The Reunion by Kayla Olson(69)

A low rumble of thunder rattles the house. My bedroom is dark and moody thanks to the storm, not the usual sunny haven I’m used to, and my office-sized closet feels even more like a cave. I kneel in front of my safe, tap in the code.

I scroll through all the missed texts—several from my mom, a stack of them from Vienna with only a mysterious Call me visible on the top message, a dozen from Attica, two missed calls from Mars, more missed calls from my mom and Vienna and Attica and Bre and even Shine Jacobs.

It’s a dizzying mix of names—who’s in the mix, and moreover, who isn’t. I scroll through again, making sure I haven’t missed anything: nope, nothing from Ransom.

A brief memory surfaces from late last night, though, along with a flicker of hope. I have the vague recollection of turning off notifications for Ransom’s texts on the ride back to my house. After our perfect night in his backyard, I fully expected some texts today that would have given us away—one glance at my phone from the wrong set of eyes and our secret would become the biggest news in Hollywood.

Ohhhhh, Liv of yesterday, how sweet and optimistic you were.

I open my phone, certain I’ll find a novel’s worth of messages waiting beside the crescent moon icon by his name.

But… no. Nothing new, nothing since our messages last night after he dropped me off, confirming he’d made it back to his place, telling me to sleep well, a couple of kiss emojis from me and a shy, blushing emoji from him.

I tap into Snapaday against my better judgment, ignoring all the other messages still waiting for me. I also ignore the notification bubble that pops up—though its stratospheric new comment and follower counts make me do a double take—and head straight to search.

When Ransom’s profile pops up, it’s obvious he’s also seen a major boost to his following today. There’s a new post in his feed, and new stories, too—he clearly hasn’t had his phone locked away all afternoon like I have.

The new post is black-and-white—he’s staring straight into the camera, eyes sparkling even in grayscale. The caption is simple: a single black heart. I’m about 90 percent sure it’s his publicist’s handiwork. His latest story, though—it’s definitely something he posted, a selfie taken by the pool in his backyard, no text or tags. He’s not exactly smiling, but he doesn’t look like his entire private life has just been blasted all over the internet without his permission, either.

I’m still staring at it when it disappears, and another story takes its place, an overfiltered shot of the waterfall in his pool. In tiny text, an artful italic serif, the words only missing you are positioned just off to the side, white letters against a shadowy stone background, punctuated with a simple white heart.

Are these words for me? Why didn’t he discreetly tag me, if so? There are a number of places where the text color could blend seamlessly with the photo. Maybe he simply left this story as a reminder of last night while working through all that made him so angry on set today.

Or, maybe this story is for everyone and no one all at once, another carefully carved facet of the whole Ransom-in-love narrative that’s been spun up today.

I close my eyes, put my phone facedown on the carpet. I want to go back to yesterday. I need to talk to Ransom, but right now, I just can’t stomach it. The fact that he hasn’t reached out at all since the news broke feels like a flaming red flag, a sign that I’m absolutely right to question whether everything between us has been one big publicity stunt for him.

And all those missed messages, especially that mysterious Call me text from Vienna—in my voice mail to her, sometime around one in the morning, I proposed the idea of having Ransom play opposite me in her upcoming film.

I was so careful not to mention the fact that I was seeing Ransom, for the sake of having her consider him as a talented actor in his own right, and for my own credibility as a collaborator. As comfortable as I am with Vienna, I know she has a specific vision for every single aspect of every single project; for me to suggest Ransom as my costar felt like new territory in our working relationship. But I believed in Ransom, and—if I’m honest—the idea of going on location with him to a remote cabin in the woods thrilled me a little.

Now I don’t know what I want more: for her to hate the idea or for her to love it.

Reluctantly, I tap back into my messages app. Vienna’s texts are… very Vienna. In other words: short, cryptic, ultimately betraying no clues about her reaction to my late-night message. No voice mails from her, either. She’s always been a minimalist when it comes to anything but direct interaction, but just this once, I wish I knew what to expect when calling her back.

I’m just about to put the call through when I hear a soft knock outside my closet door. It’s Bre, with a steaming cup of tea in hand. “Everything okay?”

She steps inside, perches on my sapphire-blue velvet bench. “Liv?” she says gently a moment later, when I still haven’t answered.

I sigh. “Next time I take an afternoon off from my phone, remind me to leave it with you so I don’t come back to such a mess,” I groan. “I don’t have the energy to deal.”

She holds out her hand, nods toward my phone. I unlock it and hand it over.

“What first?” she says.

“Mostly just Attica and Mars,” I say, realizing that the bulk of my overwhelm is stemming from messages that aren’t there. “My mom can wait, and I’ll call Vienna in a bit.”