When I answered those questions in the video diary, I mentioned the kiss in a matter-of-fact way, assuming it had been recorded like everything else. I instantly regret mentioning it now. If Dawson was intentionally seeking a private place for such things, the last thing I want to do is ruin it for us.
I shake it off.Sleep, Brinley. Let your thoughts go for now.
I blow out a deep breath, sink deeper into the pillow, and commit to doing that very thing. But then one more thought comes to mind—Dawson didn’t exactly stepintomy closet; he kept at the doorway instead. What ifthatwas intentional? He’s seen the show like I have. The hallways are filled with cameras.
Plus, Dawson knows more about this world than I do. He’s the one who spends so much time in front of the cameras. What if hedidwant the viewers to see us, but he wanted me to think that they weren’t? Would he purposely try to deceive me like that? And if so, what for?
A swift ache moves in a wave up the back of my head. I’m in a mental blizzard, my view obscured by layers of worry, doubt, and suspicion. If I’m honest, I’m creeping toward levels of paranoia with these thoughts. But recognizing that is only half the battle; if I manage to swat some of my concerns away, it only makes way for new ones.
That realization shows me just how guarded I am.
The sad truth is, even if Dawson’s intentions are as good and pure as he says they are, I won’t fully be able to believe him, which means I’m not ready to let him back in my life. And that means I shouldn’t have agreed to come on the show.
A thick layer of dread crowds in, pushing the hope and bliss clear beyond my reach. I won’t take comfort in them tonight. Instead, I’ll stew in a pool of regret.
If I could take this all back, I’d do it.
But since I can’t, I’ll have to protect myself at full force. The Dawson Dam is up and sturdier than it’s ever been, and it’ll stay that way until I see how he responds to Emmy night. No matter which way that goes, I’m stuck for the duration of the show.
One day down.
Five more to go.
CHAPTER11
Dawson
The studio is set up like a post-apocalyptic bedroom today, and since I’m supposed to be Brinley’s acting coach, I’ve been studying her end of the script more than my own. We’ve been instructed to walk through the three short scenes leading up to the fourth and final scene, where we’ll stop for the day.
There’s just one small problem. When I woke up this morning, I was told to go to the diary room, where I received a challenge from the soon-to-be viewers at home. Viewers, who don’t yet know who the contestants are, voted on popular options provided by the production crew.
I was forced to spin a wheel of options with things likeeat your ex’s dessert without saying a word,splash a glass of water in your own face with no explanation,and my personal favorite,lovingly kiss each of your ex’s cats,which means America now knows one of the contestants has multiple cats.
The dial didn’t land on any of those options as I spun the wheel though. My secret assignment for today:hide someplace and then scare your ex when they walk in.
Since I’m pretty sure she’ll backpedal after last night’s kiss, somehow blaming me in the process, the last thing I want to do is pull some juvenile prank and give her cause to question my sanity. But if they’re giving her challenges too, she’ll likely catch on.
I glance at the door, wondering if this would be as good a time as any to cross it off my list. There don’t seem to be a whole lot of places to hide. Flat mattresses lay right on the floor in Nick and Libby’s poor excuse for a room. I can’t duck under the covers and hope she doesn’t spot me.
No, I’ve got to go big or go home. I scan the area some more, spotting a few director-style chairs and a standing mirror to, I’m guessing, help with the acting class. A quick glance in the other direction gives me an idea I’m hesitant to indulge—the conveniently labeled cat litter door. I noticed the thing yesterday.
My stomach churns. I have no idea what to expect when I open that door which is, by the way, three feet off the ground like the entrance from the home, but it has no steps leading up to it. That alone makes me think the litter box is right up against the door so that the cleaning crew—or whoever is accessing it—can just open up, scoop out, and get out.
I gag at the recollection of urine-soaked clumps I cleaned from Rusty’s litter box for Grandma as a twelve-year-old kid. All for a measly fountain drink. Once I finished the job, I told her I deserved one of Grandpa’s beers instead. Of course, she laughed, then told me his beer would taste like the litter box I just cleaned up.
I stare at the door. If I don’t fulfill the mission now, I could get stuck having to do it right before we go to bed, and heaven knows you don’t mess with a woman at the end of her day.
A quick glance at the studio door says it’s fully closed. Brinley won’t see or hear me sneaking into the hidden space. And so what if the litter box is shoved all the way to the edge for service? I’ll just shove it out of the way so I can stand in front of it.
The idea is enough to have me reaching for the knob. I give it a good twist, pull the door open, then hoist my foot to make the three-foot high step. I stop short once I see that I was right—the smelly litter box is all the way to the edge. Quickly, I give the shallow box a push, but the thing only budges a couple of inches back. It’s like this cubby was designed especially for a litter box, which makes me think the little cat den never was for kids as I imagined. The original homeowners must be cat freaks.
“Weird.” Suddenly I hear footsteps that, I think, are coming from the kitchen. Hopefully, she’s stopping to grab a water bottle from the fridge.
I act quickly, flinging one foot onto the few inches of cleared space and hurrying to shift the rest of my weight as I step up with the other. I spin to face the door then twist my ankles until my feet point away from each other. In ballet, it’s called first position—I know since my first agent wanted to make me a triple threat so she put me in dance. This is the first position on steroids. The awkward stance forces my legs to bend and bow like I’m on an invisible bull.
Thank the Lord there’s a knob on the inside because I use it to quickly and ever so quietly pull the door back into place.
The space goes black.
