“We’re in the driver’s seat,” he continues conspiratorially, “but we want to be smart about rollout. Keep people talking.”
The Netflix woman adds, “We want mystery. The sense that you two are—maybe, maybe not. Leave them guessing until the LA premiere. Play it close to the vest. There’s magic in uncertainty.”
A second wave of implication crashes over me. Eclipse Run is a hit, and Asher and I are not just in the machine; we are the machine. Our romance, real or engineered, is all anyone wants to talk about. Every move I make is a data point. The next few weeks of my life have already been plotted by invisible hands.
Jessie leans toward me. “How does that land, Em?”
I blink. It lands like acid through a paper cup, but I say, “We can pace it. Play coy.”
Asher laughs. “We’re both naturally elusive. I have trouble responding to texts from my own mother.”
Quincy beams. “That’s gold. And Emma, your press reel is almost as viral as the actual trailer. You’re trending right now with the male demo, which is”—his face contorts in chef's-kiss—“historic.”
Somewhere in that room, I lose the boundary between my body and the image of myself being cultivated, magnified,redrawn. I wonder if the me from six months ago would even recognize this brand of Emma.
The meeting lasts less than an hour, but by its end, the next six months of my life have been mapped out: controlled leaks, a calculated “distance,” just enough public appearance to stay memorable but never so much as to break the echo chamber. My job is to keep breathing—and not fuck anything up.
When we’re finally dismissed, Asher and I walk out through the lobby side by side, saying nothing. The air outside is damp with brine and possibility. Under the sodium glare, he takes my hand and tugs me toward the esplanade.
“That was not, strictly speaking, a meeting,” he says. “That was a coronation.”
I give a bleak little laugh. “All the king’s horses, just for a splash on Page Six.”
He squeezes my hand. “You never used to take yourself so seriously.”
“I never used to take anything seriously.”
He stops and drops his voice below the lamps’ thrum. “Do you want it? The rest of this? Is it worth the price?”
The way he asks, with that rare sharpness, pulls the answer straight from my lungs. “I don’t know anymore,” I admit, the confession heavy with truth. “I wanted the work, the parts. I didn’t know it got this… crowded.”
He searches my face, eyes nearly black in the half-light. “I’m in this with you if you want. If you don’t—I’ll walk away with you tomorrow.”
He would. I know that now, with strange certainty.
I want to say yes and walk away, but I don’t. I like the big, impossible future, even if it scares me so much I want to crawl into a shell and never come out.
“We finish the waltz,” I say—meaning both the metaphor and the month—“and then we find out how to be people again.”
He smiles—the genuine smile, crooked and full of longing. “It’s a date.”
We walk home barefoot. The calluses we earn tonight will last us all year.
The next morning arrives as a hangover in four languages. I wake to a blur of light through gauzy curtains and the sound of water running in the bathroom. A text from my mother says, “You made us all so proud,” and my phone erupts with notifications from every app I’ve ever downloaded. Asher is in the shower, whistling our film’s score, and I want to jump forward in time just to reclaim a few hours of peace.
My phone rings before I’ve even had coffee. It’s Holcomb, the director—no preamble. “Em, they want you for Bressard. Top of the list: you and one other.”
I sit up so fast I spill water on the sheets. “Really?”
He makes a grunting sound that’s almost a laugh. “He wants a screen test next Friday. He’ll be in Paris for a week. I’ll send you the script sides.”
I nearly drop the phone.
“Look, Emma, you can say no if you’re not ready. No one would blame you. The press will be rabid, but?—”
“No, that’s—I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it.”
He pauses, as if that answer surprises him. “You good?”
