He stares at me, then at Asher, then at me again. “Do you need a chaperone?”
Asher deadpans, “Only if you can keep up.”
With the first free hour we’ve had in days, we walk the Croisette, dodging cosplayers and crews, the boom mics and the desperate satellites of fame. For a minute, I can see what it would look like to be real people, just me and Asher, no camera, no long lens, no expectation.
But even in street clothes, we’re trailed by a mirage—a little bubble of energy, waves of attention. It’s not real, not exactly, but it’s sticky, and it clings to me.
We find a table at an outdoor café, tarps overhead to block the sun. I order coffee; Asher orders tea and a plate of fruit, which he arranges into faces while we wait.
He says, “What do you want to do after this?” It’s not a casual question.
I hesitate, because he already knows the answer. Same as everyone else in this city. Bressard’s next film, the one that’s been in “pre-pre-pre-production” so long some people think it’s vapor. It’s the only project that matters. Every girl at every party is chasing it, and now so am I.
But for once, ambition tastes like ash.
“I haven’t decided,” I say. “Jessie and Myrna want me to hold out. ‘Strike while the iron’s burning, but not so hot it melts,’ or something.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s calculating, too. I can see the little gears in his head, measuring me, measuring us, against what’s coming next.
“I want to go to England,” he says. He’s not looking at me, instead prodding the blueberries into an oval mouth. “I signed to do that series for Netflix, the one with the horses and the rain and the old castle. Starts shooting in August.”
“I heard about that,” I say, forcing lightness. “You play the brooding lord, or the sexy stablehand?”
He grins, but it’s the wrong kind. “The stablehand. He wins the lord’s inheritance in a game of cards.”
I laugh. “You’d be a terrible lord anyway. Too much hair.”
He grins, but I see the shadow behind it. “You could come for a week. It’s not Paris, but it’s nothing.”
I pick up a berry with my fingers and eat it, feeling the skin break on my tongue. “My life isn’t real enough for horses and rain. I’d get there and explode into dust.”
He looks at me, this time really looks, and I know from the way his jaw ticks that he knows I’m deflecting. I wonder if I want to stop.
“You’re scared,” he says, not accusing.
I nod, and because the dam’s already breached, I say, “I’m not sure I want to devote a whole year to Bressard. I’m not sure…” I trail off, words tumbling out of reach. “I’m not sure the version of myself that comes out the other side would even be me.”
The air is thick with it. I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
He takes my hand, and it’s not a photo op, not a stunt, just a thing someone does when they like you and want you to feel it. “Then don’t decide now. We finish Cannes. We enjoy it. If you want to say yes to Bressard, you say yes. If you want to do something else, we do that.”
“We?”
His eyes meet mine, and there’s a careful vulnerability there. “If you’d let me be part of whatever comes next... I’d like that.”
I want to say “I want,” but it would sound too soft, too easy. So instead, I squeeze his hand back and ask, “Do you ever think maybe we’re just the sum of what people want from us?”
He takes a moment. “Sometimes. But once it’s quiet, once the lights are off, you have to do something just for yourself. Otherwise—” He shrugs, helpless. “Otherwise you’re just a ghost.”
We sit like that for a while, the world flowing by, until the coffee is gone and the berries are gone and we have to head back for the next round.
CHAPTER 17
EMMA
The red carpetis longer this time, or it may feel that way. They put me in a dress that looks like spun gold, and the way Chantal “styled” it means I am wearing nothing, essentially, except for artful layers of shimmer and teeth-on-edge confidence. My body feels like it’s been dipped in a narcotic.
Asher walks beside me in a black suit with no tie. He’s a little rumpled, which apparently everyone finds irresistible. There are so many flashes that for a second, the night turns into day. They shout my name, his name, our names as one. The shout is bigger now, a surging wave.
