This Is What Happy Looks Like(58)

“Anything?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, and Harry startled, looking over at him blearily.

“About you?” he said. “Loads. You want to see?”

Graham shook his head. “And her?”

“Still nothing,” Harry said with a tired smile.

He felt a rush of relief. “You’re amazing.”

“It’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

“It certainly is,” Graham said. Then he slipped into the bathroom, where he stood at the sink. In the mirror, his eyes were rimmed with red, and there was a shadow of a beard across his jaw that made him look vaguely threatening, like he actually was the kind of guy who went around knocking out photographers. He felt a sudden clawing need for air.

“Do you mind if I take a quick walk?” he asked, stepping back into the room, and Harry nodded without looking up from the computer.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve got this under control for now.”

“Great,” said Graham, reaching for his sweatshirt. “I won’t be long.”

He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, hurrying down the hallway and into the elevator, then rushing blindly through the lobby and out into the still-waking world, the orange-streaked sky and the coolness of morning, where he stood on the sidewalk and took a great gulp of a breath to calm his thudding heart.

The hotel sat at the far end of the village green, where it presided over the shops and the harbor from a high perch, and when Graham lifted his eyes, he was surprised to see that the town was already busy. He’d expected to see a few fishermen and maybe a jogger or two at this hour, but there were people everywhere, setting up tables near the gazebo and unloading boxes from their cars. A few bleary-eyed children twirled on the grass, and a dog howled from where it was tied to one of the lampposts. It took Graham a moment to realize it was Bagel.

He looked around for Ellie, feeling an inexplicable bolt of panic. If he’d read the news before leaving the room, maybe he wouldn’t feel quite so exposed. But now it seemed like the whole world must know something he didn’t, whatever details of the previous night the blogs and newspapers had chosen to splash across their pages.

On the other side of the green, a woman was struggling to wrangle a billowing tablecloth in the wind, and the colors—a brilliant red, white, and blue—were a sudden reminder.

It was the Fourth of July.

A group of women with trays of cookies and cupcakes brushed past, too busy to notice him as he stood there, paralyzed with indecision. He knew he should go back up to the room, check in with Harry and find out exactly what parts of the story had leaked and just how much trouble he’d landed in. He should examine the photos, call his parents so they wouldn’t be surprised—a thought that filled him with a wobbly kind of dread—and get the game plan from his publicist. He should explain to Mick what had happened, apologize to the photographer, take responsibility for his actions.

But all he wanted was to run in the other direction.

When he saw Mrs. O’Neill—standing on a chair to pin the end of a banner to the gazebo—the memory of Ellie’s plans for the day scissored through him, and before he could think better of it, he took off down the street. He tugged up the hood of his sweatshirt to hide his face, moving past the people setting up with his hands shoved in his pockets. At the end of the street, he turned off along the harbor road, past the boats swaying gently in the quiet waters. All of the lobster for today’s celebration had been caught already, and where the docks would usually be busy at this hour, there was only silence. Later, people would undoubtedly be out on the water to watch the fireworks, but at this early hour, even the Go Fish listed sleepily, excused from a day of filming, just like Graham.

By the time he reached Ellie’s house, the chill was gone from the air. He’d expected she would be asleep, or on the road already, or else busy inside, so when he rounded the corner of the driveway, he was surprised to see her framed by the open mouth of the garage. She was holding a small backpack, her hand on the door of the car, a salt-rusted sedan that had surely been around for years.

“Hi,” he called out, and she whirled around, her eyes wide and a guilty blush spreading across her cheeks. But when she saw it was only him, she relaxed again, letting out a shaky laugh.

“I thought you were my mom,” she said, opening the car door and tossing the backpack inside. She was wearing jeans and a purple tank top with a pair of sunglasses perched on her head, and she had about a thousand new freckles spread across her cheeks after spending yesterday at the beach.

“I get that a lot,” Graham said, walking over to lean against the trunk. “Typecasting.”

She smiled at this, but it was quick to fall flat again. “Did you see?”

He didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t bring myself to look. But Harry said they didn’t get your name.”

Ellie lowered her eyes. “Not yet, anyway.”

They were both quiet for a moment, and then she cleared her throat.

“I have to get going,” she told him.

Graham nodded. “I’m coming too.”

She looked at him sharply. “No, you’re not.”

“What time are we leaving?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard her, but she only frowned up at him, her eyes narrowed.