America's Sweetheart

by Jessica Lemmon

  My friend is blinking in disbelief, his mouth screwed into an uncertain hitch.

  “I had a date the day after. Kim. I didn’t go home with Kim. She wanted me to. I just…I don’t know.”

  “You weren’t into her?”

  “No. Kind of. I couldn’t stop thinking about work.” And about Allie. I realized later that night that the reunion with her had acted as a cock-block. Not surprising. It’s not like a crying ex-girlfriend is a turn-on. “I think she was jet-lagged.”

  “Kim?”

  “Allie,” I correct. “Jet lag can make someone unreasonably emotional, right?”

  “Uh-huh. So can being dumped publicly. I heard McNina is no more. What’s she doing here? Thought she was in rehab.”

  “Hell if I know.” We each take a pull of our beers. “Think if I texted Kim and asked for a hookup rain check, she’d agree?”

  “Doubtful.” Barrett snorts and glances around the bar. “You should pick up someone new.”

  My eyes snag on the hot redhead with the nose ring at the bar. My buddy notices.

  “Grace is married to the suited guy sitting at the center of the bar.”

  “Ah.” I notice now, the way she leans close to the guy and smiles, her eyes twinkling. “Yeah, I’m definitely not a suit.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. Neither am I, and I’ve worn plenty of suits. The clothes don’t make the man, my friend.” The TV catches his attention for a moment before he asks, “What about Allie?”

  “What about her?” I shrug. Isn’t it obvious she’s a nonissue? Why do I find myself explaining that lately? First to Jules and now to Barrett.

  “She’s single,” Fox reiterates.

  “If you can believe a word out of Xavier McCormack’s mouth,” I practically spit his name.

  “I met him once at a party in Miami.”

  I lift my eyebrows, waiting. And?

  “Douche,” Barrett confirms. I nod, justified in my assumptions.

  “You and Beth dated in college and then tried again and again. You know how it goes.” I swipe the condensation from my beer bottle. It’s a muggy June day. I’m grateful that a majority of the Murphy remodel will be indoors. For years I spent workdays with Dad outside in whatever elements came our way. Granted, I still have a deck to build at the Murphy house…if the lumber order comes in correctly.

  “It’s surreal to see her in person,” I continue. “I stayed the same. She went on to become a celebrity adored by the masses. It’s like the second she was away from me she became successful.”

  “Jealous?” Barrett smirks.

  “No.” I have a strange, albeit late, epiphany sitting across from my friend who’s a celebrity by most people’s standards. “That’s probably how Beth sees you.”

  “As the one who got away? She doesn’t. Trust me.” Good-naturedly, he laughs. “The celebrity thing is a façade. Success is hard to measure. Years of being in the spotlight and behaving like the public expected did not a life make. I understand that now.”

  “Deep.”

  “That’s me.” He’s always been more than glad to let the press take chunks out of him, but he’s more complex than his outside persona lets on. Even still, I continue ribbing him.

  “Tell me, Fox, have you finally arrived?”

  Just when I think he’s going to spew bullshit about him being at his peak, he surprises me. “No. But I’m closer.”

  He grins before tipping his beer bottle. See? Complex. He’s been smitten by Catarina. I noticed it when I ran into them at the beer garden last year, and he’s only gotten worse since. Poor bastard. Every smart guy knows not to fall for the smart, pretty, rich girl.

  “Ready for some real advice?” Barrett asks, sobering abruptly.

  “Hit me.”

  “Get laid. Finish the job at the Murphy house. Let Allie roll off your back and settle into your past where she belongs. She’s not the girl you used to know. She’s changed. You’ve changed.”

  It’s good advice.

  “Are we done clucking like hens now? Can we play darts?”

  “If you want to lose fifty bucks.” I stand, ready to do anything besides talk about Allie or my fumble with Kim. “Second thought, make it a hundred.”

  He starts for the dartboard, beer in hand. “You’re on.”

  Chapter 4

  I stop by the Murphy house to check on the progress of the closet. Tommy said it was, and I quote, “done,” but Tommy also cuts corners. I can’t completely blame the kid. He just turned twenty-one and unlike me doesn’t have any interest in building or remodeling as his life’s work. He’s here for the paycheck, and some days that means he needs a kick in the ass or a stern reminder from the boss.

  I spin the knob on the front door to let myself in but it’s locked, so I reach for the key Cheryl gave me. Come to think of it, with Allie here I should knock or ring the bell.

  Oh well. I’m already inside.

  I don’t shout up the stairs to Tommy but instead climb the stairs to the hallway. I pass by the bathroom, guest room, and Allie’s former room, but I don’t see anyone. Swiping the sweat from my brow—it’s another scorcher, topping at around ninety-two degrees—I check the walk-in closet. It’s about the same size as the master bathroom now—big. I run my hand along the freshly spackled drywall, impressed that there are no waves or bumps. Wait. Tommy can’t drywall for shit.

  “Daryl,” I call out. I poke my head from the closet at the same time Daryl peeks from around the master bathroom wall and plucks his headphones off his head. He’s wearing an honest-to-God Walkman. With a CD in it. I shit you not. He says he can’t wrap his head around iPods or MP3s.

  “Nice work on the drywall,” I tell him. “Tommy con you into doing that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Kitchen. He’s on break.” With a nod, Daryl vanishes again and I turn and jog downstairs. I enter the mouth of the hallway toward the kitchen, when I hear voices. Tommy’s. Allie’s.

  They’re laughing. The sound from good-natured Tommy, I’m used to. The sound from Allie feels more like a hallucination, given our last interaction.

  “Burke. Man.” Tommy is grinning as he gestures to my ex-girlfriend. “Do you know who this is?”

  I glance at Allie to find she’s grinning as well and that stops my brain cold for a few dumb seconds. Her wide mouth is spread into an infectious smile, her teeth straight and white and perfect. Her dark eyes are ringed by a million lashes that don’t have the help of makeup today and don’t need it. She has the mysterious “it” factor famous people have. A pull that makes you want to be in her space. Her eyes brighten and her throat bobs with a silent laugh at Tommy’s question.

  “Yeah,” I answer, unable to look away from her for a beat. “I know who this is.”

  “So get this,” he says, enthralled. “My girlfriend and I start bingeing this show on Netflix called America’s Sweetheart over the weekend. We watched, I don’t know, four or five episodes on Sunday. Then I’m standing here and Nina Lockhart strolls into the kitchen and I’m thinking, ‘Holy shit! That’s Samantha from the show!’ ”

  “To be fair, you actually said the ‘holy shit’ part,” Allie tells him.

  “Right.” Tommy gestures to her as she crosses the room to open the refrigerator. “Since we started on season one, you can see how I didn’t recognize her at first. She looks the same but different, you know? You watch America’s Sweetheart, Jax?”

  “A splashy comedy about four college-aged girls who hack into the world of politics and launch a campaign for one of them to become the future president of the United States?” Allie pulls a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. “That’s Jackson’s favorite show.”

  Tommy’s eyes flash from my face to hers like he’s trying to decide if she’s teasing or not. Or m
aybe he’s picking up that there’s more to us.

  “Hey, can you go upstairs and help Daryl clean up?” I ask him.

  Disappointment floods my employee’s expression.

  “Can’t skip that step,” I remind him.

  He twists his mouth like an argument is brewing, but evidently Tommy doesn’t want to start one in front of “Nina Lockhart.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He pulls his shoulders back. “I was only taking a break.” He waves at Allie, thanks her for the selfie, and leaves the room.

  Leaving her and me standing at the island in the center of the kitchen. Tommy was half right. She isn’t the same girl she was in season one of America’s Sweetheart. Back then she was twenty and had been on an airplane once. That was before she had a stylist and a makeup person and a trailer with her name on it. But right now, without a stitch of eye shadow coating her lids and with that playful sparkle in her eyes, she looks a lot like she did then. I understand his meaning. Her cheekbones are more defined now, her hair longer and silkier, her posture straighter and more confident.

  “He’s sweet,” she says.

  “He’s young.”

  “You were that young once.” She pulls two glasses from the cabinet behind her and pours tea into both. No ice. Just like she used to drink it. She’s the only person I’ve met who drinks iced tea without ice. She crosses to the fridge again, tops off my glass with ice cubes before delivering it.

  “Thanks.” I accept the glass and we sip in silence. Allie’s wearing a white dress under which I make out the shadow of a red bikini. It’s a great day for a swim and the pool in the backyard is perfection. Which is probably how she’ll look when she takes off that cover-up. My mind makes a pit stop to the gutter as I imagine what we used to do together and wonder if that has changed, too. If her tight, warm little body would feel the same beneath mine. If her skin still tastes the same.

  I gulp my tea, and briefly consider dumping it over my head to cool down.

  “I owe you an apology,” she says.

  Color me surprised. She’s apologized to me before—we dated for nearly five years, so we both have eaten our share of crow, but if I’m recalling correctly, she’s never apologized voluntarily…or before I did.

  “For?” I ask.

  “Come on.” She rolls her eyes. “For walking into this house and crying on your shirt. For accusing you of ruining my dress. It was lame. I was jet-lagged and fragile.”

  I was right about the jet lag.

  “How’s the dress?” I ask instead of asking how she is. I can see how she is. A hell of a lot better than she was that afternoon.

  “It’s dry-clean-only and I’m not going out in the world alone unless I absolutely have to. Plus, I already returned my rental car.”

  “Worried you’ll run into more rabid fans like Tommy?” I tease.

  Her smile falters and her gaze hits the floor. “Worse. Much worse.”

  She reaches for the laptop sitting on the island between us. Julieann has the same one. She hasn’t stopped crowing about her “rose gold MacBook.” Not pink, let’s be clear about that. Rose gold.

  Allie pops the lid, types a few keys, and then turns the laptop to face me. A headline, black and bold, reads HOLLYWOOD’S MOST HATED. Her photo is at the top.

  “I’m number one. Go me.”

  I scroll down, reading the section about her. It’s unflattering. Every word of it.

  “ ‘Is America’s Sweetheart desperately in need of treatment, or has her ugly side finally surfaced?’ ” she recites as I silently read the same sentence. “They hate me. Which is why I’m here and not at home. By the way, I forgot how many clouds there are in Ohio.”

  I blink at her, thrown by the sudden change of topic.

  “Mini…Allie.”

  “It’s Nina,” she corrects, but her mouth jaunts at a playful slant. “One of Hollywood’s Most Hated.”

  “It’s bullshit. This.” I shake my head and close her laptop. I don’t know what else to say about it, but I give it a shot. “You think this matters because you live in a fishbowl. But here? It doesn’t matter. You can thank the cloud cover. No one around here cares that some random blog accuses you of being hated.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Did Tommy care?”

  Her mouth opens to refute me but she closes it when she realizes she can’t. She spins her glass on the island’s surface.

  “Do you care?” she asks, her voice small.

  “I don’t like that you’re hurt,” I manage after a pregnant pause. She’s not mine to watch over and hasn’t been for several years. “What about McCormack?”

  “What about him?” Her eyes flash with banked anger. Can’t say I don’t like that reaction.

  “Last I heard you were going to rehab.” I air-quote the word.

  “Yeah. He sandwiched that between telling the world that I was in a jealous rage and breaking up with me. I’m not sure if he wants me to have treatment for my kleptomania or my inability to keep from envying my way into criminal activity.” She rolls her eyes. “Did you know that Millie was filmed giving a statement to the press? She said I was belligerent and drunk at her party. Xavier was at her side wearing a hangdog expression…” Her cheeks redden like she’s too infuriated to continue before she says, “He’s a jerk.”

  “Yes. Agree.” Wholeheartedly.

  “Thanks.” She peers into her ice-less tea and then back to me. “How much longer will you be working on Mom and Dad’s room?”

  “A while.” I don’t owe her a timeline. She wasn’t the one who hired me.

  “Well, it’s not easy to sleep in with the remodeling noise,” she says, her mood souring. What’s with her slipping from considerate, easygoing Allie to uptight celebrity Allie? “Why didn’t my parents tell me they hired you?”

  “Why would they? Do they typically consult you when they schedule house repairs?” I ask, frustrated by the implication that I’m not worth hiring.

  “No, but you’re…You.”

  I move around the island to stand closer to her. I want to watch her reaction when I do it. She swallows—her throat moving gently with the action—and then she tilts her chin to take me in, several inches shorter than me given that she’s barefoot. There was a time when we couldn’t be this close without touching. That time has passed. I rest a palm on the countertop next to her hand and dip my head.

  “You disapprove of your parents hiring me to do the work?” I keep my voice low and she sucks in a little puff of air that might be a gasp.

  “N-No,” she stammers. “But because of our past I thought, I don’t know”—a shrug—“that they’d be more loyal.”

  I straighten. Blink. The word lights a fire under my ass.

  “Loyal?” I bite out. Then clamp my teeth tighter so that I don’t continue with a litany of accusations. Something like You mean the way I was loyal when you moved away? The way I was loyal when I visited California? The way I was loyal when I let you kick me out of L.A. and still tried to make up after I returned home?

  Instead, I snort.

  “Jackson, it’s not that you’re not a great guy, but…” Her brows pinch as if she’s doing me a favor by dishing out the “great guy” compliment. This sounds like a breakup speech. A speech she’s already given. A speech I don’t have to listen to twice. That’s probably why I’m pissed.

  “I’m a great builder,” I inform her. “Your parents hired me because of who I am, not because of who you are. I show up and offer a fair price and they trust me to be here when they’re away. That’s why I’m here. It has nothing to do with you. Which must be hard to wrap your head around since your world has revolved around you for the last decade plus.”

  “Jax.”

  “I have work to do.” I turn and leave the kitchen, jogging upstairs to point out a few to-dos to Dar
yl and Tommy. Once they’re clear on what needs doing, I exit via the front door. A cursory glance to the kitchen shows no sign of Allie or her enormous ego.

  Chapter 5

  “She deserved it,” Julieann tells me before shoveling potato salad into her mouth. Mom has declared that it’s too hot to turn the oven on, so we eat dinner on the patio. Mom and Dad are arguing about how to clean the grill. Jules and I are having seconds—more potato salad for her and another burger, potato salad, and plenty of crisp barbecue chips for me.

  “No. She didn’t.” I shake my head, knowing I’m right and hating it. That’s a first. I love being right.

  “Jax, she’s the one who left. She can’t come back home and expect none of us to have moved on. We didn’t freeze in place when the great Nina Lockhart left the building.”

  “Nina Lockhart?” Mom interrupts our conversation to lift the potato chip bag. She fishes out a few chips and raises her eyebrows. Jules and I exchange glances.

  Should we tell her? I ask silently.

  Jules shrugs. She’s going to find out anyway.

  I nod. That’s a good point.

  I turn to our mother. “Allie’s back in town. She’s hiding out at her parents’ house, where I’m currently doing a remodel job.”

  “Oh dear.” Mom thoughtfully munches a potato chip. “How is she after that whole Oscar theft thing?”

  “Guilty,” Julieann answers.

  “Is she?” Mom directs that question to me.

  “I assume.”

  “I’ve heard from McCormack and Millie,” Mom says. “Allie herself hasn’t made an official statement.”

  “You follow the gossip rags, do you?” My sister smiles, amused, even though Jules called me not that long ago, sounding like the soundbite from a celebrity gossip website.

  “Yes. I care what happens in the world of entertainment. Especially if it’s Allie, since she’s a local celebrity.”

  I stifle a groan with a very big bite of my hamburger.

  “She’s acting like one,” Jules grumbles.