Nothing makesyou feel more like a lonely bachelor than returning to a hotel room after a publicity stunt gone nuclear, your suit reeking of desperation and single-malt whiskey. I fumble the keycard, miss the slot the first time, and nearly hurl it at the Four Seasons’ art deco carpet. Inside: a familiar hush, thick with the artificial lemon scent they must blast in from air ducts reserved for the has-beens. One wall’s plastered with posters of my face in various states of brooding, all for the film I just embarrassed myself promoting. I imagine each one of those Ashers is cringing for me, arms folded, whispering “you dumbass” behind symmetrical teeth.
I go straight to the minibar, crack open a tiny overpriced Jameson, and drain it like NyQuil. Then I dial Craig. My index finger wavers as I tap in his number—he picks up faster if you call after midnight, but I don’t want to talk. I leave a message.
“Hey, Craig, it’s Asher. About the thing tonight. You saw? Yeah, I thought so. Look, just tell Myrna to call me, okay? I’m out. Of all of it. The stunt, the posts, the whole... shit show. It’s only going to make things worse for her, and I’m not going to be the one who burns it down. Call me.”
I hang up, but not before smashing the “End” button faster than necessary. I’m not sure if I want them to call back or to lose reception forever.
Jameson burns in my belly with a righteous ache. I swap my blazer for a t-shirt and let myself collapse backward onto the king-size. My phone buzzes, distant, but I don’t check it. The blackout curtains block all of Austin, except a neon sliver that leaks under the hem like murder-scene tape.
I should be pissed at Emma, I know. She played her part to perfection—the little gasps, the Bambi eyes, the tight-lipped smile when the interviewer nudged for details. For a second, I thought she was about to slip—tell some bit of truth. But she didn’t. She stayed the course. If anything, her lie was more real than my truth.
What did I expect? I signed up for this.
The TV is on, TMZ, the volume low. I watch myself on the screen: canned laughter, the host’s voice dubbing over my own, freeze-frames of my face next to Emma’s. No one ever tells you how exhausting your own image can be. Watching it, seeing the edits, the overlays, the way they color-correct your teeth and eyes until you look like a meme of yourself. In the bottom corner, a little box shows “Fan Reactions.” Mostly women, some drunk, all younger than me. One of them holds up a sign: “ASHER, MARRY ME.” I laugh, but it’s hollow.
I pop another Jameson. Glass bottles, cheap, but at least they sound honest when you tip them back.
My phone keeps vibrating. Three texts, maybe four. I ignore them. I want to get drunk—no, I want to get anesthetized. I want to bleach my memory of every hour up there: the way she let her hip bump against mine backstage, the little laugh at my whispered insult, the staticky brush of her palm in the green room. How could I be so old, so jaded, and so monumentally dense?
Eventually, I lose count of the bottles. They’re lined up on the bedside table, soldiers who died for my sins. I twist to check my phone. The screen flickers: Two texts from Craig. One from Myrna telling me everything is going as planned and not to fuck it up. And one from her. I tap into Emma’s so fast, I nearly delete it.
“Hey, are you okay? I can come up if you want to?—”
I fumble the reply:
“Don’t. Bad company.”
A minute later: “You’re never bad company. Let me know if you change your mind.”
I nearly ask her up. I really do. But I know what’ll happen. She’ll knock quietly, slip inside with her hair still styled for the cameras, that expensive perfume the studio probably gave her following like a cloud. We’ll sit awkwardly on opposite ends of the couch, and she’ll make small talk about the press tour schedule or how weird it is pretending to be a couple when we barely know each other. I’ll offer her a drink from the minibar, and she’ll decline politely. The silence will stretch too long. I’ll want more than I have any right to. Then she’ll say something like, “This is only until the premiere, right?” and I’ll say, “Of course,” and after she’s gone, I’ll lie awake wondering how I managed to develop real feelings for someone who’s literally being paid to tolerate me.
I switch the channel. It’s the duplicate headlines, looping: “Rowan and Dixon, sparks at SXSW!” “Is this just for show, or are they the real deal?” There’s a clip of my hand on her back, the dress she wore—and my gaze focused on her plunging neckline. Her deep-green eyes find mine, and a goofy smile forms on my face. For a second, I can almost smell her, the ghost of that perfume wafting from the television.
Why would she want me? She’s on the upslope, every agent and producer in town sniffing for a chance at her trajectory. I’mthe guy who’s made the cover of US Weekly three times with the headline “DIXON DITCHES AGAIN.” Even my publicist winces when we get to the relationship section of interviews. The role I’m supposed to be proud of—a grizzled, lovelorn detective—feels like typecasting now. My character can’t commit to the woman he loves until she’s literally in a body bag. By the time Emma’s gotten her first Oscar, I’ll be that guy everyone remembers as “dating half of Hollywood, committed to none.”
I want to say, “You deserve someone who won’t run.” But she already knows that.
The head rush hits me hard—the room tilts a little, and I let myself go horizontal, the sheets cool and impersonal under my skin.
I thumb open our last chat. The cursor mocks me, blinking at the void.
If I were the selfless guy she probably needs, I’d keep this professional–but I’m not. This may be the first time I’ve ever known precisely what I want in life, and I know with unsettling clarity that I want Emma Rowan.
Instead of going to bed, like I should, I type:
“Would you want to go somewhere tomorrow? Not for press. Just you and me.”
I hover, thumb trembling, then press send.
Instant regret. What if she ignores it? Worse, what if she says yes, and it’s unbearable? I stare at the phone like it’s a viper about to strike.
The reply comes before I can look away:
Absolutely. After the junket?
I type too fast:
Yeah. Pick a place. I don’t trust my taste anymore.
