The Reunion by Kayla Olson(19)
“The author’s using my name to promote her book,” I say. “There’s more in it for her, I’d think.”
“The publisher is using your name to promote her book,” Mars replies. “The author hasn’t said a word about it on any of her social accounts, and you’ve had the book for weeks now—don’t hold it against her.”
I glance out the window, watch the world pass in a blur. “You really think it won’t lock me out of other options down the line?”
“You really think I’d let them get away with it if I thought it would pose even the slightest threat to what’s on the table for you?” she shoots back, quick as ever. I love Mars. She’s got a tongue as sharp as her instincts.
“Good point,” I say, as we pull up to EW with barely a minute to spare. “Gotta go, Mars. We’re here.”
Inside, the nostalgia hits hard: twenty years ago, EW was the very first to feature us on a cover. They went digital-only a while back, but decided to go all-out with a collector’s edition to celebrate our milestone anniversary. I’m greeted by a girl in light-wash skinny jeans, a sky-blue button-down, and purple leather flats; she wears glasses with thick clear frames, and her dark hair is layered around her face in waves.
“Hi, Liv, I’m Varsha,” she says, with the hint of a lilting Indian accent. “I’ll be directing the shoot today. We’ll get you to hair and makeup first, and from there we’ll start with the family shoot, then the friend shoot, and we’ll close out the day with just you and Ransom. Sound good?”
She speaks quickly, walking as she talks, scanning us both through security. I follow her around a corner and down a long hallway.
“We have a flat white waiting for you, feel free to drink it while you settle in. Snacks are in the hall. Anything else you need, please ask. Millie and Sasha-Kate are finishing up at hair and makeup right now, so you’ll be up next when there’s an open chair. Hair and makeup will touch you up before your shoot with Ransom at the end of the day—oh, and Shanti will be pulling you aside at some point to get a few quotes. Since you’re on all three covers, we’ll have to squeeze it in during a break at some point. Is that okay? Any questions?”
She’s a whirlwind—a nice, professional, very put-together whirlwind. Yes, it’s okay, I tell her. No, no questions.
As promised, there’s a flat white waiting for me—bless Bre for always mentioning how much I love them when setting these things up. I sip it as I wait for my turn, pick out a package of peppered cashews from the snack table. Soon after, I’m whisked away to hair and makeup, an empty seat beside me; of everyone scheduled for the first cover shoot, I was the last to arrive.
My phone buzzes with a text. I glance at it discreetly so my stylists won’t get a peek—it’s Ransom.
how was vanity fair? bet you killed it
It’s like a blast of sunshine, warm and familiar and energizing.
Oh, the usual, I write. Equal parts fashion and soul-probing interrogation, with a partial view of the Pacific
so you def killed it, then, he writes back immediately. And then: for what it’s worth, i would take soul-probing interrogation over the same five questions i get every time. if i have to answer one more about that tiny triangle tattoo, so help me. why did i post that thing on social media
I snort, startling my makeup artist. Guess we’ll have to get matching cat tattoos if you ever want a different question, I send back. Botched ones, in case that wasn’t clear
Even as I type it, I’m pushing away the thought of his tiny triangle tattoo. It’s just beneath his hip bone, small enough that my thumb can cover it entirely. The memory of seeing it for the first time, about a month after he turned eighteen—of feeling hard muscle beneath my fingertips, his skin searing hot against mine—is doing some rather interesting things to my body right now.
obviously, he writes. you at ew yet?
In the chair now. You?
just got to lunch, but headed your way soon
I’m still overthinking the word your—not headed that way, or headed to EW—when another text comes through: can’t wait to see you again. this’ll be fun
I close my eyes, let the makeup artist do her thing as Ransom’s words grow roots, tender tendrils working their way under my skin.
What’s wrong with me? It should not sound fun to be face-to-face with the guy who wanted space when all I wanted was to be closer. It should not thrill me to see his name on my screen, or to think about his triangle tattoo, and my skin should be too thick now for such simple words to find their way through.
And yet.
I’m looking forward to it, too, I finally write back.
A little while later, the five of us who make up the fictional St. Croix family are the picture of perfection. They’ve put me in an emerald-green silk dress that contrasts beautifully with the deep scarlet shade of lipstick my makeup artist selected. Sasha-Kate is in yellow—a marigold that pops with her sleek chestnut hair—and Millie is in sapphire blue. Annagrey and Laurence are both dressed in black; time has turned both of them silver where they were once brunettes. The lights are bright, illuminating a taupe velvet chaise set against a light gray backdrop.
Varsha arranges us in a series of poses. First it’s Annagrey and Laurence on the chaise with the rest of us behind them; then it’s the three of us St. Croix daughters on the chaise with parents in the back; then it’s just me on the chaise with Sasha-Kate and Millie on the floor leaning up against it, Annagrey and Laurence still behind us. Then Varsha does away with the chaise entirely, and we take a series of shots where we’re so close we really do look like one big happy family—well, happy in the shots where we’re laughing, and serious in the ones where she directs us to smolder at the camera lens.