The Reunion by Kayla Olson(26)

@Bianca_OnTheVerge @GOTV_fanboiiii maybe she found a way to take the job and stay with duke @GOTV_fanboiiii

@fanline @Bianca_OnTheVerge @Abbeyyyyy17 WE NEED ANSWERS





9




The diner and I go way back.

It’s as close to the studio as you can get without being inside the gate, perched on a side street at the back edge of the lot—a hidden gem that managed to stay off the radar for most of the time we were on the air, frequented almost exclusively by studio employees. My mother and I originally heard about it from one of the producers at my audition.

We took the corner booth at the back that day; I was such a jumble of emotion I couldn’t eat. Even my mother, who adores a good hidden gem, hardly took two sips of her coffee. Our food went cold, but she left a generous tip.

Two months later, I found myself at the diner again, ravenous after a marathon day of shooting. This time, Ransom and Ford and Sasha-Kate joined me in the corner booth, just the right size for the four of us. It was the perfect oasis amid so many days that blurred into each other—until late in our fifth season, anyway, when some PA brought his daughter to work and she blasted it all over the internet when she saw us.

Now, upon arrival, I’m immediately greeted by a familiar face, leathery and crossed with a lifetime of wrinkles—Marjorie was already on the older side back in the day, but she’s still got a spark in her eyes, even if their blue has faded with time.

“Liv!” she says, reaching up to embrace me. “The boys told me you were on your way. Nearly gave me a heart attack, seeing them here after all these years.”

Marjorie leads me back to the booth where Ransom and Ford are seated. Ransom’s hair is disheveled after trying on who knows how many outfits at his wardrobe fitting.

I slide into my usual spot, my bare leg brushing up against the soft fabric of Ransom’s joggers. It’s familiar and new all at once.

“Oh man, I’d forgotten about that sandwich,” I say to Ransom by way of greeting, nodding at his open menu. A glossy photo of a chicken sandwich piled high with provolone, avocado, and pineapple takes up more than half a page, titled—in gigantic all-caps text—THE RANSOM SPECIAL. “Didn’t you eat it, like, twenty days in a row?”

“Twenty-two,” he says, “but who’s counting?”

“I bet I know exactly what you’ll be having, Liv,” Ford says, and Ransom joins him in unison: “Two scrambled eggs with only one yolk, no butter, black beans, extra salsa, two slices of avocado, and berries on the side.”

“It is the perfect meal,” I say, laughing. “You’re one to talk, Mr. Please-Put-the-Pineapple-Between-the-Avocado-and-Cheese!”

“It’s practical,” Ransom insists. “Keeps the bun from getting soggy. Can’t help it if I know exactly what I love,” he says, grinning.

His eyes linger on mine with a look that makes me feel like he’s talking about much more than just a non-soggy sandwich. A beat passes between us, and another, and I think maybe I’m reading this exactly right because he’s gone as quiet as I have.

I need a distraction, fast. “Hey,” I say, nudging Ford under the table with my toe. “What’s with you? You’re awfully quiet.” Now that Ransom and I are equally silent, it’s clear he’s in one of his rare taciturn moods.

“Starving,” he says, not looking up from the menu.

Ford’s always starving, but he’s not usually like this. “And?”

“Haven’t heard from Juliette since Tuesday,” he says. “Cast has her on a pretty strict shooting schedule.”

“Doesn’t help that they’re shooting all the love scenes this week,” Ransom adds with a grimace.

“Ahhh,” I say, glancing at Ford, who continues to stare into the menu like it holds all the secrets to the universe. “Who’s playing opposite her again?”

“Ethan… bloody… Miller,” Ford says, exaggerating each syllable, still not looking up.

Ransom and I exchange a look. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about with Juliette,” I say. “She seems incredibly professional and not at all like the sort who would… well, you know. Not even with Ethan Miller.”

“It’s not Juliette I’m worried about,” Ford says simply.

Ransom pulls the menu from him. “You don’t need this thing. You know you’re going to get exactly what you always get—shrimp tacos, a pile of fries, and a cookies ’n’ cream shake.”

“Gotta admit, nothing else sounds as good,” Ford says, with the hint of a smile. Finally.

“And you guys give me a hard time about never ordering anything different,” I laugh.

“What I want to know is, why is Ransom the only one who gets a menu item named after him?” Ford arches an eyebrow. “I think ‘Ford’s Favorites’ has an intriguing ring to it, personally.”

“Marjorie always did love Ransom best,” I say. No one argues because it’s true.

It hits me, suddenly, how strange it all is, that we’re all here in this booth again like old times—how strange it is that at this time next week, we’ll be on set and shooting a brand-new episode.

Marjorie returns to take our orders; Ford gets his usual, and Ransom takes the unexpected route with a grilled chicken–and-kale salad with ginger-peanut dressing. It feels like someone should order the Ransom Special, so I go out on a limb, too.