Between the Lines - Page 31/43

Staying near my parents is the last thing I want. A school on the opposite coast from Chloe is exactly what I need. “No, moving across the country sounds lovely.” He laughs while I tell myself this has nothing to do with Graham living in New York. Nothing at all.

I start googling information on anything he suggests that’s located east of Ohio.

***

The Bingley house would send Chloe into raptures of envy. Set into the side of a hill, it’s several thousand feet of limestone, wrought iron and tile exterior, with soaring ceilings and marble floors throughout. No amenities were omitted, from a kitchen outfitted so spectacularly that it would make Emily’s mom drool to the infinity pool that would cause Chloe to break into song. I feel an urge to cross myself at that thought.

The first two days of the week are spent filming what will be a three-minute scene with Meredith under the hood of the broken down Civic, in front of this beautiful house. Outside. In the billion degree heat.

Production hired an auto mechanic expert to help me look like I know the difference between a fuel pump and a spark plug while under the hood of a car, because for some reason not explained to me, present-day Lizbeth is familiar with the basics of auto maintenance. First I have to learn how to get the hood of the car up, which is not as easy as you’d think. Stan the mechanic is gallingly superior about it, rolling his eyes while my fingers slide back and forth where the stupid latch release is supposedly located. I’m forced to squat down and look for it.

“Ah-ha!” I release the latch as Stan stands with his burly, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, unimpressed. I narrow my eyes at him. “Okay, so I know nothing about cars. Can you make yourself cry on command? Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

He sighs and shows me again where to find the latch release. Once I can find it without looking, he drops the hood and has me find and unlatch it at least fifty times, until I can do it blindfolded. Ah, the useful yet trivial things I learn for my job.

Given the heat and humidity, our makeup people want to pull their hair out, and ours. Meredith and I ride back to the hotel at the end of the second day in exhausted silence, in love with the guy who invented air conditioning. The cityscape flows by as I dissect the reasons for my caution with Reid. I’m not immune to the way I feel when he touches me. The truth is, physically, I do want him—I’m just not quite ready emotionally. The more he pushes, the more wary I feel, and the more I want to push back.

Then there’s Graham, who hasn’t mentioned my weird behavior on the balcony Monday night, thank God. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he was on his balcony for the same reason I was, hoping I would come out by myself, or just hoping I wasn’t in bed with Reid.

Abruptly, I come to my senses. How preposterous, that Graham is absorbed with or even thinking about whatever transpires, or doesn’t, between Reid and me. He has his own thing with Brooke to sort out.

Not that his relationship with her has any relevance to me.

Chapter 33

REID

I filmed with Tadd and Brooke today—indoor scenes that will be woven into the outdoor scenes Emma and Meredith did yesterday. I wasn’t feeling well last night, so I went to bed early. I woke up with a hell of a hangover that wasn’t a hangover. I can’t describe it, really. I didn’t think I drank that much last night, but I can’t remember.

I got through filming, didn’t have a single conflict with Brooke, which is really bizarre. All I know is I feel like shit and I don’t want to be awake. I should just go to bed and sleep it off—whatever this is. I should probably text Emma, but I can do that when I wake up.

*** *** ***

Emma

I haven’t heard from Reid today. No calls, no texts, no knocks on my door. After a leisurely morning with Meredith, discussing the novels we’ve chosen for our senior theses, we had French class with Jenna and made plans for dinner which I assume includes everyone. I walk past Reid’s door, annoyed. The silent treatment must be some form of male pouting.

Emily’s previous boyfriend, Vic, pushed her to have sex. At first, she told me that they had been together for several months and maybe she should give it up, even if she wasn’t particularly moved to do so yet. And then he began saying things like, “If I’d known you were going to be such a tease…” and, “I’m a guy. You have to admit I’ve been patient.” The last straw occurred in the school cafeteria, where they were sitting with his friends.

“Hey Vic, how can you tell if a girl is frigid?” His friend paused for effect. “When you open her legs, a light goes on.”

“Ding,” Vic said, glancing at Emily as his friends laughed.

“That’s not funny,” she said, knowing then that he’d told his friends what was going on between them. Or more accurately, what wasn’t going on.

“Ding!” echoed Vic’s most obnoxious friend, a guy Emily tolerated only because she cared for Vic.

She got up and left the table to a chorus of dings, and Vic did nothing but laugh and call after her, “Come on, baby—Jesus, it’s just a joke!”

She found out a week after they broke up that he’d been sleeping with a sophomore from his art class for at least a month, maybe longer. He’d been telling Emily that the girl had a crush on him but he was keeping it strictly platonic.

“Since when is platonic synonymous with screwing around?” she asked him during their last fight, which occurred right after she found out.

“Newsflash, Emily—you and me are broken up, so technically, you have no jurisdiction over me anymore. But let me give you a parting tip—it’s a stretch to call it screwing around on your girlfriend when she won’t screw around with you in the first place.”

She and I heaped curses on Vic’s big stupid head for this preposterous excuse, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t seep into my brain just enough for Reid’s pushing to make me wonder if there was any legitimacy to it.

I’m tired of Reid’s moping. I want to let him know he can’t manipulate me, but I also want to see it coming if he’s going to use the Vic justification. Unsure exactly what I intend to say but determined to say it, I turn back and knock on his door. A minute later he hasn’t answered, but just as I start to turn away, the door opens.

The last thing I expect to see is Reid bowed over, an arm across his abdomen. His usually perfect hair is plastered to his forehead and he looks pale.

“Reid? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know. I don’t feel so hot, Emma. I’ve been sleeping since I got back.”

“Do you need me to get someone? A doctor?”

He blinks slowly. “I’m just going to go back to bed.”

“Why don’t I bring you something—soup maybe—from the café? I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Give me your room key, so you won’t have to get up again.”

He backs into the room, pointing to the dresser. “It’s on my wallet.” As I grab the room key, he collapses onto the bed with a moan.

“Reid, are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” He shakes his head, and I’m unsure what to do except go get him something that I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to eat.

By the time I return, he’s gone from pale to flushed. I’ve brought chicken noodle soup and Sprite, but he doesn’t take more than a sip of either. His knees are drawn up, both hands on his stomach, eyes closed. Placing my hand on his forehead, I know something is really wrong because he’s burning up. “Are you nauseous?”

“I don’t know,” he answers after a minute. “You should probably leave. I don’t know if I’m contagious. Tell Richter I might not feel like filming tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He’s probably right, the best thing for me to do is leave, but I can’t abandon him like that.

My phone buzzes from my bag—a text from Graham.

Graham: Hey, you coming? We’re about to grab some taxis.

Me: I’m in reid’s room. I think he’s sick.

Graham: Sick how?

Me: I don’t know. Fever. He’s clutching his stomach but no throwing up…yet.

Graham: Be up in a minute.

Me: K, thx

I wet a washcloth under the cold tap, pull Reid’s damp hair off of his forehead, and press the cloth to his head. He sighs but never opens his eyes.

Graham’s knock is soft. I open the door to admit him, saying, “I hope I’m not exposing you to something.”

“S’okay.” He takes a disposable thermometer from a small paper bag and smiles. “Gift shop.” Reid barely registers him coming into the room.

A few minutes later, I don’t feel so reactionary. “One hundred three,” Graham says. “We need to get a doctor up here.”

I call the PA, who calls Reid’s personal assistant for the film, Andrew, who locates a doctor willing to make hotel calls. Andrew is one of dozens of usually invisible film crew personnel. His celebrity assistant skills, until tonight, were primarily utilized for caramel macchiato runs and dry cleaning supervision. Tonight, he’s in Reid’s room, pacing back and forth in the sitting area, calling Reid’s parents, manager and agent. Graham calls room service and orders sandwiches, charged to his room. When I try to object, he tells me I have to eat.

“Oh—you were supposed to go to dinner with everyone!” I say.

He shakes his head. “It’s no problem. I told them to go ahead.”

When the doctor arrives, Andrew, Graham and I are banished to the hallway while she examines Reid. There’s one anguished cry from the room, freezing Andrew and me in place, wide-eyed. Graham takes my shoulders and stares into my eyes. “He’s going to be fine.”

The doctor opens the door to let us back into the room. “We need to do a scan to check for appendicitis.” She’s already called the front desk to get an ambulance to the hotel. “Does he have family nearby?” she asks, and Andrew starts dialing like a man possessed.

Graham and I follow the ambulance in a taxi. He holds my hand all the way there, and in the waiting room, where we spend the evening. “He’s going to be fine,” he repeats, after we’re told Reid is going into surgery; the doctor was correct in her initial diagnosis. “What if you hadn’t checked on him, or if you’d listened when he tried to just go back to sleep?”

Andrew talks and texts non-stop, pacing by the windows and occasionally outside, where I suspect he’s looking for somewhere to light up. Hospitals don’t exactly cater to smokers. I lean my head on Graham’s shoulder, thankful he showed up with a thermometer, that he knew what to do. My eyes drift closed, and I realize I’ve been asleep when I sit up and my neck feels stiff. He shifts, his hand massaging the tight muscles, pressing me back to his chest, his heartbeat in my ear.

Pacing a metaphorical groove into the floor in an effort to obtain and relay news about the surgery, Andrew buzzes between the waiting area and the nurses’ station. The nurses, at first star-struck, quickly become pissed. “He’s. Still. In. Surgery,” one of them says, teeth gritted.