America's Sweetheart

by Jessica Lemmon

  “She probably doesn’t have a friend in the world right now.” My mother’s brows bend in sympathy. “I’ve read more mean tweets and articles about her lately. Millie is behaving like a piranha. The woman has three Oscars, for Pete’s sake. You think she wouldn’t care if one of them went missing for a few hours. And anyway, it doesn’t sound like Allie to actually steal it. I don’t care what Jimmy Kimmel says about her.”

  I don’t pay a lot (any?) attention to the entertainment industry and, in an exact opposite move from my mother, I try to ignore any news about Allie. Given my sheltered existence, I had no idea this news had reached the echelon of Jimmy Kimmel.

  “She’s number one on a list of Hollywood’s Most Hated,” I say.

  “Harsh.” Julieann winces, unable to be truly unkind.

  “I don’t pretend to know how you feel about her after everything that happened, Jackson, but she might need someone to talk to,” Mom tells me. “And since you’re working at the Murphy house…”

  Eating is my only way out of this, so I tuck into my burger and keep my head down. My mom’s words tromp through my head the rest of the evening, kicking up dust and overturning rocks.

  Evidently the past isn’t going to stay in the past. I’m not the kind of guy to run and hide, which is exactly what Allie seems to be doing right now.

  * * *

  —

  After a quick trip downtown, I arrive at the Murphy household Monday afternoon. I’m carrying two milkshakes, one strawberry for Allie and one chocolate–peanut butter for myself. I’m not sure if she wants one or if she’s on some weird Hollywood diet that prohibits her from drinking it, but I want to apologize and flowers seem…wrong.

  I hesitate at the door before knocking. Tommy and Daryl are on another site today, since we’re still waiting on lumber for the deck here. We need to paint the closet, too, but I wanted to check with Allie’s schedule before filling the house with paint fumes.

  The door swings aside, revealing the future receiver of a milkshake. Allie is wearing a short, short miniskirt, her legs temptingly bare. She’s given a few inches of height thanks to a pair of tall sandals, and I absolutely do not linger on the hot pink toenail polish. I jerk my eyes north, encountering several thin gold bracelets and necklaces on the way. Her hair is swept up on top of her head, a pencil jutting out of the sloppy bun.

  Wide brown eyes take inventory of me—but I can’t tell if she approves of my uniform of well-worn Levi’s and a white T-shirt or not.

  “Milkshake?” I offer awkwardly. We’re not what we used to be to each other and we’re not interested in being anything else. It’s an odd limbo.

  “What flavor?” Her eyebrows arch with interest.

  “Strawberry. It’s from UDF. Your favorite.” I frown in thought. “Or it used to be, anyway. There’s a smoothie shack in town, but I wasn’t sure if you were a shot-of-wheatgrass kind of girl or if you liked fruit.”

  Yep. Definitely not getting any less awkward.

  “So you bought me a milkshake,” she states.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not like I’m preparing for a part anyway.” She holds out her hand and I place the cold cup in it. Our fingers brush and that subtle touch stirs some unnamed thing between us. For me, anyway.

  She shuffles aside and invites me in. “I didn’t think you were working today.”

  I step into the foyer. The A/C is cranked and it feels fantastic.

  “My guys aren’t, but there are things I can do. We’ll need to paint here in the next week or so. If you can arrange to be away for a day, it’d probably be better than breathing fumes.”

  She puts the straw to her lips and sucks the pink milkshake into her mouth. Her eyes close and she lets out an Mmm that borders on orgasmic.

  “It’s been forever since I’ve had a milkshake. Like, a real one.” Her gaze softens on mine, her smile easy. She used to look at me like that all the time. And when she did, I never was able to resist pulling her close, bending low, and kissing her mouth.

  “Live a little. Or a lot. It’s your vacation.” I clear my throat to dislodge the lust clogging it. “Or whatever this is.”

  “Hiatus.” She quirks one eyebrow.

  “What’s with the pencil?”

  She reaches up and plucks it from her hair. “Oh, right. I forgot about that. I was having trouble typing out my ideas, so I found a pencil in the junk drawer and went on a search for paper. I thought maybe changing my medium might help the ideas flow better.”

  “Writing?”

  “Yeah.” Shyly, she looks away. “I had this idea for a screenplay. I don’t know. It’s probably stupid, but I need something to do besides sit around and read articles about myself.”

  A shrill beep, beep, beep comes from the kitchen.

  “My oven fries are done. Want some?”

  “With my milkshake? Hell, yeah.” We share a smile and I wonder if she’s remembering the many, many fries she’d dipped into one Wendy’s Frosty or another during the summers when we went out.

  Positioned at the stove, she scoops the fries from pan to plate and serves them on the island with a bottle of ketchup riding sidecar. We dig in, each pulling the lids off our shakes and dunking a hot fry into the ice cream, reserving the ketchup for later. Or maybe not at all.

  “Strawberry’s still my favorite.” She smiles up at me.

  “Good.”

  We both reach for another fry.

  “I’m not sure where I stand with you,” she says. “We used to be great friends, and then…you know, boyfriend and girlfriend, and then we broke up. Now we’re something else. Not strangers but not friends.”

  I don’t comment since there’s nothing to say. She’s right. We’re not strangers and we’re not friends.

  “Do you think we could be? If not friends, then friendly?”

  “Friendly.” I grunt the word. It’s unflattering and makes me sound like a golden retriever.

  “We’re capable of amicability if the milkshakes and fries are any indicator.” She gestures with a fry. “And I’m going to see you on and off with this project you have going on for Mom and Dad. It would be nice if we could coexist.”

  “Have you talked to them yet?” I ask rather than weigh in on the are-we-or-aren’t-we conversation she spearheaded. It’s too loaded. There are a lot of variables.

  “I texted my dad to tell him to have fun and tell Mom I love her. I asked her if she was worried and he said yes, but he assured her that I was a big girl and everything would turn out fine. I hope he’s right about everything turning out fine.” She presses her lips together as if turning over how much more to share. Finally, she says, “I mentioned I was staying here. He said they felt better that you were around so that I wouldn’t be alone.”

  Basically what my Mom had hinted at. Allie was home and upset and she needed a friend. All eyes are on me. Evidently I am a golden retriever.

  “It’s bigger than I realized,” I admit. “The media attention on you.”

  Her eyebrows jump.

  “Did you do it?”

  “Are you asking if I stole the Oscar from Millie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to know if I showed up at her party, at her house where I’ve never been before, and snatched an Academy Award off her shelf? Haven’t you heard the news? Seen the photos? I’m carrying it under a coat on the way to the valet at Millie’s house. It was Nina in the den with the Oscar!”

  I could do without the smart-ass comments.

  “It doesn’t matter what happened,” she continues, somber, “only how it’s being perceived. In Hollywood you’re guilty until proven innocent, and if you’re proven innocent later the damage to your reputation is already done. There’s a reason the saying ‘You’ll never work in this town again’ exists.”

  I’m begin
ning to think that my mom was right. Maybe Allie didn’t do it.

  “Friendly,” I say, looping back to our earlier conversation. It seems safer than this one. “Surely we can manage that.”

  She smiles around a bite of a fry, and I have to remind myself not to be towed in by her. Ignoring the swell of my chest at earning a smile, I step away from our snack and snap the lid back onto my cup. “I’d better head upstairs and start working. Check your schedule and let me know about painting, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll just check my busy schedule.” Some of the shadows have receded from her eyes. It makes me feel good to have chased them away for the time being.

  No, we’re not who we used to be, but that’s not necessarily bad news.

  Chapter 6

  I’m falling short of appearing to be casing the Murphy house in search of the paint swatches Cheryl picked out. I thought she’d left them upstairs in the bathroom vanity drawer, but they weren’t there, so I try the mail sorter in the kitchen-slash-desk area. There they are, nine different shades of pale, pale blue and her hand-drawn asterisk next to the right one.

  “Bingo.”

  “Riffling through our mail now?”

  I turn to find Allie in a short summer dress, white with a bright red belt. Her shoes are the same tall wedge sandals with her toes peeking out, and her hair is pulled away from her face into a ponytail. This is the first time I’ve seen her wearing makeup since she cried on me the day she arrived. I’m stunned stupid by how gorgeous she looks with it on. Without it, she’s naturally beautiful, girl-next-door hot. With it, she’s unattainable wealth and class.

  “Uh.” I mentally press the reset button on my brain, and then hold up the swatches to show her. “Came by to grab these before I go to Lowe’s.”

  “Right. Painting tomorrow. Can I come?”

  She sounds serious, so I haven’t wrapped my head around it just yet. “Come…to Lowe’s?”

  “Please?” She comes a step closer and tips her chin up, that long ponytail swishing over her shoulder. “I haven’t been anywhere since I got here, and honestly I’m nervous about being in public alone. I’m going insane.”

  She makes a face that does look slightly unhinged.

  “Sure. Okay.” What’s the harm? We’re trying to be “friendly” to each other, after all. Neither of us is interested in dating the other, and shopping for cans of paint sounds about as neutral and unromantic as errands get.

  “How long have you had your business?” she asks as the cans shake in the loud clattering machine in the Lowe’s paint department. We’re standing in front of a wall of swatches and she’s holding a handful of them—mostly shades of pink.

  “About eighteen months.” I pluck a brown strip and then tuck it back into the holder.

  “That’s great.” Her tone is cautious. “You’re a better boss than employee anyway.”

  “That an insult?”

  “No! Not an insult.” She slaps my arm with the stack of swatches. “What I mean is you’re better at being in control of your own schedule. I wish I had that. I show up when someone tells me to, stand on a piece of tape in exactly the spot they want me, and emote whatever is written on the scripts. I’m a lemming.”

  Her lips pull to the side like she’s unhappy by this assessment. I’m not happy about it, either.

  “That’s what being an entrepreneur is, Mini. I show up for a scheduled job, work on the project I was paid to do. There wouldn’t be a business without someone hiring me to do it. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I’ve been feeling…underappreciated lately.”

  “Is that why you stole Millie’s Oscar? Was she one of the celebrities underappreciating you?” I’m needling her and she seems to know it. She rolls her eyes but a hint of a smile tickles her red mouth. She’s always been sexy, but an air of mystery surrounds her now. Like if I gave into the urge and reached out to touch her she’d be remote, inaccessible. Or maybe she’d vanish in a puff of smoke.

  “Sure. Didn’t you hear me tell Ellen DeGeneres that I’d do anything for an Oscar? I was practically foaming at the mouth when I said it, so the logical follow-up action would be to rob a decorated, beloved celebrity at her house party.”

  She jams the various paint swatches into one slot and starts to walk away. I don’t let her. Hand wrapped around her biceps, I gently squeeze. She stops her forward motion and turns, closing her eyes and offering a subtle head shake.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t last a week in L.A.”

  “You didn’t last a week in L.A.” She winks to let me know she’s not trying to start the mother of all arguments.

  “Friendly. Remember?” My reminder doesn’t hold any venom, though. I release her and we retrieve our paint cans, walking side by side to the registers in a way that feels friendly to me.

  She sets the paint cans on the counter next to mine. The extremely bored, gum-smacking teenage girl ringing us up asks about a Lowe’s credit card in a monotone as I’m pulling a Visa card from my wallet. I raise my head to find her staring, jaw dropped, pink gum dangerously close to falling out of her mouth. But she’s not staring at me. Her eyes are fixed on Allie.

  “Omigod.” Her voice is little more than a whisper, and Allie bristles as she puts on a careful smile. “You’re Samantha from America’s Sweetheart. I mean, you’re Nina Lockhart. Omigod.”

  Her voice is low, but a few other shoppers pick up on her reaction and stop to look over.

  Allie slides the large dark sunglasses on top of her head down to cover her eyes. “I hear that all the time. But I’m not her.”

  “Oh,” says the crestfallen Lowe’s employee. “Wow. You look exactly like her.”

  “I hear that a lot, too.” Allie’s smile is paper-thin.

  The cashier takes my credit card and swipes it without looking at me or the machine. She hands it back the same way, her gaze glued to Allie.

  “Did you hear about that Oscar thing, though?” she asks as Allie’s shoulders crawl to her ears. “I can’t believe what she did to Millie.” She smacks her gum some more. “That poor woman. I love Millie Duncan. She’s a national treasure. And she invited Nina over to her house for the first time ever. And by the way, good for Xavier for dumping her. I bet he’s sooooo embarrassed that his girlfriend, I mean ex-girlfriend”—she cups her mouth to say—“used him to snag an invitation to Millie’s and then rip her off.”

  “Is that everything?” I interrupt. “We’re running late for lunch.” She snaps a surprised-slash-angry glare at me before putting on her for-work face and remembering that her job is to push that button right there so that I can sign the screen in front of me.

  Transaction complete, Allie and I carry our paint cans to the exit as the cashier calls over, “I like your dress.”

  Allie practically sprints out the double doors when they swish open. I load the paint into the back of my truck, watching as she seems to try to make herself smaller by curling her shoulders down and keeping her head low.

  “You okay?”

  She nods.

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Only everywhere I go. I should’ve worn the wig. But it’s too hot.”

  “Who cares if they recognize you?” I unlock the truck. Allie clambers into the passenger side before I can open the door for her. Just as well. It’s not like this is a date.

  “I care. Did you hear her? She thinks I’m horrible.”

  “No. She thinks Nina is horrible. You’re not Nina.” I slant a glance at Allie, who’s clearly taking the girl’s comments hard. “If you would’ve said you were Nina you’d be posing for a selfie and signing an autograph right now. Next time own it. People are too polite in the Midwest to be cruel to your face.”

  “It’s not the same in L.A.”

  “Which is exactly why you’r
e not in L.A.” Our gazes clash across the seat in the truck, the heat stifling as I turn over the engine. I look away first, to adjust the A/C and position the vents.

  “I should’ve kept in touch with more friends around here. I have no one.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  She jabs a finger into my arm. “You know what I mean.”

  “Where do you want to go to lunch?” I ask, because I do know what she means. It’s not hard to guess that the rest of her friends she left behind in college felt a lot like I did. That she moved to California and replaced us with a newer, shinier set.

  “I can’t go to lunch unless it’s a drive-thru,” she says, pushing a button the radio.

  “Why not?” The Allie I remember never backed down from a challenge. She’s completely comfortable being looked at, adored, and admired. You don’t become a celebrity by behaving like a shy wallflower. Her skin should be rhino-tough after a decade in the L.A. fishbowl.

  “Were you not just in there?” she snaps.

  “Are you hungry or not? I’ll take you somewhere under the radar.”

  “I am hungry…”

  Done. I reverse out of the parking space and drive to a restaurant that is way, way under the radar. But it was recently remodeled, so at least it’s decent inside.

  * * *

  —

  “Order number three-oh-one.” A young guy with red hair and a zillion freckles on his face and forearms slides two trays filled with food onto the waiting counter.

  “I’ve never seen anyone order this much Taco Bell,” I tell Allie as I sweep both trays. Her eyes are wide with excitement and her hands are filled with hot sauce packets.

  “I never eat here. Not ever. I figured I’d better order everything I wanted and then I can have a bite of each.”

  “First the strawberry milkshake and now enough Taco Bell to feed a small army. That’s the Allie I remember.”

  Her smile tips at the edge. She appreciated that comment, I know. It’d have to be hard not to be around people who really know you. I know her. Or I used to, anyway. The times when she acts like her old self, it’s easy to treat her like it.