He rolls his shoulders back and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. I sense the scene affected him the way it did me. The idea makes me feel light and happy; like I’m somehow walking on clouds. I remind myself that it’s time to eat the food we’ve been smelling all day.
We make our way to the dining area where Dawson and I fill up our plates. The room that was set so formally yesterday has been transformed during our time in the studio. The table’s covered with a red and white checked cloth and we’re drinking from mason jars instead of wine glasses. It’s the perfect ambiance for my comfortable high from a job well done.
Despite our argument this morning and my little mishap with the beanbag, the day has turned out pretty nice. In fact, I’m not sure if it’s our time spent rehearsing the screenplay or the memory of dinner last night, but suddenly I’m picturing that kiss with Dawson in the closet and wanting an encore.
We spend the first half of dinner talking about the screenplay. We discuss how gory the whole zombie-slaughtering thing is and laugh at the fact that while he’s taking an axe to them, I’m revving up a massive chainsaw and running at them head-on. Soon the conversation shifts to guesses about how and when the screenplay will be aired. Will they have us perform it there in the studio as a casual part of the series, or will it be something we come back to perform once the season has aired? A live reunion type show like they did for Nikki and Kai.
But then Dawson says something that sounds like screeching brakes in my head.
“It’d be crazy if they had us perform it during the Emmys or something,” he says.
I look at him with raw curiosity that quickly morphs into shock. And then paranoia. Does he know we plan to attend? Heshouldbe under the impression that he’s missing them.
“You know how they telecast live sometimes?” he elaborates.
“Yeah,” I manage. And while it’s a good enough cover, adding that he meant it’d be a telecast instead, his prior statement already set off the bomb, and there’s no stopping the aftermath from burning through my mind.
Did Marsha secretly tell Dawson they’re letting him attend? Or perhaps she made an agreement with him, saying they’d set up a telecast if he ended up winning.
That would mean she went back on our deal, which was to make Dawson think he’d miss them completely. Heisthe one who volunteered to do so.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid. If Marshadidlet him in on something behind my back, the last thing he’d do is spill the beans. Dawson’s too smart for that. Besides, the first episode won’t have even aired by then, so there’s no way.
“I don’t think they’d do that,” I say, willing my clenched muscles to loosen once more. “The first episode doesn’t even air until we’re out of here.”
Dawson tips his head to one side in consideration. “Right, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t air a skit between the two of us during the show. It’s the same network, after all, and it’d be a good way for them to promote our season and announce its theme. Especially since no one knows I’ll be on it yet…” He shrugs. “I could see them doing some big reveal or something.”
Some big reveal—about himbeing on the show, of course. Those words reignite the flames I managed to douse out. It makes a lot of sense. It makes too much sense. What if Marsha set this whole thing up in his favor and just let methinkI was getting an edge?
I feel the fury making my nostrils flare. All I want is a gesture.One. Freaking. Gestureto show that his priorities have changed. It’s not like I was going to let him miss them. It’s not like anyone suggested he do such a thing—he volunteered. So why would Marsha sneak behind my back and—
I stop there because I already know why. In fact, the answer smacks me so hard that I nearly laugh at how blind I’ve been. It’s been a common theme in my life since my famous father left. It’s all about status, isn’t it? I’m the lowly service worker and Dawson’s a star who holds all the clout.
“I’ll be right back,” I say before shooting to a stand. I want to run to the nearest bathroom, but since I don’t want to look like a woman about to crap herself, I walk casually instead. I just need a place to think without Dawson there to read my face; I’m not the actor here.
I stroll into the main-floor bathroom set between the cat den and the studio. I flick on the light, close the door, and fold my arms furiously over my chest. I am ticked. Super ticked. Dawson wouldnothave inside details of an event he thinks he’s missing, which means he must know he’s not going to miss it after all.
I want to march over to the diary nook and demand to speak to Marsha. I want to challenge her about what Dawson said. If she didn’t hold up her end of the deal, they shouldn’t make me hold up mine. I’ll break the contract, even if they threaten to sue.
The business side of me says to shush my easily infuriated mind and think clearly for a moment. I have a name, a business, and a charity to protect. I have dignity to maintain. So before I make a big deal out of this—how sure am I that Dawson knows he’s not missing the Emmys?
I think back on what he said and how he said it. He guessed that the producers might have us perform our final scene during the Emmys, which made me think he knew he’d be there. But then he clarified and said it’d be via telecast while we stayed here.
If I take my secret deal with Marsha out of the equation, it sounds like an innocent, and probably educated, guess. And let’s face it—Dawson knows the industry. He works alongside producers, networks, and public relations reps.
It rings true enough that I’m starting to relax already. Thank goodness I didn’t storm off and make a scene. He doesn’t know about my deal with Marsha, I’m sure of it. I was just being paranoid.
Since that’s settled, I flush the toilet and wash my hands though neither is necessary. Before stepping out, I check my reflection. My face is nothing like those of the symmetrical beauties Dawson works with. I have a rather square chin and a bulbous nose tip. My mother always said my naturally large lips balanced it all out.
I’m fully aware, as I take in my reflection, that Dawson Cain admires this face. Better yet, he loves the woman it belongs to. A man with his choice of women across the globe hasn’t stopped thinking of me since we broke up, and that feels good.
But Dawson Cain is more than a Hollywood heartthrob to me. He’s someone I gave my heart to, a man I fell deeply in love with... the only man that could hurt me as much as my father did.
The reminder brands itself into my soul with a searing sting.
I can’t lose sight of that. I must keep guarded and ensure that the Dawson Dam is secure on all fronts. I’ll have to wait and see how he handles the hours leading up to Emmy night. Will he be cool and calm, excited to spend an evening together? Or will he be antsy, irritated, off?
Will he stay quiet when he believes he will, in fact, miss the entire event without so much as an appearance?
