Emma bends her head, the bun threatening to collapse. “Let’s call it three months of performance art. Then we transition to an amicable breakup and resume our separate identities.”
“And you?” Jessie’s deadeyes lock on me.
“I’ll play my part. Eclipse could really use the help.” I smile, to hide my wince, because the one thing no one in this booth will say out loud is that our movie is ambitious, expensive, and about to be outmuscled by three Marvel reboots and whatever horror flick Blumhouse spits out for Halloween. If we don’t get people emotionally invested in the stars, those seats will be empty.
Food arrives—egg-white omelets, green juice, toast so brown it seems pre-burnt. I thank the server, who gives Emma a nervous up-down. She ignores it, focuses on the food with low-level panic, as if eating in public is a new concept. I remember a wrap party in Bel Air where she’d spent an hour talking existentialism with the stunt coordinator, then left before dessert. She’s not made for social metabolism.
I spear a piece of omelet. “So, Emma. Pretend it’s just us. What would you actually want from this?” I gesture to the table, the restaurant, the entire PR quicksand we’re slowly descending into.
She chews, thinks. “I want to survive it without being mistaken for someone I actually am. Or being cancelled for having visible pores, or, God forbid, not being interesting enough. And I want you to not make the whole thing into a competition.”
I almost snort my juice. “Are you suggesting I can’t behave myself?”
She raises her eyebrows. “You got arrested outside Chateau Marmont during your first pilot season. In swim trunks. At three in the morning.”
The memory hits hard. “I was twenty-two,” I say, too fast. “And that fountain looked really inviting after six mojitos."
“Everyone saw it on TMZ. They said the officer had to fish you out while you recited Shakespeare." She’s half-smiling, but it’s a tight, wary thing.
“He was cool about it. Still have the mugshot somewhere.”
The booth is quiet for a beat longer than usual. Jessie and Myrna start talking dates, logistics, and the bland posturing of people who survive on contract language and plausible deniability. I watch Emma touch a bead of condensation on her glass and realize I’m watching her the way you’d watch a a bubble of soap—afraid to breathe in case it pops.
We spend another twenty minutes covering the script of our pseudo romance. There will be joint interviews, at least four “candid” pap walks, and one staged argument that will “leak” during week five. We’re both to co-host a charity sushi event for a marathon in Santa Monica. The details are a whole genre of bleak, but Emma surprises me by zeroing in on the photo op at The Getty, where we’re meant to art-flirt in front of a David Hockney masterpiece. She points to it with a little exasperated hum. “At least let us pick our own outfits for the Getty. The last time I wore a stylist’s idea of ‘accessible’, I looked like a substitute teacher who moonlights as a taxidermist.”
“I’ve always wanted to try improv,” Myrna says, deadpan.
Jessie gestures at the page. “Will there be, like, a protocol for physicality? Are they supposed to touch, or just, you know, hover attractively?”
Oh, Jesus. I glance at Emma. “I mean, if you want to pretend I don’t smell like wet dog after cardio, I can do some hand-holding. Maybe a ‘steal a fry from your plate’ maneuver?”
“I dare you,” says Emma, her smile now fully weaponized. “Go on, make it believable. Method or nothing.”
The ball lands in my court, and before I can let my brain veto, I reach across the table and gently peel a toast slice from her plate, break off the end, and pop it in my mouth. “Is it working?” I ask, trying not to ruin the moment with a stupid grin.
She makes a face—mock horror, then something softer. “Maybe. You’ll have to keep trying.”
Jessie shakes his head, mutters something about “children,” and resumes scrolling his phone. Myrna leans in. “This is perfect. You’ll need to keep this energy up for the cameras. I want at least three viral moments by Monday.”
They finish eating and start finalizing calendars. I’m about to zone out when Emma leans over and, in a voice only I can hear, asks, “Did you really keep it? The hideous mugshot?”
I nod, pulse hopping. “It’s in my house somewhere. Want to see it?”
She shrugs. “I can look for it online. I need a good laugh.” She stands, gathering her bag, the movement making her briefly dizzy. I notice her steadying herself, and something protective stirs in me, idle and dumb.
Myrna says, “We’re ready to go,” and herds us out into the blast furnace of the LA morning.
In the parking lot, Emma lags behind, forcing a moment where it’s just us and a thousand watts of sunlight. She dips her head so her hair shields her face. “Hey, Asher?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t mind the pretending. Just—let’s not make it cruel, okay?”
I want to tell her I don’t know how to be anything but kind to her, but the words catch. Instead, I promise, “No collateral damage. You have my word.”
She nods, then looks up at me. The sunlight makes her eyes go oddly unguarded—an effect you never get on camera. “See you at the Getty, I guess.”
I’m about to offer her a ride, something dumb and unnecessary, but she’s already striding toward her manager’s Tesla. I watch her go, pulse hammering, and realize I have no idea where to file her in my head—too bright, too strange, too genuine for any of my usual categories.
