Текст книги "This is What Happy Looks Like"
Автор книги: Jennifer E. Smith
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
From: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, July 3, 2013 4:48 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Harry,
Thanks for the info. I found it enormously helpful.
Graham
He’d come back to her, it was true. He was the one to walk out of the woods and onto the beach, to cross the space between them. But he wasn’t the only one. It was there in her eyes: she was coming back to him too.
The moment he’d opened the envelope, all of his doubts had fallen away. Harry had clearly meant it to be a warning of sorts, but it had the exact opposite effect. Sitting in the trailer, he’d spilled the pile of papers onto the table—a jumble of Internet searches and archived articles—and he’d read all about her past. But it didn’t make him want to stay away from her. He didn’t care that she may or may not be the illegitimate daughter of that stiff-looking senator. He didn’t care about the potential for negative publicity, or the fact that being attached to someone like that could be bad for his career.
What he cared about was that it explained what had happened between them, all of it: the look on her face when she walked away from him at the harbor that day, the unreturned e-mail, the distance she’d been keeping for the last few weeks.
It wasn’t about not wanting him. She was only protecting herself.
But it didn’t matter now. They sat facing each other on the enormous sloping rock that jutted out above the surf. The sun was falling lower in the sky, and though she was now wearing shorts and a T-shirt, Ellie still hugged the towel around her like a blanket, shivering in spite of the late-day heat. Her long hair was still damp from the water, and her nose was pink from the sun.
She’d tried to talk first, and so had he, their words tumbling into one another like bumper cars until she made him sit down across from her, and they each took a deep breath, laughing without any good reason except that there was a rare kind of joy in this, being here together again. Even without any explanations or apologies, it felt like a redo, a second chance, a new beginning. It was a gift, and Graham didn’t want to be the one to spoil it. But there were things to be said, and so he cleared his throat and leaned forward.
“Me first,” he said, and Ellie nodded, her face growing sober. It was hard to figure out where to begin, and Graham hesitated. “I know what happened,” he said eventually. “I know that it wasn’t about you and me. It was about your dad.”
She flinched. “How do you—”
“Harry found out,” he said. “My manager. He won’t tell anyone. It’s just that he knew I liked you, and he was only trying to protect me—”
“Protect you?” she said, her green eyes flashing.
“That’s just his job,” he said. “But it’s not the point. It wasn’t ever about us, right? Which means it doesn’t matter anymore. Now that I know.”
Ellie frowned. “Of course it matters,” she said. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“It changes everything,” Graham said. “I don’t care about your past, or who your dad is. It was just about the publicity, right? The cameras?” He lifted his shoulders. “So we’ll stay away from them.”
“Graham,” she said, her voice stern, though the corner of her mouth was twitching in an effort not to smile. “Just think about it for a second. It’s not that easy to stay away from them. It’s part of who you are.”
“It’s not who I am,” he said, feeling a small flicker of annoyance, and her face softened.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, and then, to Graham’s surprise, she reached out and touched the side of his face. He felt the heat of her hand on his skin, impossibly soft, but before he could react, she pulled away again, looking embarrassed. “I only meant that it’s too big a risk to take. I’m glad you know the story. I’ve never been able to tell anyone. But being with you—it’s too public. I just can’t do that to my mom.” She paused and looked out across the water. “And Harry’s probably right. It can’t be the best publicity for you either.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “It’s not important.”
“It is,” she said, looking at him a bit sadly. “And it’s just not worth the risk. You’re only here for a few more days anyway.”
“Exactly,” he said, inching closer. “We’ve wasted three whole weeks.”
She lowered her eyes. “I know.”
“That’s a long time,” he said. “I haven’t even gone three hours without knowing what you’ve been doing since we first started talking.”
She smiled, but it fell away again almost immediately. “We can’t do this.”
“Because of the cameras?”
Ellie nodded. “You know that the minute we go back into town—”
“Okay,” Graham said, looking around the beach. The sun had finally dipped behind the trees, and the waves were tinged with gold. “Then we’ll just stay here.”
She laughed. “Forever?”
“Sure,” he said. “Seems as good a place to live as any.”
“Nice waterfront view.”
“Plenty of light.”
“A beachfront property.
And no cameras.”
He nodded. “No cameras.”
She reached for his hand, and her fingers were warm against his. “I don’t want to lose any more time,” she said quietly, and when he leaned forward to kiss her, he could taste the salt on her lips. It was like gravity, this thing between them, a pull as strong as the tides and unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He’d meant it as a joke when he said he could stay here forever, but he suddenly felt it to be true.
When she pulled back, he was unprepared to let her go just yet, so he looped an arm around her shoulders, and she fell back onto his chest, curled up against him. They stayed there like that for a long time, looking out over the water without speaking, the setting sun at their backs.
“Is this where you watch the sunrise?” he asked. “I bet it’s the perfect spot.”
Ellie twisted to face him with a sheepish expression. “Actually, I’ve never seen it.”
“What? How is that even possible?”
“I always sleep through them,” she admitted. “I know, it’s terrible.”
“But that was on your list.”
“What list?”
“Of the things that make you happy.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right. I guess that was more wishful thinking. Anyway, you lied too.”
He raised his eyebrows. “How?”
“You said you liked meeting new people…”
She didn’t have to finish the thought. He knew what she meant. And it was true—or at least it had been, before he met Ellie. But now everything had changed.
“I wasn’t lying,” he said, resting his chin on top of her head. “I was talking about you.”
“Good,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Because I liked meeting you too.”
“Hopefully better than you like sunrises.”
“Having never seen them,” she supplied, and he nodded.
“Exactly. How can you know it makes you happy if you’ve never experienced it?”
“There are different kinds of happy,” she said. “Some kinds don’t need any proof.”
“Like sunrises?”
“Exactly,” she said. “I know enough to know that they’re happy things. There’s just nothing sad about a sunrise.”
“As opposed to a sunset.”
“I don’t think they’re particularly sad either.”
“I do,” Graham told her. “They’re endings, and endings are always sad.”
“They’re the beginning of the night,” she said. “That’s something.”
“Yeah, but everyone knows that nights are scarier than days.”
Ellie laughed. “Maybe we should turn around then.”
“How come?”
“Nothing’s all that scary if you can see it coming.”
Still, they didn’t move. The sun continued to set at their backs, slipping toward the trees and the houses and the whole town of Henley, while before them, the water was busy with boats returning to the harbor. They watched as an enormous sailboat approached, the wind whipping its great white banners. Graham closed his eyes.
“My parents aren’t coming,” he said, and Ellie stirred in his arms.
“For the Fourth?”
“I thought they would,” he said, then shook his head. “That’s not really true, I guess. They never go anywhere. But I’ve also never asked before.”
“Are you close?”
“We used to be,” he said. “Before.”
“Before all this?” she said, and he nodded, knowing what she meant. They both fell silent, charting the progress of the boat, and then Ellie took his hand again. “They’re missing out.”
“They don’t understand it,” he said. “All this movie stuff.”
“Can you blame them?”
“I guess not,” he said quietly. “I don’t even understand it myself half the time.”
“At least you’ve got Wilbur,” she said, and he laughed.
“That’s true.”
“And me.”
He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. “That too.”
The boat had started to darken into a silhouette against the gold of the water, and a warm breeze lifted the hair from Graham’s forehead.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” he said, though he was still thinking of his own.
It took her a moment to respond. “I never used to mind,” she said. “I got really lucky with my mom. But it’s been tougher than usual this summer.”
“Because of me?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. Instead she pulled away, swiveling around to face him fully, her eyes shiny and determined.
“He’s in Kennebunkport for the long weekend.”
Graham gave her a mystified look, wondering what this had to do with anything. “Where’s that?”
“Just north of here,” she said, her jaw set. “He’s there with his family, and I’m gonna go up and see him tomorrow.”
“That’s what you were planning before?” he asked. “Does he know you’re coming?”
She shook her head.
“And you haven’t seen him since you were little?”
“Right,” she said with a nod.
“And does your mom know?”
Ellie bit her lip. “No.”
Graham sighed and rubbed at the back of his head. “Do you think this is a good idea?”
“Aren’t movie stars supposed to be reckless and irresponsible?” she said, attempting a grin, but it was quick to falter.
“I just don’t think—”
“I don’t care,” she said, her voice infused with a flinty resolve. “I’ve already decided.”
Graham hesitated for a moment, and then he nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Then I’m coming too.”
She looked surprised. “No, you’re not.”
“We’ve got the day off shooting, and I’ve got nothing to do on the Fourth anyway,” he said. “We’ll make a road trip out of it.”
“You’re way too conspicuous.”
“I’ll blend in.”
In spite of herself, she laughed. “Not possible.”
“I promise,” he said. “I’ll wear a cowboy hat. And a fake mustache.”
“That’s not the slightest bit melodramatic.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said with a grin.
“How about this?” Ellie said, rising to her feet, the towel still slung around her shoulders. “I’ll sleep on it.”
“Fine,” he said, standing up too. “But I’ll start getting my costume ready just in case.”
As they began to walk up the beach, he reached for her hand. They were quiet, the rocks crunching beneath their feet, the waves rushing up to the shore behind them.
Three more days, Graham was thinking.
He didn’t want to miss a single one of them.
“So are you done for the day?” Ellie asked without looking at him, her head bent as she picked her way over the uneven terrain.
“I am,” he told her. “You free tonight?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, and he could almost hear the laughter in her voice. “I figure we could take a stroll through town, go to the Lobster Pot, maybe make out a little on the village green…”
“Very funny,” he said as they reached the little bank that separated the beach from the trees, and together, they scrambled up the slope. “How about a picnic? We can meet right back here later.”
She nodded. “That sounds perfect.”
It was darker in the grove, where a bluish dusk had settled into every pocket of space, and Graham allowed himself to be led by Ellie, stumbling a bit as they felt their way toward the street. There was something dreamlike about it, with only the grumble of their footsteps and the sound of their breathing, her smaller hand in his, guiding him along. The beach was only a few yards behind them and the road only a few yards ahead, but right here amid the trees, it felt like they were a million miles away from anything. So when the first flash went off up ahead, it took a moment for him to realize what it was.
If he’d been in Los Angeles or New York, or even just up the road in the middle of Henley, his mind would have moved faster, but here in the gathering dusk, emerging from the solitude of the beach, he was slow to understand the implications. In front of him, Ellie had come to an abrupt stop, dropping his hand. But even as the second light went off and the scene took on a fumbling clarity—the glint of a motorcycle, the flurry of footsteps, another flash—all he could do was stand there, blinking.
“Graham,” came the first shout, and beside him, he could feel Ellie stiffen. “Graham, can you give us a smile? How about a kiss?” There were only three of them, but it felt like more; it felt like they were surrounded.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” one of them asked Ellie, an enormous bald guy who’d been lurking around town since the film crew first arrived. He took a step forward, pacing the edge of the road. They were still mostly hidden in the trees, but there was nowhere else to go from here. “Can we just get one shot?”
It took a moment for Graham to regain himself. He turned to Ellie, grabbing the towel that was slung over her shoulder and whipping it in front of her. When she realized what he was doing, she took it from him, burying her face behind the pattern of seahorses. He put an arm around her shoulders, and though he could feel her resistance, he urged her forward anyway, the two of them tripping over roots and rocks as they made their way up toward the street.
All three of the photographers were snapping pictures now, and it felt different, seeing them here on a quiet stretch of road with no one else around, ominous and just a little bit threatening. They backed up a few steps as Graham’s feet hit the pavement, and he tucked Ellie closer to him, hurrying them in the opposite direction without a word.
“C’mon, Graham,” the bald guy said, jogging out in front of him, then backpedaling, his camera bumping against his chest. The other two were flanking them, trotting along the shoulder of the road, and Graham glared at the guy to his left.
“Just one shot,” he was saying. “One good shot, and we’ll leave you alone.”
“Get lost,” he said through gritted teeth. The photographer lowered his camera, and for a moment, Graham thought that would be it. But then he darted at Ellie, grabbing the end of her towel to yank it away. She let out a little yelp of surprise just as the flash went off, and before he could think better of it, Graham lunged at him, knocking the camera away. It hit the pavement with a splintering sound, and there was the sharp clatter of metal on asphalt, and then a low string of curses as the photographer scrambled to collect his equipment.
The rest of them paused, just for a second. Ellie’s towel had fallen to the ground, and seeing an opportunity, one of the other photographers—the bald one—stepped out in front of them. But before he could even raise the camera, Graham was in his face.
“Put it away,” he said, his voice low, the words gravelly.
The guy hesitated, but only for a moment, looking around Graham to the third photographer, who held his camera tentatively, the lens pointed at Ellie as she bent to grab the towel.
There was a beat of stillness, then two, as they all stood there, the cameras raised like weapons in a standoff. But just as Ellie straightened up again, a flash cut through the darkness—bright enough to leave them all blinking—and as if the two things were connected, as if one triggered the other, Graham’s hand became a fist, and he pulled back his arm, and he punched him.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Wednesday, July 3 2013 10:24 PM
Subject: (no subject)
You were right. We should’ve just stayed on the beach forever.
Light couldn’t possibly have moved faster. Running water. A high-speed train. Nothing, it seemed to Ellie, could have beaten the pixilated photo and accompanying story that spilled out across the fathomless pages of the Internet late that same night.
Sitting on her bed the next morning, the computer propped in her lap, she watched numbly as the articles unspooled across the screen. But she wasn’t thinking about the media’s version of the story, which seemed to hardly resemble what had happened at all. Instead, she was thinking about the moment itself, the way the photographer had reeled after being hit, tipping sideways like a marionette.
His head had struck the ground with a sound that seemed too heavy to have come from a person, and Ellie had looked on in horror, frozen with shock for a few frightening seconds before he blinked and pushed himself up again. It was Graham who moved first, already shaking his head in apology as he reached out a hand to help him up. But he was stopped cold by a flash, and he turned on one of the other photographers with a menacing glare.
“You asshole,” the bald man had said, ignoring Graham’s outstretched hand and struggling to his feet on his own. Already, his eye was nothing more than a slit, the skin beneath it puffed up, a crescent of pink that would undoubtedly be turning an angry purple before too long. He pressed two fingers there, wincing, then explored the side of his head where it had hit the pavement. When his eyes focused on Graham again, there was a spark of something so unexpected—smugness, perhaps, or even glee—that Ellie found herself taking a step back.
“You better get ready,” the man said to Graham. “I’m gonna take you for all you’re worth.”
But Graham had already grabbed Ellie by the arm, spinning her around and urging her away from the huddle of black-clad men. She’d hurried to follow him, the urgent snap-snap-snap of the cameras trailing after them. But to her relief, she heard no footsteps, and before long, even the flashes had blinked out in their wake.
“You okay?” he asked when they were a safe distance away.
Ellie nodded, though her wrist still tingled from where the towel had been yanked so abruptly from her hands, and she realized she’d left it behind. Somehow, in spite of all that had just happened, it was this—the thought of that seahorse towel, which she’d had since she was a kid, lying wilted on the ground in the middle of an empty road—that caused a lump to rise in her throat.
It was almost fully dark by then, and they’d walked quickly, heads bent and shoulders hunched, propelled by an unsettling mix of anger and fear. Ellie’s teeth were chattering, though she wasn’t cold. Her mind buzzed with questions both big and small, but she stopped herself from giving voice to them. The way those men had circled them like hyenas, the steady chirp of their cameras—she’d never felt so exposed. Even now, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being followed, and she kept whipping around to make sure nobody was there.
As they neared her house, Graham slowed and turned to her. Their eyes met briefly in the darkness, and she could see that his were full of worry. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, looking pained.
Already, Ellie was doing an inventory of what tomorrow would bring and she knew that he must have been too, cataloging the phone calls to publicists and lawyers, preparing for the conversation with his manager, thinking through the inevitable fallout. There was nothing more interesting to the world than a self-destructive celebrity, nothing more exciting than a public meltdown. It wouldn’t matter that the photographers had been staking them out, or that they’d been overly aggressive. All that would matter was that Graham had punched one of them.
Ellie glanced toward her house. Even through the trees at the end of the driveway, she could see the lights were on in the kitchen. It felt like it had been days since Mom left her bobbing in the water at the beach, and she was probably wondering where she’d gone. It made Ellie queasy to think of explaining to her what had happened tonight.
When she turned back to Graham, he was still watching her. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, and she watched his lips as he formed the words, reminded of their kiss on the beach. They were supposed to be on a picnic right now, she realized, and the idea of it seemed impossibly distant, like it had been planned by two other people entirely.
Ellie shook her head. “It’s not your fault.”
“But I made it worse,” Graham said, his voice flat. “It’ll be so much bigger now. The story.”
“It’s okay,” she said, although she knew it might not be. She’d made the decision to stay away from him in an effort to sidestep this very situation, but then she’d fallen under his spell again, wholeheartedly and perhaps inevitably. And now it didn’t seem fair to have gathered so much momentum only to be pulled up short again, yanked back and forth like the worst kind of yo-yo.
Their hearts simply weren’t built for this sort of thing.
“I should probably go,” she said, her eyes drifting to the house. The air between them felt charged, and Graham forced a smile. But it was an actor’s smile—feeble and strained—and it faltered when she took his hand.
“Hey,” he said, holding on to her for a moment, his face grim. “I’m gonna do everything I can to fix this, okay?”
She nodded, trying to look convinced, then turned to walk up the driveway, leaving him there on the street. It wasn’t until she reached the porch that she slumped against the door, taking a few deep breaths before turning the knob. Inside, she could hear Mom in the kitchen, and she knew somehow that to talk to her would be to break down and cry, and she didn’t feel prepared for that just yet—for the explanations and confessions, the weighty implications of the night—and so she called out a hello, her voice thick, and then hurried up the stairs.
In her room, she grabbed her computer and sat cross-legged on the bed, searching for Graham’s name. The most recent hits were a picture of him with Olivia in front of the deli from earlier that day and a few articles that speculated about his potential involvement in another movie, but nothing yet about a photographer with a black eye, or a broken camera, or a mysterious girl with red hair whose estranged father may or may not be running for president one day.
She spent the rest of the night there, telling Mom through the door that she wasn’t hungry, hitting the refresh button on her computer so many times that the words started to swim and blur, just meaningless chains of letters.
She had no idea what time she fell asleep; she knew only that when she woke up it was still dark out, and it took her a moment to fumble with her phone and see that it was just after five o’clock. The memory of the previous night came back to her in a rush, and she reached for her computer, her head fuzzy with worry.
This time, it was there. All of it. Her heart sank as she read through the headlines: Graham’s Slam; Larkin Doesn’t Pull Any Punches; Larkin’s Barkin’ Mad. She scrolled through article after article, her stomach churning, wondering if Graham had seen them yet. The first ones had been posted as early as eleven o’clock last night, probably just after Ellie had fallen asleep, and several were accompanied by a photo of Graham just before he struck out, his elbow pulled back like an archer with a bow, his face dark. In the background, Ellie could see the seahorse towel bunched on the street, and behind that, just a sliver of herself: a pale arm and a few strands of reddish hair.
They hadn’t gotten anything worth using on her, she realized, though every article mentioned an “unidentified female companion.” That seemed to be it, at least for now, but Ellie knew better than to be relieved. She understood the bigness of this, the sheer scope of it, and a worry for Graham pulsed through her like a heartbeat. Some of the articles mentioned a potential lawsuit, while others simply framed him as a sudden and previously unknown menace, as if he were some kind of slumbering beast that had finally awakened. Even if he wasn’t sued, she knew how damaging this could be for his image, his career, his movie, and she wished there were a way to defend him, to explain what had happened, how anyone might have done the same.
But she knew she couldn’t. And she also knew it wouldn’t be long before someone connected the dots and identified her, some tourist who had seen them together, some local looking to make a buck, some reporter who asked the right questions. It was only a matter of time before the rest would unravel.
She thought about checking her e-mail to see if there was anything from Graham, but she wasn’t sure she could bear to read what he might have written or, worse, to find out that he hadn’t. Instead, she lifted her hands from the keyboard and looked out the window, where a scrim of light had appeared on the horizon, spliced by the darker shadows of the tree branches.
It was the Fourth of July, she realized, the day she’d meant to go see her father. But now she wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. What if they found her name between now and then, those anonymous bloggers and journalists? What if she were to show up on his doorstep only to discover that he’d heard the news? And that he was furious with her for reviving a story that had long been put to bed, one that would distract from his message and have a negative impact on his next campaign?
With a sigh, she hit the refresh button on the computer, and six new stories about Graham Larkin appeared on the list. She swallowed hard and looked out the window again, the sky growing paler at the edges. In the distance, a few seagulls cried out, and down the hall, she heard the groan of the water heater as Mom switched on the shower.
It would be crazy to do this. She’d have to find a way to borrow the car without telling Mom. She’d have to make sure she wasn’t missed at the town festival. She’d have to figure out exactly where her father was staying and pluck up the courage to ask him for money. She’d have to hope the story didn’t beat her there, and that nothing would fail her when she arrived—not her legs or her voice or her nerve.
And if she was really going to do this—set out on this ill-advised trip, this one desperate attempt to make things right—then she was going to have to do it now.
