Famous (A Famous novel)

by Jenny Holiday

  “She?”

  “Maude. I call her Maude.”

  He barked a laugh. “You have an imaginary friend!”

  “I don’t have an imaginary friend. It’s more like I’ve named part of my subconscious.”

  “So you have an imaginary imaginary friend?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “I guess I do.”

  “Maybe you need an imaginary Zen master. Maude doesn’t sound very chill.”

  “Right, but here’s the problem. I need her. Left to my own devices, I have this tendency toward impulsiveness.”

  He raised his eyebrows, thinking of the utter shock that had hit him when he’d opened his door to find her on his porch. “You don’t say?”

  She didn’t get that he was teasing her and answered earnestly. “Yeah, it’s like I get tired of living in such a conscribed way, and I act out. Claudia and Brian—those are my managers—plan everything. I can tell them I need more downtime or I want to do something specific—I could even tell them I wanted to take a bike ride—and they’d make it happen. But they schedule it in, you know? Between other things I have to do. Somehow, even though they’re giving me what I say I want…”

  “It’s a programmed life,” he finished for her. It sounded awful. His family’s time in the spotlight leading up to and during his father’s trial had been excruciating.

  “Yeah, and it’s not that I don’t get it. I know I can’t just get on a bike and go. I understand that’s the price I pay for the life I’ve chosen. But sometimes it’s…too much, and I try to rebel against it. But that always turns out to be a mistake.”

  “Like the time you climbed out of Kirby Carson’s window in the middle of the night?”

  She bolted to a seated position. “You know about that?”

  “Doesn’t the entire internet know about that?”

  “But you didn’t even know who I was when I showed up a week and a half ago!” She leaned closer. She had recovered from her shock and was grinning. “Professor Winslow, have you been Google-stalking me?” She wagged a finger to punctuate the fact that she was teasing.

  He probably should have been embarrassed to have been caught out. But instead he decided to ignore the question and address her first statement. “I did know who you were.” Then, acting on an absurd impulse, he grabbed her finger—wrapped his fist around the protruding index finger and held it there.

  “But,” she whispered, “you said—”

  “I didn’t know Emerson Quinn,” he interrupted, his throat growing oddly tight. “But I knew you.”

  She regarded him silently for several heartbeats, and he was afraid for a moment that she might cry. “Yes,” she finally said. “The time I climbed out of Kirby’s window in the middle of the night was one of my little rebellions.” It took him a minute to get her meaning, to understand that she was picking up their earlier conversation even as he, for no rational reason, continued to hold her finger. “And as usual, it completely backfired. I thought I was seizing the day, but I was totally humiliated that night—both publicly and privately.”

  She looked like she was remembering something painful. He wanted to ask her to elaborate. Hell, he wanted to get on a plane to L.A. and hunt down that boy-band dudebro and kick his ass.

  He let go of her finger, which was harder to do than he would have liked, and settled for asking, gently, “What happened?”

  “The same thing that always happens. I got my hopes dashed.” She shook her head. “Anyway, the point is, I shouldn’t have been there to begin with. I should have listened to Maude.”

  “Maude told you not to go?” He was torn between bemusement at this whole Maude thing and anger at the entitled shithead who had dared to disappoint Emmy.

  “Maude told me not to go,” Emmy confirmed. “Just like she told me not to get on the bike with you.”

  “But that worked out,” he pointed out, disconcerted by the prospect that she might be thinking of that outing as a mistake of the same ilk as her encounter with Kirby Carson. Not to mention that he seemed to be arguing with Emmy’s imaginary voice of reason.

  “Yes. But only because…”

  Only because I kissed you.

  He heard what she wasn’t saying.

  “Anyway, that’s sort of my point. I want to do what Mrs. Johansen says, to live the life in front of me, but my carpe diem is broken. I traded it for success, I guess. Every time I try to be unfettered, I end up all over the tabloids, and sometimes I get my heart broken, too, as an added bonus. So then I overcompensate and get all cautious, and it…infects everything. Maude infects everything.”

  He suddenly understood that she had come here to get rid of Maude. She probably didn’t realize it herself, but some part of her, some part deeper than Maude that didn’t have a name, had known that in order to achieve her stated goal—creating a bubble of normalcy and independence—she not only needed to get away from her managers, she needed to get away from Maude. But to ditch Maude without it backfiring, she needed to be somewhere safe, somewhere where she could seize the moment but be assured that her every move wouldn’t be documented.

  The instinct that had gotten her here had been right on. She was in search of Mrs. Johansen’s Zen. It was like that utter competence he always observed in her, despite her protestations to the contrary, ran deep. It was the core that powered her.

  And eff him if the idea that she’d come to him specifically to try to access that core, to protect herself from the tug-of-war that was happening all around her, didn’t make him prouder than any painting back in the day ever had. Christ, the idea that she’d thought of him, after all those years, as a haven, as a place where she might enjoy enough protection to…live—well, shit. He loved listening to her make songs, but now something else rose in his chest, something powerful and protective.

  She sighed and let her head fall back on the swing again, then, slowly, she rolled her head to the side so she could see him. “I’m a total mess, actually,” she whispered, like she was letting him in on a secret.

  He shook his head and lowered his voice to match hers. “You’re really not.” She was completely and utterly sane, in fact. She was also one other thing: close enough to kiss.

  It was the opposite of last time, in the attic, when their kisses had been frantic, panicked almost. He couldn’t get enough of her then, had wanted to devour her, to somehow climb inside her. But tonight was different. She was already all around him, had been for hours, with her song snippets and languorous stretches. The way she stared into the sky when she was thinking hard, either about her song or about something they were talking about. She permeated the space around him, so much so that to lean forward slightly—he only needed a couple inches—and gently press his mouth against hers seemed like nothing more than the logical extension of their evening.

  Yes, the softness of her lips, the almost-inaudible sigh as they parted for him, lit him up inside, made his dick jump to attention, but it wasn’t an axe to his chest like last time. It was inevitable. She was all around. She was inside his head. She was everywhere. So why shouldn’t she be here, sighing against his mouth?

  Like a bubble floating on the breeze, the kiss only lasted a few moments before its pure, clear perfection popped. He made himself pull away. Slowly, though; he didn’t want her to interpret it as a recoil. Because it had been there, the kiss-bubble, hanging in the sky reflecting moonlight, and almost certainly he would come to regret it, but right now he couldn’t make himself. He was so full of her that there was no room left for regret.

  He wasn’t recoiling, but, he realized belatedly, she was. She’d stood and was on her way to the chair across from him, the one she’d been in before, but she stumbled. He was up in an instant, grabbing her elbow to steady her. But she kept recoiling, once she had found her feet. “Sorry,” he said, letting go and wondering if he should specify that he wasn’t talking about the kiss, even if, later, he would be sorry about it. No, right now he was issuing an awkward apology because she was
falling and he’d had to help her. Or something.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I just…can’t do that this summer.”

  Shit. She had misinterpreted him. He opened his mouth to clarify but then shut it again because that would only make things worse. And, more to the point, she was right.

  Holy shit, was she ever right. Belatedly, alarm bells started screeching in his head. Yes, there was suddenly more than enough room for the regret that had been absent before. What was wrong with him? She was Emerson Freaking Quinn. He had to quit kissing her.

  And, more importantly, he had to quit feeling responsible for her. Yes, she’d sought refuge with him, and fine, maybe that was a little flattering, but that’s all it was. A fleeting emotion. He couldn’t make it his job to protect Emerson Quinn.

  The slamming of a car door drew their attention.

  “I didn’t even hear them drive up,” Emmy whispered, echoing his thoughts exactly as she sat back down and affected a casual pose that was so obviously fake that he couldn’t help but smile. “Look normal!” she whispered urgently as she grabbed her guitar. “She can’t think we’re spying on her.”

  Evan was pretty sure Mrs. Johansen knew they were spying on her, but, grateful for something else to do besides ruminate on that ill-advised kiss, he did as he was told and grabbed his red pen and an essay off his ungraded stack, never mind that it was too dark to credibly be grading papers.

  “What’s happening?” Emmy whispered. She’d sat down across from him instead of next to him on the swing, so her back was to the action. “Is she waiting for him to come around to her side of the car?”

  “She is,” he said, squinting to try to see through the darkness. He glanced at his watch. “They’ve been gone five hours.” He wasn’t really sure where the time had gone.

  Well, that was a lie. The time had been absorbed in work and absorbed in Emmy.

  Emmy performed a comically exaggerated stretch so she could twist around and see what was going on next door.

  “Subtle,” he said.

  “Shut up,” she whispered, sliding off the chair, crouching on the porch, and turning around to peek over its edge.

  He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Remind me to remind you never to become a spy.”

  “Shhh!”

  SilverCEO was walking Mrs. Johansen up to her door. Emmy was so riveted, she looked like she was watching a crime show.

  With her back turned to him, he could study her unobserved. She was kneeling with her legs tucked under her, and moonlight painted her bare shoulders, making them almost shimmery. She looked like she was in church with the light of the heavens or some such shit shining on her. Or like she was a mischievous fairy from Midsummer Night’s Dream spying on the simple mortals. Maybe that would explain his odd behavior this evening, too. Maybe she’d put the otherworldly whammy on him.

  Dammit. He understood that he couldn’t get drawn into the fame-web of Emerson Quinn, but he still wanted to paint her. Wanted it so bad, his teeth hurt.

  She sighed, which drew his attention to the scene playing out next door. Theirs hadn’t been the only kiss happening this summer night.

  They were both silent as Mrs. Johansen allowed SilverCEO to peck her on the cheek. But as he was pulling away, she grabbed his cheeks and planted one on his lips. Her back was to them, so they couldn’t see her face as they separated, but she waited on the porch as her date made his way back down the stairs and into his car, lifting her hand as he drove away.

  “Oh my God!” Emmy breathed, just as Mrs. Johansen turned to them and said, “I see you two.”

  Emmy hesitated, like she wasn’t sure if she should keep hiding.

  “Busted,” Evan said, waving.

  Emmy popped up. “How was it? What happened? Are you seeing him again?”

  Mrs. Johansen was silent for a moment. Evan couldn’t see her smiling—the moonlight wasn’t that bright—but he could imagine it happening. Then she said, “Night night,” went inside, and shut her door.

  Emmy turned to him, mouth open in surprise, the moonlight that he’d been admiring on her shoulders illuminating her perfect face. The face he couldn’t have, either in reality or on canvas. “Is that all we’re getting?”

  He huffed a laugh he hoped sounded less bitter than it felt. “Yes,” he said. “That’s all we’re getting.”

  Chapter Ten

  Holy crap. Jace was a songwriter. Emmy didn’t even bother trying to play it cool at Evan’s after-school arts group as Jace played her the song he’d written in the week since their first meeting. The whole fence/holes/heartbreak thing had the potential to be pretty heavy-handed, and she would have expected no less from a first-time effort. The point with Jace, she’d thought, had been to get him making the connections, get him started on putting melody and lyrics together, even if his first effort was clunky.

  But the kid had produced a clever, subtle, catchy song. There were a few improvements she would suggest when he was done—after she picked her jaw up off the floor.

  Shockingly, Jace was also a singer. As with last week, he’d been moody and withdrawn, staring at the floor instead of making eye contact as they’d talked. But once he started singing, he was different. He still didn’t look at her, and his voice was soft. But it was clear. It didn’t shake, as hers had during her first few gigs—hell, during her first few dozen gigs.

  When he finished, he set his guitar aside and resumed staring at his shoes.

  Emmy started clapping, and she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t sure who was more startled, Jace or her, when the entire room erupted into applause. She turned and caught Evan grinning from ear to ear. They hadn’t really spoken since last week’s porch kiss. Well, they hadn’t not spoken, to be fair. They talked logistics. Emmy was going next door. Did Evan want another cup of coffee? But things had been different between them. More distant. A little awkward. Which was fine—or so she’d told herself. After their kiss, she’d hoped to avoid the whole “reasons we can’t make out anymore—for real this time” discussion. She didn’t need any convincing on that front. Well, her brain didn’t, anyway.

  But now, it was like all that awkwardness, all that unease, had been sloughed off, thanks to Jace. Evan caught her eye, raised his eyebrows and mouthed something that looked like holy shit. Emmy’s cheeks were going to split from smiling. And it wasn’t only because of Jace. She realized with a start that she had missed Evan. He’d been right there, under the same roof with her, but she’d missed him.

  But okay, she could examine that thought later. Or not. Jace was looking pretty uncomfortable as a bunch of the girls, who she suspected never gave him the time of day normally, swarmed him. “All right, you lot.” She made shooing motions to the kids who had crowded around him and ordered herself to be cool. “Off with you now. Jace and I have work to do.”

  An hour later the session was wrapped up, and she and Evan had made it to the privacy of his car.

  Which meant it was finally safe for her to lose her shit.

  She turned to him. “Oh. My. God.” She couldn’t help herself from making a stupid jazz-hands motion.

  He hadn’t started the car, didn’t appear to be making any movement to do so, just angled himself toward her and said, “Holy shit, Emmy. That was incredible.”

  “You should have heard it by the time we were done.”

  “I kind of did,” he said, looking sheepish. “I got that you were trying to shield him from everyone’s attention, but I did my very best to eavesdrop.”

  She sighed and flopped back against the seat. “This teaching thing, man. I can see why you like it.”

  He smiled and started the car. “It has its moments.”

  “I can’t button my shorts. I need to go shopping.”

  “What?” Evan tried not to laugh as he looked up from the porch swing to see Emmy standing in the doorway. She looked the same to him, dressed as she was in her tank top and shorts outfit—her usual “home” outfit.

  “Oh, Mrs. Johansen.
Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here,” Emmy said, grimacing. Evan tried not to be chuffed by the fact that while she was apparently embarrassed to reveal her pants-buttoning problems to Mrs. Johansen, she had no such qualms around him.

  “So what about SilverCEO?” she asked. “I knocked on your door yesterday to see how your second date went, but there was no answer. Spill it.”

  “There was no answer because Mrs. Johansen was having lunch at Wanda’s on her third date with SilverCEO,” said Evan, wagging his eyebrows.

  “Seriously?” Emmy said, her face lighting up as she sat next to Mrs. Johansen on the swing. Evan instructed himself not to look at the waistband of her supposedly too tight shorts.

  “I like him,” Mrs. Johansen said.

  Evan looked at the waistband of Emmy’s shorts.

  “And?” Emmy prodded.

  Her tank top was pulled over it, so he couldn’t see the button. To hear her tell it, it would either be undone, or it would be buttoned but straining to hold.

  “I like him.” Mrs. Johansen said again.

  The idea of her casually sitting there, on his porch, with her shorts unbuttoned… He shifted, his own shorts suddenly less comfortable than they had been.

  “So what’s this about your shorts?” Mrs. Johansen asked, clearly trying to change the subject and talking loudly enough to drag his attention back up from the gutter.

  “They’re all too tight—too much tuna casserole,” Emmy said.

  “I can try to make a…lite casserole,” Mrs. Johansen said with about as much enthusiasm as she had displayed when prompted to open up about her date.

  “Absolutely not,” said Emmy. “I just need bigger shorts. So I need to go shopping. Is there a mall around here?” She fixed her gaze on him. “I want to get…different things than I got at Walmart that day.” He got the message: she wanted to go somewhere else to buy more “home” clothes. Because surely her baggy “away” clothes still fit.