The Reunion by Kayla Olson(29)
“Ready for the last one?” she says, flipping to the bedroom scene I’ve intentionally been avoiding.
It’s not like Ransom and I have never filmed anything intimate before—we have. But that was then, before things changed between us for worse and for better. At the moment, my mind is entirely stuck on for better: the way Ransom’s grown into himself, every inch the blazing-hot action star who’s single-handedly responsible for a myriad of sold-out midnight premieres. His five-o’clock shadow, permanently there no matter the time of day. That new scent on his skin, citrus and cedar and spice. How warm his fingertips felt as they grazed my bare back the other night on the red carpet—
The world might see images of him—of us—but how it feels to be near him? It’s like a secret, something up close and personal that only I can know.
“Liv.”
I look up, startled, and Bre laughs—she’s giving me a look, eyebrows raised, the script facedown on the bed beside her.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” There’s a lilt to her voice just like the other night, on the way home from the Fanline dinner—she knows exactly where my mind is.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I say, attempting and failing at nonchalance. “Why?”
“I happened to notice the internet going crazy yesterday about a certain photo you posted?” she says casually.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says. I’m not looking at her, but I don’t have to be looking to know she has one eyebrow raised and a number of questions—just as I’m certain she knows I’m trying my best to hide the blush creeping into my cheeks, the smile on my face.
“I’ve been in a cave ever since I posted,” I admit. A blissfully silent cave where the memory is mine alone and I don’t have to share it with millions of fans who want a milkshake to mean more.
“People are loving it,” she says, and I finally glance her way. She looks every bit as enthusiastic as she sounds. “Attica’s beyond thrilled, to say the least—she started texting me when you went too long without answering.”
I turn back to the mirror, put one last finishing touch of mascara on my lashes. “Well,” I say, the grin practically plastered on my face now, “that was a particularly gorgeous strawberry milkshake.”
She laughs. “Yes, it most definitely was.”
Was his face really as close to mine as I remember? Was his smile the same one he uses at photo calls, the one he wields with precision like a scalpel, carving out exactly what he wants in the world—or was it the other one, the spontaneous one he gives on instinct when he laughs? I feel an overpowering urge to find out the answer right now.
But if I look now, Bre will ask all the questions I know she’s been stifling. If I look now, I’ll have to answer them—even if I’m silent, my silence will be an answer. I trust Bre, I absolutely do. I’ll tell her everything, when and if there’s something I should tell.
Which there isn’t. There can’t be.
Ransom and I were friends first, and then we were ghosts. I’m still learning what we are now.
“We’re drilling this one first next time or else,” she says with a grin, opening the script to the bedroom scene and leaving it faceup on my bedside table. “You’re off the hook for today.”
* * *
Dan and Xan’s house is a major upgrade from the one I remember from previous cast parties. Their old place was like a private oasis—small and secluded, the perfect place to make memories with their twin daughters—but this one is a sprawling mansion complete with palm tree–lined drive and a wishing-well fountain in the front driveway. By our final two seasons, our collective representation had negotiated lucrative deals for the entire principal cast and the writing team; between that and the success they’d had even before Girl broke out, it’s safe to assume the Jennings estate is doing more than fine.
Millie and I arrive at the same time.
“This place is gorgeous,” she breathes as a smartly dressed attendant opens the door for us.
The foyer stretches to the stratosphere and is immaculately clean, decorated sparsely in dark gray and emerald to offset the white stone tiling. I can hear music and voices off in the distance.
“You’ll find everyone out in the backyard,” the door attendant says, as if reading my mind. “Go straight, then take either path at the end of the foyer—you won’t be able to miss it.”
We walk the long hallway, then turn into a spacious open-concept living area where the back wall is basically one huge window. For good reason: the backyard looks massive. Even from here, I can see a pool and another wishing-well fountain and manicured hedges that could rival a Disney theme park’s, all of it lit with tiki torches and glowing lamplight under the dusky evening sky.
“Okay, Dan and Xan win best house,” Millie says. “This is total goals, Liv.”
My own home feels like a tiny beachside cottage in comparison—but honestly, I wouldn’t trade it. I’d get lost in so much space, living all alone.
We make our way out into the backyard, where silhouettes mill all across the grounds. Servers, dressed in the same black-and-white uniform as the door attendant, weave down the pathways carrying trays of rosé and cheese and crackers. When they come our way, I take a glass and a plate full of each.