But I feel the nick of them anyway.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling back. “Like my parents. Who aren’t perfect, but did keep me from becoming some coke-binging, paparazzi-flashing teen star train wreck.”
He makes a little snorting sound. “Like you were ever going to be that. You’reKim.”
Now neither of our arms are around each other; we aren’t touching at all.
“What is that supposed to mean?”Though I know already. I’m Kim Watterson. Responsible. Rule-oriented. Not inclined to being spontaneous or wild.
“Nothing.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t mean—it’s nothing.”
Does that bother him about me? Has it always, or has dating women who are more fun, more free, made him realize—
No, stop, I tell myself.He loves me.
“So you don’t think I should do this.”
His brow furrows. “No, I don’t. He’s not going to listen.”
Maybe it’s his flat tone, like there’s not even a possibility he’s wrong, or maybe I’m still stinging from his previous words about my parents, about myself, but my hackles rise even more. I feel like Roz, our one-eyed cat, when the dogs get anywhere near her.
“So that means I shouldn’t eventryto help?To give him some advice, maybe get him thinking about his longterm career?”
Blake flings his arms out to the side. “He’s an eighteen-year-old kid who probably just wants to get wasted and sleep around. What exactly do you think you’re going to be able to do here?”
I’m not actually sure myself, but the fact that Blake doesn’t think I’m capable of doing anything to help . . . I clench my fists, feeling the bite of my nails in my palms.
“He respects me,” I say—though I’m only partly confident that’s what he meant by “totally legit,” and I’m not going to admit that to Blake right now—“And maybe you don’t believe I can help, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”
“Kim—” Blake starts, but I’m mad and hurt and not sure either of those emotions are entirely justified, and we’re out here in front of so many watchful eyes, and I just can’t right now.
“I’ve got to do my read-through,” I say briskly. “Good luck with Ivy and the computer program.”
Then I turn and walk through the bustling set crowd, forcing a smile so no one thinks anything is wrong.
Twenty-three
Blake
Inever thought I’d see Ivy so angry to be getting a computer back, even one that isn’t technically hers. But as Aaron is setting it up on the side table in Kim’s trailer, she lies on her back on Kim’s couch with her arms crossed, looking like a vampire about to sit up in her coffin.
“This sucks, you know,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “It does.”
Ivy makes a snarling noise.
“You sound like an angry poodle,” I tell her.
She is clearly not amused.
“All right,” Aaron says. “Computer up and running.”
“And tracking my every move like I’m a criminal,” Ivy says.
Aaron looks over at me. “Anything else?”
“No,” I say. “Thanks.”
