The Reunion by Kayla Olson(10)
“No Juliette tonight?” I ask, when we’re face-to-face again. According to many a tabloid cover, he and actress Juliette Wells are one of London’s hottest couples—he met her shortly after moving there from the States.
“She’s shooting in Iceland right now,” he replies, beaming with pride. “Another Jonathan Cast project.”
Bre gasps beside me, and I don’t blame her—it’s a really big deal.
“Wow, congrats to her!” I say. “I look forward to seeing it.”
“Another year or two, hopefully,” Ford says. Jonathan Cast is notorious for blowing budgets by shooting three times longer than he needs, then being ruthless and meticulous in the editing room until every single second is perfection. He gets away with it because the final results are brilliant, always.
Ford turns his attention on Bre and smiles. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure…?”
“Ford, this is Bre Livingston, who’s technically my assistant but is also a close friend—Bre, meet Ford.”
A hint of pink flushes in her cheeks. For a split second, I worry she’ll go speechless, but she recovers smoothly. “So tell me all about London—are the double-decker buses as fun as they seem?”
They chat for a bit as we make our way inside, past the security guards who let us through without a hassle. I glance back over my shoulder to see if we should wait for Ransom, but he’s chatting with another reporter now; while I tend to hold everything back with the press, he’s overly generous. He relishes it, I think, though he would say I’m wrong about that.
If I thought Fanline had gone all out with the exterior decor, the inside is every bit as amazing. The lofty ceiling is starlit, dotted with countless twinkle lights that make it look like the night sky. Foliage covers the walls—it feels like we’ve been transported straight into the most beautiful modern garden, and the room is intimate despite its expansive height. Fifteen circular tables are draped in pristine white linens, set with delicate bone china and an array of glasses waiting to be filled. A stage spans the length of the far wall, on which there is also a huge screen; like everything else, it boasts our logo along with Fanline’s.
For a moment, it’s like the world stands still: I’m hit, suddenly, by just how rare this all is. That I was part of it—part of something iconic—that the show has been trending daily, now that it’s streaming and a new generation has started bingeing our old episodes. Maybe I’m just nostalgic after seeing Ransom and Ford, but it’s not lost on me how incredible this is.
“Oh, look, Liv!” Bre calls from where she and Ford ended up while walking and talking. “Here’s my table!”
I can hear the relief in her voice. She’ll be sitting at the plus-ones table—she’s been legit terrified she’d end up starstruck to the point of speechlessness if she somehow landed a seat with me and the rest of our core cast. I go to join them and see her name scrawled on a white card in fun bright pink hand-lettered cursive; the card itself is nestled neatly atop the thick, fleshy leaves of a miniature potted succulent.
“Let’s see who you’re with,” Ford says, circling the table. “I don’t know any of these—oh, wait, here’s Havilah Loren!” He picks up the tiny pot with Havilah’s name on it and smoothly switches it with one marked Caroline Crenshaw, originally seated next to Bre.
“Havilah Loren,” I say, trying to place why it sounds so familiar, and then it hits me. “Isn’t that Hālo’s given name?”
All the color drains from Bre’s face. “Hālo, as in super mega chart-topping pop star Hālo?”
“That’d be the one,” Ford says, grinning. “She’s friends with Sasha-Kate.”
So much for Bre not being starstruck, I think, stifling a laugh. It’s cute that either of us ever thought she could contain her chill.
“Who’s friends with Sasha-Kate?” a deep voice says, one I’d recognize in my sleep. Ransom appears beside me, pulls me in close for a side hug. It’s smooth, especially considering this is new territory, only a ghost of how it once was between us.
“Time’s been good to you, Liv,” he says, his voice muffled in my hair, turning all of me to honey.
“And me?” Ford says, pulling us apart and giving Ransom a gigantic hug of his own.
Ransom laughs. “Time’s been good to you, too. Where’s Juliette? She shooting with Cast already?”
“She was disappointed to miss out on this, yeah,” Ford says. “And Gemma? Those rumors true, man?”
I, too, would like to know if those rumors are true.
Ransom grimaces. “Had to get my watch battery replaced a few weeks ago, and the jewelry shop was right around the corner from one of my shoots. Half hour later, the world thinks we’re getting engaged.” He glances over his shoulder, as if he’s afraid the wrong person might hear. “Things had actually been shaky with Gemma for a while,” he goes on. “The engagement rumors broke us up for good.”
My heart skips.
They’re not engaged—they’re not even together.
“I’m sorry, what?” Ford says, emphatic enough to distract from how completely and utterly frozen this revelation has left me. “How did you manage to keep that out of the press?”