“Everyone has an opinion on my son,” his mother had said—warned—during their brief, strange conversation. “As if he’s a hot-button political issue. Euthanasia, gun control, Griffin Hart. People are strongly for or against. I thought it was bad enough when I was growing up, but in comparison those were hedonistic times. It wasn’t a fishbowl then. You had to watch yourself, of course you did, but you could have secrets. People respected you. Adulation wasn’t dirty like it is now. In my mother’s day, the studios protected and controlled your image. Now, they can’t. Things go viral, and that’s that. Can you imagine growing up in a world in which everyone has an opinion of you? You walk down the street and you know that everyone is looking for an indication that they were right about you, good or bad.”
Lana had gone to speak, but Evangeline raised her voice and continued, holding up a palm as if to say, “I’m not done.”
“And now, imagine being the woman on that man’s arm, knowing that everyone who has a strong opinion of him now also has a strong opinion of you and your relationship. Are they Team Estelle or Team Lana? Is that a baby bump? Did that sideways glance your way look like love or hate? Do you deserve him? Have you tricked him? And how many of those people watching have a gun?”
Lana had reassured Evangeline there was no chance of any of that happening. As if Griffin’s reaction to being caught with her wasn’t evidence enough. Not to mention his words to his father.I’m not intending anything. You only need to take one look at her to know she’s not my usual type.
It wasn’t a surprise. You could hardly find anyone less suitable to date a mega celebrity than a woman who hated standing out. She could shrug off his mother’s hints—she encountered people daily who thought their opinions mattered more than others. But Griffin’s denial had stung.
At least he hadn’t apologized for the kiss. She’d half expected it, like a retraction of a contentious statement. It would have negated the whole experience. Wasn’t she thinking just yesterday that if she was kissed like that just once, she would consider herself fulfilled? She snuck a look at Griffin. Beneath his sunglasses, his face had relaxed. She silently inhaled, relishing the smoky, soft scent of his cologne. She was nowhere near fulfilled.
At the back gate, two teenage girls were adding a bouquet to a makeshift shrine. There were homemade signs: “I love you Toby,” “In my heart, always,” “Forever young.”
Griffin noticed Lana looking. “He was filming here—Toby.” His face contorted with an expression of raw grief. There for a split second and gone again.
Lana chewed on her lip. Griffin’s parents had cut short their trip because they were concerned how he was taking the news about Toby—but by Griffin’s account, they barely knew each other. Plus, what had Darnell said?The parallels are inescapable. And then there was Griffin’s explanation for showing up with the rope in the first place:I know something about losing a person who’s close to you.
“Griffin, what’s the connection between Toby’s death and you?” she asked gently. “Besides your conversation at the awards show.” She found herself looking at a beautiful blank slate. “It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”
He rubbed his lips together. “There’s a … similarity to something that happened to me.”
“You know you can trust me not to tell anyone, if you did want to talk?”
He smiled sadly. “Everyone already knows. And I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t think I could trust you. Not that I consciously thought that part through.”
Ah, the kiss. She’d wondered if he’d take the easy way out and pretend it never happened, but there it was—existence acknowledged. And she didn’t want to dwell on what that might or might not mean for the chances of it happening again.
“My best friend died the same way, at the same age. Twenty.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“Ethan. Ethan Pillay. I was with him when he overdosed.” Griffin blew out his cheeks.
Lana shuffled to face him. “I’ve heard that name—an actor, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You poor thing. You don’t have to give me details if you don’t want to.”
“Better you find out from me than Wikipedia.” He took a shuddering breath. “I was too smashed to do anything, even call for help. I lay there and watched my best friend die.”
“That’s awful.”
“Thing is,” he said, braking to let a truck reverse into a loading bay. “It could easily have been the other way around. I lost consciousness, and when they found us, I was still hanging in there. They pumped my stomach, and I survived.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving, and it reminded Lana of the moment of silence. The way he stood rigid and blank, the speed with which he left—it made sense now. She laid a hand on his thigh.
“We were both so desperate to escape the crazy shit that was spinning around us. We were in it together, you know. We got each other. Back then we were both getting pummeled by the trash media. A pile-on, every day. We were young, and we did stupid things, and we got preyed on by anyone who wanted to sell a story, true or not. These days, I don’t care so much about the bullshit stories about me, as long as they don’t affect my work—or cause collateral damage, like you say. I try not to even know what they’re saying, though it pisses me off that people are stupid enough to believe them. It’s the true stories that freak me out.”
“Because that means someone’s broken a confidence?”
“Exactly. But back then, Ethan and me? We felt every single shitty story like a slap in the face. And we found the cliched way to escape from it. We honestly didn’t think anything could go wrong. We were famous, we were bulletproof, everyone loved us—even me, back then. So yeah, if you wonder why people love me or hate me—or love meandhate me—that’s a big part of it. Ethan was way more talented than me—he was the shit, and he’d fought to get there. And I watched him die.”
“And it’s common knowledge, how it happened?”
“Every detail. I wasn’t charged with anything, and my folks and their lawyers tried to keep a lid on my involvement, but it all leaked—the police interview transcripts, confidential group discussions from rehab, my notes from therapy… Oh, and my therapist told me to write all my deepest thoughts in a journal, and I was stupid enough to do it. It was stolen from my nightstand and sold for millions.”
“Oh god, and here’s me teasing you for your trust issues.”
