The Reunion by Kayla Olson(8)
I laugh. “Breathe. In and out. You’ll be fine, just be your normal lovely self.”
I never considered that an event like this would faze her even slightly. I forget the people who’ll be in the room tonight are iconic household names from her childhood—all of us together with the litany of producers, directors, and writers could be more intimidating than I realized. To me, they’ve always just been the people I grew up with.
They weren’t part of Bre’s world until our paths crossed a few years ago, when I’d freshly settled back in LA after my years off the grid. A stranger at the time, Bre came to my rescue when a starstruck group of tourists spotted me jogging on the Strand—I’d craved the view of the Pacific while in Montana and had almost gotten away with being on a public beach when the tourists started flocking to me. Bre was on a run, too, and expertly extracted me from the situation like we’d been best friends for ages. All these years later, we actually are as close as we pretended to be.
We pull up to the venue just as the sunset fills the sky with the most extraordinary explosion of colors, pinks and oranges and purples and rays of gold. The timing couldn’t be better—it will make the most gorgeous, dramatic backdrop for all the photos that are about to be snapped as soon as we step out of the car.
“Ready for this?” I say, turning to Bre. She looks better than before, but I know her well enough to know her calm facade is taking a lot of work.
She gives a subtle nod. “Let’s do it.”
I climb out first. The shock of flashes almost takes my breath away—so many, all at once. Bre follows, and together, we make our way toward the venue’s entrance. Spotlights that match the sunset illuminate the expansive exterior granite wall, with the Girl on the Verge and Fanline logos projected in gigantic bright white letters.
The questions blend together: Liv! Can you tell us any details about the reunion special? Liv! Is it true—are we getting a reboot? Liv! There are rumors circulating that Ransom bought a ring for Gemma Gardner—any comment? Liv! Can you confirm that Sasha-Kate is in negotiations to take a more prominent role in the reboot, if there is one? Liv! Liv! Liv!
They fly like arrows, the questions, burrowing straight into my thick, scarred heart—especially the one about Ransom, and to a lesser extent, Sasha-Kate. These questions don’t mean any of it is true. Reporters like to get a rise out of us, spinning up eye-catching headlines that will pull traffic to their sites.
I give a demure smile, even though I’m a mess on the inside. “You’ll just have to watch and see!” I say over and over again, swallowing all that I could say but very much shouldn’t.
All at once, there’s a commotion at the end of the carpet as everyone turns, collectively, looking at something behind me. I turn to see what’s caught their attention, and—
“Oh my gosh, Liv!” Bre’s hand squeezes mine so tightly I’m surprised my bones don’t crack. “Ransom’s here, and he looks good.”
My heart stutters. Bre’s right—he does look good. Very, very good. His tux is midnight black, tailored in a way that’s both elevated fashion yet still perfectly, casually Ransom; black oxfords gleam at his feet. His hairstyle is extremely GQ—thanks to his shoot with them earlier today, no doubt—and he’s got just the right amount of stubble darkening his jaw.
In all the hours I spent turning this moment over in my head—what it would be like to see him again, in the flesh, after all this time—I never imagined it feeling like this. I expected nerves, or regret, or the lingering sting of bitterness. Not once did it cross my mind that it might feel like returning to a favorite place, like going home—if said home had undergone some substantial upgrades, anyway. Gone is the Ransom I knew in our teenage years, with his boyish charm and adorable boy-next-door vibe. In his place is a full-fledged man, one who radiates confidence and looks like he knows his way around bourbon and bedsheets and yachts off the coast of various glittering European vistas.
He’s also, notably, alone.
At the exact second I register this observation, he looks up through the sea of flashbulbs. His eyes lock with mine immediately, and they light up.
I light up—I can’t help it. It’s been so many years, and old instincts die hard.
“Ransom, where’s Gemma tonight?” a reporter asks, his voice cutting through all the others.
Before he gives an answer, though, the sound of my own name pulls me out of my head. “Ms. Latimer!” someone is saying, just off the carpet in front of me. “May I inquire as to whether you’re considering any more roles in independent features?” It’s an impeccably dressed reporter, extremely polished and polite in her British accent and tailored black dress. “You were stunning in Love // Indigo.”
This catches my attention, and not in a bad way. Hardly anyone mentions Love // Indigo—it was the second independent film I did, a low-budget romance with more silence than actual lines. The cinematography was beautiful, with a distinct melancholy tone to it, all set largely on the shore of Bay Head Beach in the dead of winter. I took the role because it had fantastic range to it, and a small, intimate set. I knew it would be a quiet release—and quiet turned out to be an understatement—but it’s possibly the role I’m most proud of.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting her eye. “I loved that film, loved Vienna’s vision for it. I’d love to work with her again in the future.”