I see Tate start to stretch, and I try and mimic his movements. My heart comes up into my throat every time I glance at the black wall with all those purple and yellow foot and hand holes. I swallow hard, wishing I had at least Googled a rock-climbing video so I’d have an idea what to do.
As we warm up, I sense the air around us changing. Almost a buzz that is growing the longer we stand there. I glance behind me and see a crowd of girls a little younger than me by the juice bar giggling and whispering. I look down at my ass to make sure I don’t have a very obvious wedgie, but it looks like I’m fine. I stare at them again and see them not-so-discreetly pull out their phones and start snapping photos. At me.
“Ignore them,” Tate tells me. I’m still staring at them, trying to figure out why they’re laughing at me. Tate gives them a smile and a wave, and one of the girls all but screams “HELLOOO.”
Now I get it. I’m with Tate Lawrence. I’m so used to him just being Tate, and within the bubble of the set, he’s just another employee.
But out here, he’s Tate Freakin’ Lawrence. Actor. Superstar. Dreamboat. The girls mess with their hair and lick their lips as they gape openly at Tate, who gives them one last charming smile before turning his back on them.
“Usually the employees here are really good about keeping fans back while I work out,” Tate explained. “I usually take photos and sign autographs, but in here, I like to just be left alone. Except for you, of course.”
“What if I want an autograph?”
“You have to work for it.” Tate stands above me, looking like a marble statue if a marble statue were tan, vivacious, and wearing a perfectly matched black and orange workout outfit. He has a black baseball cap pulled low over his brow. “Ready to do this, Young? Wanna bet who gets to the top the first?”
I get the feeling that Tate had called ahead and pulled some strings, because though the front of the gym was pretty packed when we walked in, the back area with the wall is completely deserted. Except for the group of girls who were obviously told to stay back by the juice bar and not bother us. But they were definitely NOT told to keep their glares to themselves. All of them are shooting looks of death that I can almost physically feel hit my forehead. Tate’s back is to them, so I know these glares are all for me. One of girls, a blonde with too much bronzer, pulls out her iPhone and raises it. I quickly turn around so she can’t get a good picture. I don’t want to be on TMZ tomorrow as Tate’s “mystery girl.”
“C’mon, Dani. You stretched enough. Let’s go!” Tate orders while bouncing around on his toes.
I stand shakily and follow Tate over to the instructor to get set up with gear. I look the wall and I sway on my feet at the idea of climbing up and up. I grab Tate’s forearm suddenly and yank him back.
“Tate. I’m um . . .”
“What?”
“I’m scared of heights,” I finally admit, feeling sheepish. Tate looks at me like I’m pulling his leg.
“Very funny, Young. You want me to take it easy on you so you can kick my ass,” he tells me with a wagging finger. “You can’t fool me.”
“No, really,” I insist, scrambling to tell him the truth and not look like an idiot. “It’s just . . . um, okay. The truth is that I haven’t gone rock-climbing in a while and I’ve seemed to have developed this weird new fear of heights.”
There. That was half true.
Tate’s smile falls from his face, but only for a second. And then he grins and steps closer to me.
“That’s happened to me, too. One time I was almost to the top and I froze right below the ledge. I couldn’t move or think,” Tate says. I fold my arms and glare at him. Was this story supposed to make me feel better? Because if Tate couldn’t handle this . . .
“But then I thought, ‘It’s just another step. Just one more step, and you’re done.’ Even if I had nine more steps or a hundred more steps, I could force myself to take one single step,” he says, his blue eyes soft and focused on mine. “That little mantra even helps when I get stage fright.”
“You? Stage fright? You’re a seasoned pro,” I say.
“Yeah, on a show that I’ve been on for two years now. But when I first started, I would shake like a leaf before every take. Sometimes, if it’s a big, important scene or an intimidating guest star, I still get a little spooked,” he explains. “So I just remember—that next step. That next line. The rest will follow, and I’ll be fine.”
I nod, still unsure. But I glance up at the wall, and with Tate standing so close to me, it doesn’t seem so scary. Well, it does seem scary. But it’s a scary I feel okay trying to tackle, so long as he’s next to me. Or preferably under me, so he can catch me when I undoubtedly fall on my ass.
Tate puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently. I’m surprised by how warm it feels, and the heat floods through my chest and stomach, soothing me and sparking my adrenaline all at once.
“So just take a first step up. And then another one if you feel like,” Tate says. “I promise I will help you along. And if you feel scared and want to come down, we’ll go get onion rings at the arcade next door, okay?”
“I do love onion rings,” I relent. I take a deep breath, still feeling the calming pressure of Tate’s hand on my shoulder. “Alright. Let’s do it. If I die, tell my parents I love them.”
“That’s the spirit!” Tate yells with a clap. “I mean, not the dying thing but . . . whatever. Let’s go.”
We get roped in and our instructors get us going. Tate tells me horrible audition stories as we start out, which is distracting enough to get me about a third of the way up. I’m basically just copying Tate’s every move. He puts his left leg up, I put my left leg up. He reaches for a grip with his right hand, I do the same. We’re climbing at the same pace, which I can tell is really slow for Tate. But me? I’m sweating. I let out a big puff of air and wipe away my sweaty bangs sticking to my face. I would rather not look like an out-of-shape, heaving, frantic maniac, but all my energy is focused on not falling and/or dying.
“So, not so bad, huh?” Tate asks me as he effortlessly heaves himself up another level. I’m panting, but I follow suit and stick next to him.
“No, it’s fun,” I tell him in between breaths. “Can you slow down please?”
“Sure, let me know when you’re ready to keep going.”
I nod gratefully and rest my forehead against the wall to catch my breath. Despite my obvious need to get more exercise, I am having a good time.
Besides, staring at Tate’s arms flex as he climbs the wall isn’t terrible in any way.
“Okay, Young. Break is over. Are you ready to climb?”
I’m about to give him a thumbs-up, but that’s when I make the fatal mistake: I look down. We are more than halfway off the ground and I’m dangling above nothing but air. Forget the ropes that are securely fastened to me and the more-than-able instructors down below ready to help me if I fall—my head is spinning. I grip the handles in the wall until my fingers ache.
“Tate, I wanna go down,” I whisper. He climbs down a couple feet so he’s eye to eye with me.
“Are you okay?”
I can feel him adjust his ropes so he can get closer to me. I pinch my eyes shut, trying not to panic.
“Please. Help me down.”
“Okay, don’t freak out. Let’s go down together. Just follow me. I’ll go down a bit, and then you go down. That way you’re always above me,” Tate says in a steady, measured voice. It sounds like he’s a dad talking to his child, which isn’t the vibe I want between us right now. Or ever. But right now all I can focus on is getting back to solid ground.
We work our way down, Tate saying phrases like “that’s right,” “awesome,” and “doin’ great,” to me. I keep my eyes on the top of Tate’s head as we climb down the wall. With each step toward the floor, my breathing hitches less and less.
“Okay, Dani. We’re almost to the ground. I’m going to repel down now and meet you on the floor, alright?”
>
I nod blindly at him, as my eyes are still darting around above me, as if looking away from the top will somehow transport me up there. Forever.
“Dani,” Tate says from the ground, which still seems so far away. “Just a couple more steps and you will be level with me. Then we’ll get those onion rings.”
I laugh and lay my head against my arm, taking a second to listen to my breath even out. And then I take a step down. And then another. My hands are shaking, but they are clinging to the hand holes tightly.
“Dani, you’re here. Just take a step down and we’ll get those ropes off you,” Tate alerts me. I look down and see I’m just hovering above the mat. As I take my feet off the wall and safely step onto the ground, Tate moves forward to put his hands on my arms. I somehow trip on his cords and spin clumsily, heading toward a face-plant on the floor.
Fortunately, Tate’s arms catch me right before I smack into the mat.
Unfortunately, he gets tangled up in my harness and we both crash to the mat together with a reverberating boom!
I’m pinned beneath Tate.
“Dani! Are you okay? Are you crying?”
“No,” I say, shaking with giggles, laughing at how absurd and ungraceful we are together. “I’m laughing because I’m so unathletic that I somehow passed it on to you!”
Tate rolls off me, but his legs are still tangled with mine, so I roll onto my side and get a face full of his chest. I look up and stop laughing.
My chin is pressed against his collarbone and I can feel his breath on my forehead. Tate’s hands are gently holding my hips, ever so softly gripping the bottom of my tank top. Just a millimeter move, and he could slip his fingers under my shirt and feel the skin beneath. If he wants to.
I want him to.
I glance up and Tate’s eyes are burning into mine, unfaltering and unwavering. Like he’s challenging me. I know I need to look away. I should look away, but I gaze right back at him, matching the intensity I’m getting from him.
You know how you watch a romantic movie and you get to the point where you know the two characters are supposed to kiss? Tate and I were in that moment. Instead of letting our lips meet, we just . . . keep staring at each other. Daring the other to do something. I see a playful shine start to glimmer in his eyes, like he knows the severity of our situation and he loves that we’re in this together.
I shift my hip and accidently dig my elbow into his side, which makes Tate wince, effectively snapping us out of our stare standoff.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I climb off him and put a good five feet between us.
“Damn, Young. You’re all bone,” he complains. Tate gets to his feet, dusts off his clothes, and holds his hand out to help me up. I grab it, hoping that this won’t lead to another stare down, because I won’t be able to handle two in one minute.
But he doesn’t linger even a moment longer than necessary with his physical contact, and we’re collecting our gear quickly and saying good-bye to our instructors before I can even process what just happened between us.
As we walk toward the front, Tate gives me a friendly pat on the back. If he’s trying to bring us back to the friend zone, it’s not working. Every touch sends shivers down my spine. Or it could be the near-death experience I just had.
“You did great, Dani.”
“Are you kidding? I only made it halfway to the top, and that was the beginner’s wall!”
“So what? You almost got to the top, which is awesome.”
“Almost doesn’t count,” I tell him with a meaningful glance. He immediately looks away and stares straight ahead.
“It does in my book.”
The comments. The lingering looks. The touching. It’s all too much for me right now, considering that we’re supposed to be friends. Just friends. I need to get away from him quickly. Like now. Before he breathes on me and I pounce on him.
“Thanks for coming with. I can’t bring my girlfriend within ten feet of this place,” Tate laughs, a bit too awkwardly. It’s clear he wants to remind me he’s taken.
Stop being so stupid, Dani! I berate myself. I just had the experience of liking someone much more than he likes me. And in this situation, I will lose more than just my pride. I will lose two friends. Possibly a job.
And my life here in Los Angeles will be over before it even begins.
We say good-bye in the parking lot. Tate offers me a ride, but something between us has shifted. The air around us feels tense. Almost forced. I don’t want to spend another hour with him in the car making things worse, because knowing me I’d drag out the weirdness between us until Tate is so uncomfortable that he just jumps out of his moving car on the freeway. So I tell him I don’t mind catching the bus, and he doesn’t push me on the offer.
We do a weird bit where Tate goes in to hug me good-bye, but I’m already waving and walking away, pretending not to notice.
I walk to the bus station, replaying everything Tate did and said that day, trying to convince myself that there is nothing there between us. That it’s all on my end. The faster I realize that, the sooner I can move on and get my brain back on the career track.
When I get to the bus stop and plop on the bench, I realize that I went through almost all of Elise’s seduction list.
Body contact. Making him feel manly. Revealing something personal about myself.
Looks like I’m doing a much better job at this seduction thing than I thought.
“Oh, man,” I moan as I drop my head into my hands. The kid next to me glances my way curiously before turning up the volume on his iPod. I press my fingers against my face until it hurts. Not only was I openly ogling Tate over the course of the day, but I’m opening up to him. Making myself vulnerable.
Well, enough of that now. There is only one rule I need to obey, starting tomorrow.
Avoid Tate at all costs.
Chapter Twenty
Hey Taterzzzzz here. There’s a party tonight and I think you should come. I promise to not bring up the fact that you are terrible at foosball.
Dani? Just let me know if you’re coming. Haven’t seen you in a bit.
I ignore the two texts from Tate, because if I start chatting with him I know he’ll charm me into going to that party, and that will go against the one new rule I have to follow: avoid Tate. I’ve even done something I never, ever do: called in sick to work. I haven’t been to the Vamp Camp set in three days. It’s a desperate, possibly career-damaging move, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t face Tate right now.
My phone signals another text, and I glance at its place on my bed, expecting Tate again. This time it’s from Elise. She wants to meet for lunch, but I’ve been avoiding her, too. I just don’t know how to deal with those two right now. I feel like I’m an exposed wire, ready to shock anyone who comes into contact with me. I’m missing my protective outer coating. I’m going to hurt someone for sure if I get close enough. So I’m throwing myself into writing. Or trying to, at least.
I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head, because I honestly believe it will help block out the world. Maybe if I keep the world at bay for long enough, I won’t like Tate anymore, my writer’s block will evaporate into the air and out the window, and everything will be perfect.
I decide to give the hood a couple minutes to work its magic and pull up Twitter to get my scroll on. A lot of people have #TSA as part of their tweets, which sounds like some new street drug. I click on the hashtag and the results make my spirit plummet.
It’s the TV Spotlight Awards tonight. Tate will be there. With Elise. His girlfriend. She’ll be on his arm, and they’ll look perfect and beautiful together. I feel left out, but more than anything I hate that I feel left out. Because I have no right to feel that way.
I haven’t spoken to Tate since we went rock climbing a few days ago, and other than his texts, he hasn’t made an effort to seek me out. I tell myself that his distance is due to filming, nothing else. He probably didn’t see my heart leap out of my c
hest when I looked at him, right?
Tate is not my boyfriend. He is not my potential boyfriend. He is my best friend’s boyfriend . . . so why do I feel like Elise is taking something that is mine?
You think he belongs to you because you know him better. The thought comes unbidden to my mind, and I give the strings of my sweatshirt a hard tug. My hood snaps closed over my face, making my entire world dark. I let my head fall to my desk with a loud thump.
“Dani?”
Brit must have been walking by when I smacked my head, because she’s in my doorway, looking at me like a concerned parent. I push my hood down and mute Betty White.
“Still watching Golden Girls?” she asks as she crosses the room and sits on the edge of my bed. “Must be bad.”
“Yeah,” I huddle into my hoodie. “It might sound strange, but it soothes me. Better than music sometimes. Thank your former roommate for me.”
“Sure thing.” Brit pauses a beat, then says, “Um, did I hear a banging just now? Did you throw something?”
“No, just trying to knock some intelligence into my head. Sorry about that. I have writer’s block.” I play with the strings of my sweatshirt.
“It’s probably because this room is zapping all your energy,” Brit says. She gestures to my bedroom floor. “You need organization and your furniture is blocking good vibes from getting to your main creative space.”
“Brit, I have, like, two pieces of furniture.”
“Okay, but what about this mess on the floor. That’s a sign that your mind is cluttered,” she scolds.
“Or,” I offer, “it’s a sign that I’m really lazy and don’t want to drag my dirty clothes to the laundry room. Don’t judge me.”
Brit laughs and comes over to my desk to stand behind me. I resist the urge to block my computer screen so she doesn’t see what I have written, but I’m so stuck, I’m willing to take anyone’s feedback. She leans over my chair and I see her eyes scanning my Final Draft document. She purses her lips as she reads.
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