?’ There was definitely not
any

kissing happening. Robin Hamilton was just trying to get a reac-

tion out of you. And obviously it worked.”

It didn’t match up. Why did so many things with this guy not

match up? “You invited her to the shoot at the club. You said, ‘How

are Little’s two most beautiful women?’ or something gross and

fake like that.” Hot tears welled behind my eyes. I was embar-

rassed to be acting like this, falling apart in front of him
again
, but

I couldn’t stop myself.

Adam’s look could only be described as confused pity. “She

asked
if she could come. And the whole beautiful women thing,

that’s just something to say. It doesn’t mean anything. I didn’t

mean to be gross or fake.” He thought about it for a second. “Okay,

no — yes, I did mean it to be fake. It’s just like ‘How’s the wife?’”

“No one says, ‘How’s the wife?’” I mumbled, my anger ebbing.

I couldn’t help adding, “Unless they’re in an episode of
Leave It to

Beaver
.”

Sensing a thaw, he cupped my face in his hands. “Why are you

so mad about this?” His expression shifted to amusement. “Wait,

are you jealous?”

I flared again. “No. I’m embarrassed. It makes me look bad. It

makes you look like a bad boyfriend — again. It ruins what we’re

trying to do here.”

“Seriously, we’re doing great.” He dropped his hands from my

face, but my cheeks felt branded with them. He studied me, prob-

ably noticing the dark circles beneath my eyes. “Did something

else happen?”

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I pulled my sunglasses back down, not telling him about John,

about the spray of dragon tears he’d left on the café table. “No.”

“You can’t read this stuff, okay? I
never
do.” His voice softened.

“Even the legitimate magazines. They use stuff out of context.

Like you’d just cleaned the espresso machine, it’s the same thing

with that shot of me and that girl. It was probably in passing, dur-

ing a scene or a botched take, and the angle worked out. It’s

nothing. I don’t have any interest in her rear region or any other

region of her, okay?”

“Okay.” I felt silly. “I’m sorry. I’m not jealous.”

It was hard to hear him over the mower that started up again

in the neighbor’s yard, but I could have sworn he said, “It’d be okay

if you were.”

I joined Adam for his shoot at the graveyard. The crew worked

carefully around the graves, creating snowdrifts, hanging pine

wreaths with red velvet bows. It seemed to me, they made an extra

effort to be cautious and respectful as they winterized the slim

strip of cemetery they’d been permitted to use for shooting the

Ghost of Christmas Present scene.

“Hunter?” Adam stood in a green path, out of the scene,

frowning, dressed in winter running gear. Kelly, the makeup art-

ist, worked on his face.

Hunter stopped talking with one of the A.D.s and raised his

eyebrows at Adam. “Yeah?”

“I’m not too clear about why I follow my teacher into the

graveyard.” He motioned at the actress standing by a grave, holding

227

a fake poinsettia Tiny Tom had given her. Kelly waited, a makeup

sponge poised by Adam’s face.

Hunter rubbed his head. “You see her go in and you wonder

about her. She’s your teacher, you’re on a run to clear your head,

you see her go into a graveyard, and you follow her in.”

“Why?”

Hunter’s mouth twitched. “Curiosity. It’s been a weird day for

you so far, and you feel drawn to her.” He turned back to the A.D.

Adam sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. “Okay.”

He seemed distracted, his eyes moving over the assembled

crew, over the graves, until his gaze landed on me, sitting on the

stone bench just outside Video Village.

He trotted over. “Does it make sense to you?”

I shook my head. “I’m not an actor. I don’t really know why

your character does things.” Flashes of his conversation with

Beckett crept, like smoke, into my brain. Maybe I should mention

something about brilliant pickle metaphors.

Adam didn’t notice. “But you’re a dancer. You understand moti-

vation.” He plopped down on the bench next to me. “This is the

Ghost of Christmas Present. I have this history teacher who, without

meaning to, actually teaches me something — not about history,

but about the present.” He was doing it again. That whole referring

to himself as the character, saying “me” when he really meant Scott.

I thought about his scene. “Okay, she’s visiting her mother who

died, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, death makes us think of life, makes us think about

what’s happening right now. It forces Scott, er,
you
— to see your

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teacher as vulnerable. She forces you to actually see another per-

son in pain. It makes you think of Cheryl, that she might die.

It’s” — I struggled to find the right word — “it’s
immediate
. That’s

the whole point of this particular ghost in the story. To force you