America's Sweetheart

by Jessica Lemmon

  “That’s fucked up,” I admit. It’s hard to believe that people can’t separate characters from the person playing them.

  “Tell me about it. I keep my guard up. Find another famous person to date who understands how insane our world is. Sometimes it’s a good pairing and we have some laughs and camaraderie, and other times…”

  “He takes Millie’s side, publicly dumps you, and recommends you attend rehab,” I finish for her. “By the way, what was that about? Why aren’t you in rehab? Are you on the lam?”

  “He wasn’t a good boyfriend,” is her nonanswer before she turns the tables on me. “What’s dating been like for you?”

  She wasn’t kidding. She’s skilled at keeping her guard up.

  “Fine, I guess.” I scrub the back of my neck as Bev delivers a beer and promises our food will be out in a minute.

  “Did you have any long-term girlfriends after we split? Any close calls with marriage?”

  “Marriage.” I shake my head. “Yeah. No on that one.”

  “Still terrified of it?”

  “I was never terrified of it.” Allie and I didn’t out-and-out talk about getting married, but I assumed it’d happen eventually. Neither of us saw an expiration date back when a stint of four years seemed like a lifetime. Now that ten years have passed, she’s still the longest relationship I’ve had, so maybe it wasn’t that naïve.

  Our food arrives and the conversation stalls long enough for us to tuck in.

  “I was terrified,” she continues like there wasn’t a break in the conversation. She slices a boneless chicken wing into three chunks. She dips one in blue cheese dressing and chews thoughtfully.

  “Of marrying or marrying me?”

  “Of marriage, period. I thought it would mark the end of youth.”

  “No. You’re mistaking that with kids.”

  She eyes me carefully, swallows her bite, and proceeds with caution. “Are you…speaking from experience?”

  “I dated a girl with a three-year-old for a while.” I miss her son, Dallas. I don’t miss his mom.

  “Oh.”

  “That was as close of a brush to fatherhood as I came.” Except when Allie missed her period once and we sweated out an at-home pregnancy test in her dorm room. Man. I’d forgotten about that until this very second. “Did you think I had one or two kids running around Ohio somewhere?”

  “It could’ve happened.”

  “It could’ve. But, no. Kids haven’t been in the cards for me yet.”

  We lock eyes over our red plastic baskets of food before she explains what’s behind her stony stare.

  “That could’ve been us. Imagine if I’d have ended up pregnant in college. If Hollywood had never happened.”

  So her mind did go back to that moment alongside mine. I don’t think the wistful quality of her voice is her wishing she’d have ended up pregnant and married to me, though. I’m guessing it has more to do with regrets over how things have ended up since Tinseltown bit her in the ass.

  “Wish you’d have stuck around Ohio?” I stab a boneless wing and gesture with it. “Stayed here and finished business school? Landed a job with a corner office? Avoided the bright lights and millions of dollars Hollywood had to offer?”

  She pauses like she’s mentally considering an alternative scenario and then shakes her head. “No. I guess not. I love my job.”

  Her beaming smile comes out of hiding. She’s alive—her eyes sparking with interest.

  “This’ll go away and you’ll be back in the limelight soon enough. Everyone’ll say you made a comeback. They’ll realize the stolen Oscar thing was blown out of proportion. It’s a hunk of metal on a stand. It isn’t as if Millie lost her title because it’s not on her shelf. It’s not like she has to take her statuettes with her to auditions or anything.”

  Allie surprises me by laughing.

  “What?” If I’m not mistaken, she’s finding my midwestern lack of know-how charming.

  “You’re so damn refreshing.”

  “Uh…Thanks?” I’m not sure how to take being described like a soft drink.

  “Everyone I’ve talked to in L.A. has been so, so, so serious. From my agent to my publicist and even my aunt. They’re talking about spin and lining up tell-all interviews with magazines.” She plucks a mozzarella stick from the basket. “My agent had this crazy idea…”

  Rather than finish, she takes a bite.

  “A publicity stunt of sorts…” She caps that partial sentence with another bite.

  “Are you going to tell me or not?” I ask after waiting for her to continue.

  Straightening the bill of her cap, she peeks at me from under it and says, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  Chapter 10

  “Your agent wants me to date you while you’re home,” I say, my voice hollow.

  I sit back in my chair and lift my fresh beer bottle. I blink once. Twice. I’m trying to decide why her agent cares if Allie dates me and then I try to decide if that’s why she’s here with me now.

  “Is that why you came out tonight?” I take a look around the bar, half expecting to find someone in the corner in dark sunglasses snapping pictures of us.

  “Jax. No.” She reaches across the table but I’m too far away for her to touch. She pats the worn wooden surface before pulling her hand back. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but…”

  “But?”

  “It’s working. You and me.” She lifts and drops one shoulder. “We’re convincing.”

  “Ha!” Heads swivel in my direction at my loud crack of laughter. “Didn’t we have a conversation about how we don’t want to date each other? Weren’t we shooting for ‘friendly’?”

  “Yes. You’re right.” She waves a hand, sweeping the topic aside. “Forget I asked. It was a dumb idea.”

  Silence creeps in, but the idea of dating Allie has hooked into my brain. “Why would your agent suggest that anyway?”

  “The comments.” Her eyes widen like her meaning should be obvious.

  “Did you just say ‘the comments’?” I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about.

  “On the website where the pic of us at Taco Bell debuted. They’re not being nice to me, but they love you.”

  I didn’t think it was possible for me to be more confused. “Who’s they?”

  With a patient sigh, she pulls her cellphone out, sweeps the screen and then hands it over. I scan the “comments” unsure how to feel.

  Nina may have bad taste in restaurants, but he’s yummy.

  Who is that guy??? I want him for myself!

  I live in Ohio and haven’t seen a guy that hot here EVER.

  H.O.T. That beard. Dark hair. Call me, gorgeous!!!

  “Your face.” Allie giggles.

  “This is…” I needlessly show her the screen.

  “Nuts? Welcome to the fishbowl.”

  “ ‘I wish I could see his eyes,’ ” I read. Then I scroll down. “Someone replied that they’re ‘sapphire blue and TDF.’ What the hell does TDF mean? And how did whoever typed that know my eye color?”

  “TDF is to die for. And I couldn’t help myself.” She snatches the phone and smirks.

  “That was you?”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to myself.” She props her elbows on the table. “My agent believes a couple of staged public appearances could paint me in a different, more approving light. We could control the narrative. She’s pissed about how the whole thing with Xavier went down and likes the idea of upstaging him during his film release.”

  “Oh yeah?” Interest sparks. I like the idea of upstaging that prick, too.

  Allie nods. “Mm-hmm. You and I made headlines and that was enough to insinuate that I’ve moved on. If we can turn those whispers into shouts, maybe it’ll take the spotlight off the O
scar and Millie and Xavier.”

  “I’ll do it.” It’s out of my mouth before I think about it. But what is there to think about? It’ll help Allie’s reputation, and we’re already hanging out anyway. Bonus, it’ll bury Xavier McCormack. Not as satisfying as breaking his nose, but I’ll take it.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask.

  “We go out. I tweet our location. Photos are snapped and sold of us looking…cozy.” Her cute nose wrinkles. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

  “What? PDA?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t want what we’re doing together to endanger what you had going with that other girl.”

  See, now she’s trying to make it sound like she’s putting my needs ahead of the scheme, but I know what she’s really asking. Allie wants to know if I’m still dating Kim, and I can’t help teasing her.

  “Kim’s pretty understanding. I’m sure if I explain you and I are just for show, she’ll be okay with it.”

  Allie blanches.

  “So transparent, Mini.” I laugh.

  “You ass!” She reaches over and swats my knee, but her laughter holds a note of relief.

  We’re separated by a table and ten years of not knowing each other, but there’s a recognition—a comfort—between us that can’t be denied. I don’t have to ask if she feels it, because I can tell. I could always tell with her. It’s like she’s part of me again already.

  That’s a dangerous thought.

  But. I can compartmentalize. Can and should.

  Plus, this act that she’s proposing? Totally safe. We’re pretending to date while not actually dating. Big difference.

  “I don’t know how good of an actor I am,” I admit. “But I’ll give it my best shot.”

  “Just be yourself.” She lifts her beer bottle. “We’ll stage a kiss. Maybe a little hand-holding.”

  “Stage it?” I can’t help sounding smug. “We’ve done a good job of kissing twice now and those weren’t staged.”

  “True.” She shimmies in her seat like she’s excited. “No one said we can’t enjoy ourselves.”

  Damn. Until now, I didn’t know I could look forward to something like this.

  “Trust me, Mini. You’ll enjoy yourself. I’ll see to it.”

  I pay for our food and beers and we exit. She grips my hand, weaving her fingers through mine as we walk across the parking lot. The sun is low in the sky and the trees blow in the soft, warm breeze. Corner Store is in the middle of a neighborhood filled with hundred-year-old houses that have seen better days. But it’s homey. Easy.

  A lot like holding Allie’s hand feels.

  I open the passenger door of my truck and she climbs in. I’m caught by the need to kiss her, transfixed by her beauty as much as the wistful hint of nostalgia being with her brings.

  “Good night, Jax!” comes a shout from the other side of the parking lot. Allie turns her head to look and I wave at Joe, a guy I know from the bar. Trance broken, Allie slips the seat belt over her torso, no longer waiting for me to kiss her.

  Guess I’ll have to kiss her good night at her place.

  * * *

  —

  “Can I see your house?” she asks after we’re on the road.

  “You want to see my house?”

  “It’s not a come-on.” She holds both hands up. “I’m curious what it’s like. Are we close by?”

  “Yeah. We’re close.”

  Windows down, we drive past bars, houses, gas stations, and restaurants, and stop at four stoplights that dot the busy road leading to my neighborhood. In my driveway, I park and we ascend the porch steps.

  I unlock my front door, oddly nervous about her seeing my place for the first time.

  The house was built in the ’60s, so it has great bones. Brick exterior, so no siding to power-wash. My style on the inside is comfort first, style second, in gray and steel blue and black. I lean toward clean lines and modern lighting. Last year I installed the pale gray-flecked countertops and painted the cabinetry black.

  “Wow. Nice place.” Allie sweeps a hand along the high bar top separating the kitchen and living room. “It’s cute.”

  “Cute?” I ask, alarmed.

  “Would you prefer manly?”

  “I would. Yes.”

  “It is masculine. The colors. The simplicity.” She taps the pile of mail on the kitchen table next to a laptop and a stack of receipts. “You should fire your secretary.”

  “Yeah. He’s the worst.” We share a smile, knowing I mean me. “I expanded my company this year but haven’t committed to an office space yet.”

  “Or help for the office.”

  “Or that. Tour?”

  “Sure.”

  I show her around, which doesn’t take long. One bathroom, two bedrooms. My bed’s unmade, which she points out. I notice she lingers in the doorway, eyes on the sheets, but her expression reveals nothing.

  We pass through the kitchen and step outside.

  “Whoa. Jax. This is beautiful.” She’s referring to the deck/patio area—modern, stained natural wood, strings of white lights. (I flipped the switch on before we came out.)

  “Last summer I built the contemporary slatted roof and installed a ceiling fan. The seating area’s new this year. I host a summer party every year. Figure the crew will enjoy that.”

  “Totally.” She wanders down the steps, past the patio, and into the plush green grass. A fire pit overflows with stray sticks I picked up from the yard. “Sounds like fun.”

  “It is. I make a batch of Burke-bombers, which puts at least one person on their ass every year. Last year it was Catarina, Barrett’s girlfriend.”

  “Barrett Fox.” She nods in recognition. “Still friends with that troublemaker?”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  “He and Beth finally called it quits, huh?”

  “Yeah.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no one expects college relationships to last, but it hits too close to home, so I don’t.

  “Why does the name Catarina sound familiar?”

  “She’s the journalist who dated him for a column last year to improve the way he was being perceived by an unhappy public.”

  “Right. I heard about that.”

  “Neither of them planned on it, but what they had turned into more.”

  “Amateurs,” she teases. Surrounded by twinkle lights, her hands in her back pockets, Allie couldn’t be more tempting. I look down at her as she looks up at me.

  Unlike with Fox and Catarina, there’s no danger of Allie and me uncovering a hidden layer in the other. Of us being intrigued by the unknown. We’ve been there and done that and she likely has one of my old T-shirts to prove it. What’s between us is about now—right now. Adding a photo op or two isn’t going to change anything.

  Our problem was never attraction—unless we’re talking about too much of it. Our problem was that she left and expected me to go with her. Our problem is that we want different lives. I want to own a business and build things, and she wants to be in the spotlight and attend parties surrounded by other famous people.

  We may have been each other’s worlds when we were together, but we’re worlds apart now.

  “Take me home?”

  Now, why did my brain hear “take me to bed?” My dick stirs to life, mishearing the same thing.

  I tug the bill of her cap playfully and back away. “Yep. Let’s go.”

  Twenty minutes later, I park at the Murphy house. With the engine idling, I decide to forgo the good-night kiss and leave immediately. I can’t take the torture of wanting more and being rejected again.

  “Thanks for dinner,” she says.

  I open my mouth to say “No problem” when I remember something.

  “Shit.”

  Allie pauses with her finge
rs on the door handle, a questioning expression on her face.

  “I left the plans for the deck upstairs,” I explain. “I can’t remember the measurements for the gate and I’m buying the hardware tomorrow. Do you mind? It would save me a trip.”

  “Not at all. Help yourself.”

  Inside the dark, quiet house, we walk side by side through the living room and up each stair step. We don’t touch but the heat between vibrates in the air.

  My heart is hammering with every step we take, the moron. There’s nothing to be nervous about. There’s nothing happening or about to happen. Dumbest body part ever, mark my words. I take it back when my dick vies for first place, swelling as we slow our steps in front of Allie’s bedroom.

  “Well. This is me.” She rests a hand on the doorjamb. Moonlight peeks through the windows, spilling down over the bedspread and across the thick carpeting on the floor.

  We used to sit on that bed and study. And by “study” I mean that we made out, my hands on any part of bare skin she’d let me touch. Over the bra. Under the bra. Over the panties. Into the panties. Every touch was a test to see how much further she’d let me go until we went all the way that night of her parents’ party.

  “They had to know what we were up to in here,” I say aloud.

  Allie tugs off her ball cap, tosses it onto the dresser, and smooths her ponytail. “Ugh. That’s horrifying. I hope not. I’d like to believe they thought we were innocent. And that you were a gentleman.”

  “I think they thought we were in love and let us be. Your parents are high school sweethearts. They know the deal.”

  “I know.” Her throat works as she swallows. Then she bites her lip. Her eyes go to the bedspread—neatly made, unlike mine—before she faces me. Her voice is raw and vulnerable when she whispers, “Jax.”

  Unable to deny myself any longer, I lower my lips to hers and kiss the sense out of both of us. Lips fuse and our tongues tangle as I back her deeper into her bedroom. I’m through hesitating like a nervous teenager. We’re not teenagers anymore. We’re adults. With adult thoughts and needs.