I laugh—uncultured, snorting, real. It shakes off my anxiety the way nothing else does. I want to tell him this, but instead, I say, “You’re not bad at this, you know.”
“At pretending to be a boyfriend?”
“At making it feel unpretentious.”
He doesn’t answer, just lets the silence spool out until the emcee beckons us into the white-hot gladiator pit of the group photo. We line up with the other talent, the flashbulbs building a strobe-lit wall. Asher stands behind me, his hand on my waist, and the warmth is so tangible I wonder if the camera will catch it.
The photographers keep us posing until my smile calcifies. Between flashes, the director’s wife makes a grab for my champagne flute, and whispers ripple through the crowd about a Tarantino sighting near the parking attendants. I scan the sea of faces, but Asher has vanished. Until suddenly he materializesbeside me, navigating the crush of bodies with two stemmed glasses of ruby liquid balanced between his fingers.
He holds one out. “You don’t have to sing, but it might help. Cheers?”
I take it, sipping the wine. “It’s not Malbec, so you’re safe.”
He clinks his glass against mine, hovering just a little too close. “I’d like to hear you sing Hamilton, actually.”
I shoot him a sidelong look. “Some other time. In a soundproof room.”
He laughs, and my stomach flip-flops, a sensation I thought I’d aged out of in high school. He folds himself onto the low wall next to the pool and pats the spot beside him, so I perch there, careful of my dress. For a second, we are two kids skipping prom, making up our own afterparty.
“Lena’s nice,” he says, and I can’t tell if he means it.
“She’d murder you for a good story.”
He tilts his head. “So would you, I think.”
I want to protest, but he’s right. I love the story more than I love whatever thing is supposed to come after. He sees this in me. Even worse, he seems to like it.
The stars overhead are clustered closer than seems possible, like one strong wind could blow them all into the pool. I want to bottle this feeling: the world loud, but not too loud; the wine gone to my head just enough for me to believe the future isn’t a trap.
I trace the rim of my glass with my finger. “You know,” I say, my voice softer than intended, “I thought this would be simpler. Get some good press, smile for the cameras, move on to the next project before...” I hesitate, looking up at him. “Before it got complicated.”
He considers this. “That plan sucks.”
I smile. “Yeah. It kind of does.”
He looks at me directly, as if he can see all the moving parts and knows I’m still holding a few in reserve. “Let’s agree to not have a plan. Tonight, anyway.”
The words are lazy, unthreatening, a gentle dare. I nod, and we fall into a rhythm, trading stories about worst table reads and accidental auditions, discovering our shared loathing of morning shows and an unironic love of diecast model cars. It’s easy in a way that nothing has been for months.
Eventually Lena reappears, triumph in her stride, and a lipstick smudge on her front tooth. “Ciaran Doyle says you’re the most talented American since Brando, and I told him you sleep with a stuffed wombat named Sir Gregory.”
I die inside. “You did not.”
She grins. “He’s very supportive. He says it’s healthy.”
Asher cocks an eyebrow. “I’d like to meet Sir Gregory.”
Lena drops onto the wall, sandwiching me between them. “You’ll adore him. He’s very plush.”
She changes the subject to something less me, more celebrity, and I sink into the comfort of my friends bickering and the weight of Asher’s steady presence beside me. The party is fading, the music turned down, and I’m tired but, for once, not lonely. In a city built on illusion, the three of us—two humans, one hypothetical plush wombat—feel real.
When the party breaks, and we tumble into the driveway, Asher catches my hand so lightly I could pretend I don’t notice. But I do, and I don’t let go.
There are two kinds of people in this city. For tonight, I think I’m finally with the sharks.
CHAPTER 7
ASHER
