My Unscripted Life

by Lauren Morrill

  “It’s still weird to me that you’re dating someone who owns a house,” Naz says.

  “If only that were the weirdest thing about him,” I reply. “Did you know he actually likes pimiento cheese?”

  “Ewwww,” Naz and Colin groan in unison.

  There are already at least a dozen cars parking in the driveway. We let ourselves in, our shoes squeaking on the refinished floors.

  “Dee! Welcome. Place looks great, huh?” Miranda, Milo’s manager, is standing at the foot of the curved staircase. She barely looks up from the screen of her phone, where she’s furiously typing with her thumbs, her stick-straight blowout falling down over her hands so we can’t see what she’s writing.

  “It’s amazing,” I reply. I’m still getting used to Miranda and the way she’s always doing six things at once. And one of those things is pretty much always “managing” our relationship. But I can’t hate her. She’s the one who keeps the press away from me.

  Miranda finishes whatever furious message she was sending, then slides her phone into the back pocket of her skinny jeans and nods. “I was a little wary about the purchase, but I think the publicity from the design magazines is going to pay dividends.”

  “Also it’s a really nice place to live,” Naz says.

  Miranda cocks her head to the side and blinks. “Oh, sure,” she says. “Of course.”

  “Everyone’s out back?” I ask. She nods, so I lead Naz and Colin through the house.

  We head down the hall and cut through the kitchen, now outfitted with a collection of appliances worth of the Culinary Institute, though Milo can pretty much only make popcorn. We step through the french doors onto the back porch, which wraps around from the front of the house, and then step onto the newly laid stone path in the backyard.

  The lawn is bright green and mowed in perfectly geometric rows. At the far end, a large screen has been erected. Strings of white lights crisscross the yard from the back porch to the new recording studio Milo had built. Metal buckets full of ice and sodas in glass bottles dot the yard. A buffet table is set up at one end with burgers, dogs, and all the fixin’s, plus an old-fashioned popcorn machine that’s giving the air a buttery tinge.

  “Oh my God, it’s her,” Naz whispers through clenched teeth. Colin visibly tenses next to her. Across the yard I spot a familiar head of red hair. Lydia turns, catches sight of me, and stalks across the new grass. Quite a feat considering she’s wearing four-inch heels.

  “Dee! It’s so good to see you,” Lydia says. “The bar won’t serve me. God, Milo’s such a Boy Scout.” She changes her posture to imitate the bartender, her manicured fingers hooking air quotes. “ ‘House rules,’ ” she grumbles in a low Southern twang, reminding me yet again that she’s a really good actress.

  “Also the rules of the state of Georgia,” Naz says.

  “Actually, I think the drinking age is federal,” Colin adds.

  Lydia rolls her eyes, but Naz and Colin barely notice. They’re too busy discussing alcohol laws by state.

  Benny comes trotting over with two open Coke bottles and hands one to Lydia. I haven’t seen him since production wrapped. He headed out to LA to work on some action movie starring a retired football player, which was conveniently where Lydia ended up as well, filming on some fancy cable show where they’re allowed to swear. Tonight, he’s wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled at the elbows.

  “Nice outfit,” I say.

  “I was very glad to discover he had other clothes,” Lydia says, and we all laugh.

  The rest of the crowd is made up of a mix of strangers and familiar faces. It turns out I was wrong when I thought I’d never see a lot of these people again. The crew, most of whom are actually from Atlanta, are working on other productions around the state. Carly and I met for lunch when I went to tour Emory with my mom. And now a lot of them are here, brought back by the promise of an open bar and a free screening. And it’s not just the locals. I spot Gillian with a box of popcorn, and Paul is setting up a pair of folding chairs for himself and his wife, another indie actress whose name I can’t remember.

  “Hey, isn’t that that guy from that thing?” Colin asks, trying (and failing) to be inconspicuous as his eyes dart over toward Paul.

  I scan the yard, but don’t see the familiar blond head anywhere. “I’m gonna go find Milo,” I say, then head back into the house. I make my way upstairs and down the hall to his bedroom. The door is cracked open, so I knock lightly as I peer in. He’s standing in front of an antique full-length mirror, looking like he’s making an attempt at a pep talk.

  “Oh, thank God,” he says when he spots me. He lets out a long, shaky breath.

  “What’s up?” I ask as soon as I notice the deep canyon of nervousness between his brows.

  “I’m freaking out,” Milo says, each word punctuated hard.

  “Why?”

  “This is my first movie. What if I suck? What if people hate it as much as they hated my last album? What’ll I do then?”

  “Take up scuba diving?”

  Milo laughs.

  “Seriously, those are your friends out there. They support you no matter what,” I say. “And let me be the first to tell you that you categorically don’t suck. I watched you every day on those monitors. You were phenomenal.”

  Milo sighs, as if someone’s let the air out of him. His shoulders relax, and he steps toward me, his arms snaking around my waist.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Milo says.

  “Probably burn this house down, because I know you don’t know how to use that monster stove down there.”

  Milo grins, then bends down and kisses me long and hard. I let my hands go up to his hair as I sigh into him. I wish we could stay up here all night, but there’s a crowd in the backyard waiting for a screening. And that crowd includes Milo’s mother and my parents, who like Milo a lot, but they’re still wary of the whole my-boyfriend-owns-his-own-home situation.

  I take his hand and start to lead him out of the room when something catches my eye. On the wall over his bed is a painting in a rustic wooden frame. It’s midnight blue with swooshes of beige, reminiscent of sawdust floating through a darkened warehouse. Around the edges, you can still see the smudges from where the canvas was stacked and discarded before the paint had fully dried.

  “That’s my painting,” I say, staring first at the canvas, then at Milo, who is grinning. “Where did you get it?”

  “I took it from the prop room after filming,” he says. “I liked it. Every time I look at it I think of that first time we talked, when I walked in on you covered in paint and in your crazy artistic zone.”

  “I can’t believe you stole it,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, drowned out in my head by the pounding of my own heart.

  “Rescued it,” he says, bending down to plant a soft kiss on the tip of my nose. “It’s not uncommon for people to take things from set when filming is done. Mementos, you know.”

  A wide smile spreads across my face, and I have to bite my bottom lip to keep it from flattening me with joy. “So you’re a common thief!”

  “Yes, well, I’m quite the bad boy,” he replies. He winks and raises an eyebrow, and I can’t help myself. I crash into him as if I’ve been shoved, meeting his chest with an oof, and then kiss him so hard and so long I swear the movie must be over by the time we part.

  “Okay, we’re going to have to leave now, or we’re never gonna,” Milo whispers, his lips still brushing mine.

  “Ugh…,” I groan, but I take the hand he offers me and follow him out of the room.

  Outside, more people are starting to set up lawn chairs for the screening. I spot my parents with a pair of navy canvas chairs near the back. When Dad spots us, he waves us over.

  “Tremendous job with the house, Milo,” he says, sticking out a hand for one of those manly handshakes that look like they might separate your shoulder. “Really amazing. Just top-notch.”

  I l
ook over and see Milo actually blushing. “Thanks, Dr. Wilkie.”

  “Call me Ron,” Dad says.

  “Oh, okay,” he replies, but he doesn’t use my dad’s first name. I think he’s still a little intimidated, despite having a good six inches on Dad. Milo told me once that in all those years of dating Lydia, he never actually met her parents, making my dad the first father he’s had to come home to, so to speak. It’s adorable, and I know it makes my dad feel better about the whole my-teenage-daughter-is-dating-a-pop-star-turned-actor situation. “Listen, I’ve got all the paperwork filled out for the historical society to get the designation and the plaque for the property. I’ll text you about when we can sit down to go over it?”

  And with that, I think my dad loses all sense of reservation about our relationship, because he practically levitates with excitement. I swear, he grows at least an inch at the prospect of getting Westfell Grove on the National Register of Historic Places.

  “Sounds good!” he sputters, raising his glass to us. I roll my eyes. My dad is such a dork, but I love him.

  Up near the screen, I notice a familiar Yankees cap. Rob gives a loud whistle using two fingers, and the chattering crowd quiets. Milo and I quickly make our way to a pair of chairs right down front.

  “All right, everyone. I’m very pleased to be back in Georgia for the very first screening of Just One Color,” he says to a smattering of applause and a few woo-hoos (which come from my father’s general direction). “Though I’m pretty thankful we’re back here in October and not June.”

  The crowd laughs, as the out-of-towners fan themselves with whatever they have on hand. They’re not conditioned to find low seventies and humid to be cool like we are. This is straight-up autumn for us.

  “This is the first time anyone outside of the production team has seen the film. Our official premiere date is still a few weeks away, so if you haven’t signed your confidentiality agreements, please do.” This time it’s the locals who laugh, but from the look on Rob’s face I’m not entirely sure he’s joking.

  Just as the last ray of sun sets, Rob claps his hands and steps to the left of the screen. “Okay! Here now, Just One Color.”

  The crowd applauds, and someone somewhere pulls the plug on the twinkle lights overhead. As the screen lights up silver, I lean my head onto Milo’s shoulder and lace my fingers with his.

  ROLL CREDITS

  Thanks to my editor, Wendy Loggia, who saved me from writing bad fan fiction and dragged me kicking and screaming onto SnapChat. This book would not be this book without you. Thanks to everyone at Delacorte Press for your hard work and support, especially Krista Vitola. Thank you to my agent, Stephen Barbara. You’re the very best there is, and I thank my lucky stars daily that you’re on my side.

  Thanks, Rachel Simon, Lenore Appelhans, and Kathryn Holmes for reading very early versions of this novel, and Vania Stoyanova and Jackson Pearce for pre-baby writing dates (someday I’ll leave the house again, guys, I swear). Thanks to Amanda Blocker for making Mystic Falls so fun and for making me want to write this book. Thank you to the Little Shop of Stories, especially Diane Capriola for welcoming me into the shop and Kim Jones for making me feel like a straight-up superstar. And thank you to my author-mom friends on Twitter, especially Sarah Dessen, Melissa Walker, and Jen Calonita, who gave much-needed advice and encouragement as I wrote a novel with a newborn.

  I’ve been working on this book, in some form or fashion, for about three years, but it wasn’t until I had a baby and a deadline three months later that things got real. So thank you to Freddie, who took lots of naps in the backseat of the car so Mommy could write this book in parking lots. I love you I love you I love you. And thank you to Adam, without whom I surely wouldn’t survive.

  Lauren Morrill grew up in Maryville, Tennessee, where she was a short-term Girl Scout, a (not-so) proud member of the marching band, and a troublemaking editor for the school newspaper. She lives in Macon, Georgia, with her family, and when she’s not writing, she spends a lot of hours on the track getting knocked around playing roller derby.

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