Famous in Love

by Rebecca Serle

  “Yes,” I say back. He leans in slowly, and for a moment I think maybe he’s going to kiss me, he’s that close, but he doesn’t. Instead he brushes his lips up against my hair.

  I want to tell him that what I do know is that I have faith in him, that I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. That when we’re together I feel like I do when I’m acting: like everything else falls away and I’m totally, completely, exactly where I should be. But the wind starts up again, threatening to carry my words far from here, all the way east, if necessary, and instead what comes out is “We should get back.”

  Because it’s true. We should. I remember Wyatt’s confrontation with me from months ago, and for the first time I get what he was trying to say. He was trying to tell me to take responsibility. That it is my choice how things turn out. How I’m not at the mercy of a moment, a feeling, the soft stream of fate. Maybe there are some things that are out of my control, but not this. I have to make things right. I have to talk to Rainer. I can’t run just because what’s in front of me is hard. As Jake would say, “You need to recognize the impact you make in the world.”

  Jordan and I listen to the hum of the radio on the way down the mountain. The day has crept in, and it’s keeping us company. Gone are the stretched silences. It’s calm, peaceful—comfortable, even. Like the day breathed a sigh of relief as soon as the sun rose.

  I doze off, and when I wake up, Jordan’s hand is on my arm, rocking me awake. We’re back at the condos.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”

  We walk through the lobby, his arm tucked around my waist. When we get to my door, he takes the key card gently out of my palm and unlocks it. Then he comes inside with me. I face-plant onto the bed, kicking my shoes off and snaking up to the pillows.

  “Thanks,” I murmur.

  I feel something soft on top of me. The blanket I keep on the edge of the bed, the one I brought from home that’s been mine since the day I was born. He pulls it up and over, and when he reaches my shoulders, his hand brushes my skin. Instinctively, I reach up and curl my fingers around his. “Stay,” I say. “Just sleep.”

  My eyes are closed, and I can feel myself falling into the seductive grip of unconsciousness. Before I succumb completely, I feel him sink down next to me. He pulls me against his chest and locks his arms tight around me. He kisses my cheek, and I can feel his breath on my face, his heartbeat at my back. It beats against me, through me, the same as my own.

  CHAPTER 21

  Being the last one to leave sucks. No matter what the situation, you always feel like you’re being left. When I wake up, I’m alone and it’s evening. My flight leaves at midnight, and I still have packing to do. I pick up a sandwich and wander leisurely through the lobby. I know Jordan won’t be there, but I try, anyway. Even though the hotel is exactly the same—the furniture and pillows and lamps and even that spectacular, panoramic ocean view—the entire place feels empty. Like by leaving, he took everything tangible with him.

  I miss them both. I can still feel Jordan’s arms around me this morning, his nose pressed against the crook of my neck. And I miss Rainer, too. I miss his laugh and beautiful blue eyes and easy charm. I went seventeen years without having a boyfriend, without ever even having more than a crush, and now there are two of them. These two guys who are so different, like separate species, and yet the way they make me feel.… I never thought you could really care about two people at the same time. That seemed ridiculous. Cassandra falls in love constantly, and I always called her fickle. But now it’s like Jordan and Rainer are fighting it out inside my heart. And I don’t know who to root for because just thinking about one makes me feel like a traitor to the other.

  I replay the last few months in my head like a highlights reel. Dinners with Rainer at Longhi’s. Jordan’s kiss in the cabana. Editing. The Fish Market. Our time on set. And just like that, I know where I need to be.

  I sprint across the hotel floor. I get to his room totally out of breath. I knock twice. Please be there. Please be there.

  I hear the shuffle of feet and the door swinging open, and his head of curly hair appears in the doorway like an apple in a barrel. Wyatt.

  When I see him, I get nervous. Crazy nervous. It’s Wyatt, after all. We haven’t had the best relationship. But I have to tell him. Even if he slams the door in my face, which he very well might do.

  “I didn’t say thank you,” I start. “And I thought you had already left, and I never got to tell you what this has meant to me and how—”

  And then Wyatt does something remarkable. Something that seems totally out of character and perfectly right, perfectly him all at once. He hugs me.

  He reaches out and pulls me toward him. I’m so surprised that I can’t say anything, I just stiffen up like a piece of plywood. But as soon as his arms are around me, I start to soften. There is something familiar about his hug—warm. It reminds me of when my brothers used to wrestle me to the ground in our living room and then help me up afterward. It was moments like those that let me know they cared. That they might have even loved me.

  “All right, kid,” Wyatt says. He pushes me back and holds me at arm’s length, his hands on my shoulders. He surveys me, in much the same way a painter might admire a newly completed work. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “But don’t expect me to say it again.”

  I nod once. Understood.

  “You’re here all by yourself? Isn’t security at least keeping an eye on you?” He peers down the hallway, and sure enough, one of the guards is standing by. Has he been following me? For how long?

  “Rainer left yesterday,” I say.

  Wyatt drops his arms from my shoulders and crosses them. He raises his eyebrows like he’s questioning me, and all of a sudden I cough up the words, like a confession: “Jordan left today.”

  Wyatt clears his throat. “You two got close.”

  I wrap my hands around my elbows. My voice sounds small in my own ears. “He’s different from what people think.”

  Wyatt doesn’t take his eyes off me. “I agree.”

  “I wish Rainer could see that,” I say.

  Wyatt leans on the doorframe. “They’ve got history,” he says, and for a moment I think about all the things I don’t know about him. What his own history is.

  “I know.”

  “But I think they’ll come around. As long as nothing else further muddies the waters.” He looks at me then, dead on.

  “I know,” I say again, but this time it’s light, soft. I can barely hear the words.

  We stand in the doorway for another beat. And then he smiles. “Now get out of here, will you? I still have to pack.”

  When my plane takes off, it’s so dark out that I can’t see the ocean or the green landscape, but I know it’s there. It’s comforting somehow, like a movie you’ve seen so many times you can leave it on as background noise and still know exactly what’s happening if you catch even one line.

  I close my eyes and see the soft roll of the hills, Ho’okipa Beach with its windsurfers, who won’t be out for another few hours at least. I see Longhi’s, and our condos, and the beach with its clean white sand and pebbled stones, and the cabanas, their tops pulled tight to protect against any night rain. I think about last night and this morning, turning the memory over in my mind like a shiny penny.

  I imagine myself back in that bed with Jordan, back in his arms. His stray hair falling on my cheek, his breath warm against my neck. I want to reach out and touch him, curl my fingers around his hands, shoulders, neck, face. Draw his nose to mine and never let him go. But something stops me.

  Someone taps my shoulder. “Excuse me?”

  I blink. A girl is leaning over me. She’s probably around thirteen or fourteen with the most freckles I have ever seen on a girl’s face. She’s a little bit sunburned on her cheeks but then again, so are most people on this plane, I think.

  “You’re Paige Townsen, aren’t you?”

  I nod. I feel
a bit like I’ve been caught in a lie. Hand in the cookie jar. Which makes no sense. It’s true. I am Paige Townsen.

  “Wow.” Her eyes get wide, and she blinks, remembering something. She lunges forward and rummages through her bag, producing a book. She hands it over to me proudly, like a cat with a mouse in its teeth.

  “Do you think you could sign it?” she asks. “It would really mean a lot to me. This book”—she holds it to her chest like a valentine—“is my life. I’ve read it four times.” She pauses, inhales briefly. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters, you know.” She gestures to a woman across the aisle wearing a silk sleep mask, her mouth slightly open. “My mom and I travel a lot together. She sleeps and I read.”

  I remember what it was like to be this girl. To want to spill your heart to strangers. To feel like if you kept talking you could somehow make it all better, get to the answer. It occurs to me, looking at her freckled face, that I no longer feel this way at all, and for a moment, the realization saddens me. I can’t pick up the phone and call Cassandra; it’s clear she doesn’t want to talk to me. I can’t talk to Rainer because I don’t know what to say, or how I really feel.

  I smile and take the pen she hands over. “Who should I make it out to?”

  “Jen,” she says, tapping her chest. “Jen Sparrow.”

  I write her name across the title page and then add, To Locked’s biggest fan—Paige Townsen.

  It’s strange, looking at my name like that. Like signing the bottom of a painting in elementary school or the top of a paper for English class. The only difference is this isn’t my own. It’s someone else’s. The responsibility hits me again, but it’s not as scary this time, not as overwhelming. It doesn’t feel like it did when I first got the job, or the way it has on set—at times crippling. It feels good, almost. Right.

  My mom used to lecture my sister about responsibility. How it wasn’t just about her now, how she had to start thinking about Annabelle. Annabelle, whose happiness was now more important than her own. I think, looking at Jen Sparrow, that I have a responsibility to her. To her happiness. To somehow, in some small way, live up to the meaning she’s given this book, and my role in it.

  We talk for the rest of the flight. She lives in San Francisco, but her dad just moved to Portland and her mom is going to drop her off. I give her my phone number (a big Sandy no-no) and tell her that she should stop by Trinkets n’ Things. Her eyes get big. “You’ll be there?” she asks me. “Just at a store?”

  “Sure,” I say, “why not?”

  She looks at me, her eyebrows furrowed. “You’re a movie star. I don’t think you can work in a shop.” She winces, like she’s said too much. “I’m sorry,” she says, “let’s talk about something else. Rainer Devon?” She bites her bottom lip, but I can tell that she’s not going to be able to keep in whatever she’s about to say. “Are the rumors true? Are you with him? He’s so cute.” She keeps talking, about his movies and how she thinks I am “way better than Britney.” She only pauses, hiccuping in some air, when the captain announces we’re going to be landing soon.

  I laugh, the absurdity of this situation grounding itself in my stomach like our plane on the tarmac. A girl I have never met before wants to know who I’m dating.

  “It’s complicated,” I say.

  She nods, but she doesn’t say anything. Her mom snores awake across from her, and we both giggle. I suddenly miss Cassandra something fierce. It’s been what seems like forever since I giggled with another girl.

  “I think you have to follow your heart,” she says. “I’m not sure love is actually that complicated.”

  I want to say “I wish it were that simple,” but maybe it is. Maybe it always has been. I think about Rainer’s hands on my face, his note, his promise of protection, and I think about Jordan—about how it feels to be with him—like he’s waking something up in me, some part of me I never even knew existed. I want to be able to give Rainer an answer. I want to be able to tell him yes. But if I do, if I commit to him in front of the world, there is no possibility of Jordan. Not ever.

  She smiles, and so do I. “I can’t wait to tell everyone I met Paige Townsen.”

  “Make sure to point out my total lack of plane hair,” I say, picking up a frizzy strand.

  “I will,” she says, laughing. “I promise.”

  When we get to baggage claim, I see her dad. He’s standing by a luggage cart, looking nervous. He pulls her into a hug when she gets to him and kisses her on the head, his eyes briefly snapping closed.

  I wonder if he thinks about his responsibility. To keep her safe and happy. To love her. I hope so.

  I’m turning when I spot my own father. He’s standing to the left of the double doors. He smiles, lifts his hand to wave. Then I do something I have never done in my life. I run to him and throw my arms around his neck. He pauses, sways, obviously surprised by the attack. But then he puts his arms around me, and smooths my hair down with his hand.

  “Welcome home, baby,” he says. “I missed you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Business has been booming!” Laurie says. She’s holding up an empty crystal basket as evidence. “We’re the store that used to employ a star. People love it.”

  “How do people know?” I ask. “It’s not like you have a poster in the window. Oh God, do you?”

  Laurie waves a dismissing hand at me and goes to the door. She hands me a wooden sign: FORMER WORKPLACE OF PAIGE “PG” TOWNSEN.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Honey, it’s like gold.” She frowns. “You’re not upset, are you?”

  “No?”

  “Good. Because I tell everyone the Patchouli Petal Body Scrub is your favorite. We can’t make it fast enough!”

  It’s nine AM, and the store doesn’t open till ten, but I already see a few tourists eyeing the entrance.

  “Sometimes we have a line,” Laurie tells me. “Imagine if they saw you in here!”

  “That’s okay,” I say quickly before she gets any ideas. “I just stopped by to say hi. I have some errands to run today.”

  I hand her back the sign, and she takes it. “Oh, I almost forgot, I have something for you.”

  She ducks into the back room, and I run my fingers across the counter. The same ancient computer buzzes in the corner. I think about how many days I’ve spent behind that thing, dreaming of being on the other side.

  There is a basket of “Locked lockets” and a little box filled with “August amber.” I imagine Laurie coming up with these names. She must have gone to the library to Google the book. She doesn’t read, and no way that ancient computer behind the cash register could do an Internet search.

  Laurie emerges in a cloud of basil and orange. “Here,” she says.

  I take the package wrapped in purple tissue paper. Inside is a little incense box.

  “Turn it over,” she says.

  I flip the box and see two dates, four years apart.

  “The dates you worked here,” she says, finishing my thought.

  A lump catches in my throat. “So there’s no chance of a part-time job this summer?” I ask her.

  She smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes softening. “You don’t belong behind that computer anymore, honey.”

  “No one does,” I say. “That thing is basically dead.”

  She laughs. “Just don’t be a stranger, okay? I can handle you being a star but not a stranger.”

  “You got it.”

  “And you tell that friend of yours Jake that he’s welcome to keep his flyers up, too,” she says.

  I don’t have the heart to tell her about Jake, or Cassandra, who I still haven’t seen even though I’ve been here for close to a month since I got back from Seattle. I’ve been holing up at home, which is essentially what I did on that film set, too. Hole up. Hibernate. It was so different from Locked. It was a bigger cast, but I was the youngest by a lot, and everyone really bonded. It was cozy and warm and light—a welcome reprieve from the pressures of Lock
ed. And the pressures are here now. I’m starting to get recognized on the street. All the promotional stuff is up for Locked, which opens in two weeks in L.A. I’m set to fly back at the end of next week.

  Rainer, Jordan, and I have seen each other three times since Hawaii. Rainer has been filming a movie in London, and Jordan has been lying low in L.A.—I only know that from some online stalking. Okay, a lot of online stalking. I haven’t spoken to him. Jordan, that is. Even though I’ve seen him, it feels like our relationship ended on that mountaintop. Holding hands, our fingers intertwined. Even Rainer has been suspended somehow. Our L.A. trips have been so busy, and we’ve had basically zero downtime. Just photo shoot after photo shoot after interview. I haven’t even been alone with him for thirty seconds, let alone the time it would take to have the conversation we need to have. We’ve e-mailed, but he mostly tells me about filming, a family trip he went on to Italy, and how good the coffee is in London. He doesn’t ask about us, and I know he won’t. I kept thinking that maybe he had moved on, maybe he had already fallen for someone else. The thought of it made me feel totally panicked, but I also knew it wasn’t unreasonable. He’s Rainer, and he’s been all over the world—without me. But then I got this e-mail: “I miss you. Nothing seems to be the same without you anymore.” I felt wildly, epically relieved. And that’s wrong. I shouldn’t feel relieved. Not yet. Not when there is still so much in front of us all.

  I haven’t taken off his necklace, though. Not once, except when I had to shoot. And even then I kept it in my pocket—a reminder of something I’m only beginning to understand.

  I look at Laurie. “Thanks. I will.”

  She pulls me into a hug. I remember recoiling in the past at her embrace. Not because I haven’t always liked Laurie, I have, but because her smell is so intense you could get hives from just breathing close to her. But this time, I let her. I don’t even hold my breath. Something about the intensity of rose water and incense and something else—ginger?—is strangely comforting. Like nothing has changed even though everything has. It’s funny—I spent my whole life wanting everything to be different, and now that it is I miss the way it was.