But when he dropped me off in front ofRock ‘n’ Roll’s offices, and called to me as I got out of the car, I forgot all about my embarrassment. Because that’s when Reed called out, “I’ll see you back home around five, baby! Don’t keep me waiting this time!”
Yeah. I swooned pretty hard in that moment. It’s when I knewnotfalling for Reed was going to be a tall order. Which brings me to thismoment with Margot. To her question, “How are you doing?” and my raging impulse to shout, “I think I’m falling for Reed Rivers!”
Somehow, though, through sheer force of will, I manage to take a deep breath and reply, in a calm voice, “I’m great, Margot. How are you?”
“I’m swamped,” Margot says dramatically. “It’s always bananas when CeeCee is out of the country. But this week, especially, has been insanity. Are you here to see Zasu?” She’s referring to the veteran reporter who’s been assigned as my mentor this summer. “She just left.”
“No, I texted with Zasu earlier today. I’m actually here to see if a box of documents I’ve been waiting on from the courthouse has arrived.”
“I haven’t seen anything addressed to you. I’d be happy to text you if something arrives.” Margot makes a note on a pad. “Is it legal documents?”
“Yep.”
“What is it, out of curiosity?”
“Just an old court case that might have some interesting information in it. To be honest, I’m probably just chasing a wild goose. Speaking of which, do you guys keep old issues ofRock ‘n’ Rollon the premises?”
“Of course. We have every issue ever published, filed in chronological order, in a storage room.”
My heart leaps. “May I take a look?”
“You bet. Follow me.”
I look around me, taking in the small storage room, its shelves filled to bursting with back issues ofRock ‘n’ Roll.I don’t know which issue I’m looking for—from which month or year. Or, for that matter, if there will be anything of value in the article I’ve got in mind, if it exists at all. But not knowing what I’m doing has never stopped me before, and it won’t stop me this time, either.
I head to Wikipedia on my phone and discover that CeeCee turned sixty a few months ago, in March. Which leads me to conclude the birthday party Reed crashed, where he met both CeeCee and Isabel, must have been CeeCee’s fiftieth. I can’t imagine CeeCee would have thrown herself a huge, black-tie affair for her forty-ninth or fifty-first.
So, that line of thinking gives me theyearof the issue I’m looking for. Also, a two-month window, since my mentor, Zasu, told me the production cycle of mostRock ‘n’ Rollissues is thirty to sixty days. If an article about CeeCee’s fiftieth birthday party, thrown in March, was printed inRock ‘n’ Rollat all, I’m assuming it would have appeared in the April or May issue.
Obviously, it’s a long shot to think such an article exists. And that, if it does, it includes a photo spread. But Reed did say he posed in his rented tux for “all the photographers” on the red carpet outside the party. So I think it’spossiblethe magazine featured an article about the party, including photos... although I’m sure it’s equally possible those photographers were only there to snap photos for CeeCee’s social media or personal memories.
And why am I looking for this, at all? For several reasons, I think. The one I keep telling myself is my primary motivation is that any photos, if they exist, would allow me to trace Reed’s professional path to glory, starting from the very beginning. Which, in turn, could lead to me painting a better portrait of Reed in my article. And, actually, I think that rationalization—that this wild goose chase is legitimate journalism—is plausible.
Unfortunately, though, I think thehighertruth here is that I’m shamelessly stalking Reed. Dying to see a photo of the wildly successful man who’s knocked me flat on my ass, from when he was nothing but a hungry, twenty-four-year-old hustler in a rented tux. Not too long ago, I crashed an event to meet CeeCee in an effort to change my life. And I can’t deny I’m dying to see a photo of Reed on the night he did precisely the same thing a decade ago. In truth, I think I simply want to feel closer to Reed. To get to know him, inside and out.
But that’s not everything, and I know it. There’s one more reason I’m here, looking for a needle in a haystack like a St. Bernard looking for a skier buried beneath an avalanche. A reason I’m not proud of. But one I simply can’t deny.Isabel.
I know the odds are slim I’ll find a photo of the pair on the night they first laid eyes on each other. Neither of them had yet become famous or important that night. So, why would the magazine include a photo of either of them, let alone the two of them together? But I can’t help thinking it’spossiblethey were snapped in a group shot, or maybe in thebackground of someone else’s shot, perhaps dancing together on the dance floor. If so, then I want to see the shot. I want to see what kind of electricity coursed between them in those first moments after they’d laid eyes on each other. I want to know how Reed’s chemistry with Isabel compared to his chemistry with me. I want to know if Reed looked at me in the lecture hall the same way he looked at Isabel at CeeCee’s birthday party.
Okay, yes, I know. Obviously, I have zero chill. I’m a psycho bitch who’s jealous of one of the most beautiful, glamorous, famous actresses in the world. A woman who shagged the man I’m falling for, for years, and also, I suspect, snagged his heart at some point, too. I know she’s engaged to the love of her life now. And that Reed has said he wouldn’t want her anymore, regardless. But, still, I’m almost positive Reed loved Isabel at some point. And maybe still does. And I guess I’m grasping at straws here, irrationally trying to figure out if, maybe, Reed could one day, possibly, love me, too.
After some poking around, I figure out the filing system used in the storage room, and five minutes later, hit pay dirt.
The magazine in my hand has George Michael on its cover. On the left side of George’s head, a small headline reads, “Meet your new obsession: Red Card Riot.” In larger print above that, another headline reads, “CeeCee Rafael Knows How to Throw a F*cking Birthday Party!”
My heart in my mouth, I flip to the article about the birthday party, and squeal loudly when I seefivefull pages of photos.
“Jackpot,” I whisper, my voice cutting through the air of the empty storage room.
Ravenously, my eyes search and scour. But, not surprisingly, I don’t see any photos of Reed or Isabel. But then I see it. In a shot of Justin Timberlake. He’s arriving at the party. He’s just gotten out of a limo, and he’s starting to traipse down the red carpet. And what I see in the background of the photo, behind Justin, snatches the air out of my lungs.
What the hell?
I pull out my phone and take a photo of the photo. And then I spread the background image on my phone wide with my fingers to zoom in. But it’s no use. Thanks to the camera’s focus on Justin, the background image is slightly blurred. Which means I’m only ninety percent sure of what I’m seeing. But, still, that’s pretty damned sure.
Holy fuck.
If this photo shows what I think it does, then that could mean only one thing: Reed lied to me. Right to my face. About something I would have thought was totally innocuous.
