One last shot, p.1
One Last Shot, page 1
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About the Author
Copyright Page
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To my mom, Susan, for always supporting me
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I spent several years struggling through the aftermath of a sexual assault. I couldn’t imagine a life where I didn’t think about what happened constantly. But then, with the help of therapy and supportive family and friends, I moved forward without even realizing it. It became a part of my past that changed who I’ve become. But it wasn’t a daily reality. Now, I have a happy and fulfilling life full of loving family and friends, an amazing community of readers on social media, and a career writing novels that I care deeply about.
For many, many other women, past sexual violence is their reality. Some surveys show that 97 percent of women experience some form of sexual harassment, and 33 percent of women experience sexual violence. We’ll never have an accurate figure because most women never report what happened to them. But in my experience, it’s rare to meet a woman who hasn’t experienced some sort of sexual harassment or violence. And fortunately, that means that many successful, joyful, amazing women have been able to move forward from surviving sexual trauma.
I wrote One Last Shot because I wanted to write a fun, sexy, romantic book where although a sexual assault was something that happened to the protagonist … it wasn’t the crux of the story. My protagonist, Emerson, has a fantastic life. She’s a supermodel, she has caring friends, and she’s about to reconnect with her first love. Being assaulted as a young woman has influenced the person she’s become, but it’s an element of her past, not a huge part of her daily life. I let her sexual assault be a messy, life-changing, forever complicating part of her past, as it is for me and so many other women. But what One Last Shot is about is her epic love story.
Sexual violence is not on the page in One Last Shot, but what happened to Emerson is a part of the story, because I wanted to acknowledge this experience that impacts the lives of so many people around me. Her assault affects not only her, but her relationship with her best friend, Theo, and the course of his life. Sexual violence changes the lives of not only the survivors but their friends and family, and again, I wanted to show that reality while still giving these characters a sexy, romantic love story.
I hope that reading this book and seeing the wonderful lives of characters who have been impacted by sexual assault makes readers who have experienced any type of sexual harassment or violence feel seen and optimistic. Because while sexual violence did change my story, it was ultimately just a chapter.
CHAPTER ONE
Emerson
I always saw myself in the romantic comedies I watched as a child. I was the gawky, awkward girl that hoped I might still somehow get the guy. But now I’ve had the makeover scene, but I still haven’t found love. Instead, I’m here trying to disprove a theory about my own boyfriend, the mere act of which basically proves my relationship is doomed. Every one of my relationships has ended in a rather spectacular fashion.
I stand up from the couch, a pure white West Elm leather sectional that Josh bought after watching me save an Instagram photo of it. Romantic, right? Except, I hate pure white furniture, which I told him at the time. I had been saving the photo for my best friend, Georgia. Also, we had only been dating for a week. Kind of presumptuous to already be picking out furniture. I walk over to the bookshelf and pull out one of my favorite titles, The Object of My Affection by Stephen McCauley. An older title, but a fantastic read that was turned into a fun movie. Josh swears he’s read every single book on this shelf, but lately I’ve noticed that whenever I ask him about one of them, he finds a way to change the subject.
“Babe? Have you read this one?” I turn the cover of the book toward Josh. He plays for the Red Sox, and when we met I hoped he could be the Real Deal. Marriage material, someone worth the six months I’ve spent flying from LA to Boston to get to know him.
“Oh yeah, love that one. One of the best.” Josh gets up and joins me at the shelf, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me close to him.
“I just reread it and can’t get over the twist at the end. What did you think?” I turn toward him, still holding the book, and stare intently at him as I wait for his answer.
He pulls me in for a deep kiss, and with one hand takes the book and shoves it carelessly back on the shelf. He doesn’t place it in its spot, just throws it on top of others. Then he wraps his now free hand around my jaw—something he knows I hate. I can almost feel acne forming where his fingers are touching my face. I pull away slightly. “Babe, the twist. What did you think?”
“Totally shocking,” he murmurs into my mouth as he presses back into me. “Best part of the book.”
“So you really were surprised when they took that guy hostage?”
“Of course. Great ending.” His other hand starts to drop lower. I pull back abruptly. I knew it.
“Josh, it’s a rom-com, there’s no hostages. Something you’d know if you’d read it.” I stare at him. “Have you read any of these books? Every time I try to talk to you about them, you make an excuse to change the subject, or just kiss me!”
I cross my arms to make clear I actually need a response. He sighs and scans the shelves, probably looking for a book that he’s watched the movie of. “Josh, just tell me the truth.”
The center wall of his living room houses a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that is stuffed full of some of my favorite reads. When I walked into his apartment for the first time during a New Year’s party, I saw the incredible structure full of books and knew I had to meet the owner. After breaking up with an actor who didn’t even read the entirety of his own scripts, I was ready to date someone who shared my passion for reading. I thought I could actually talk to him about the books I devoured, maybe even about the story ideas I dream up at night.
I thought wrong.
I see the moment that he caves, and then re-strategizes. “Baby, I’m sorry I lied to you.” He takes my hand and leads me over to the couch. “You were just so excited that we liked the same things, and I figured saying I’d read most of them wasn’t exactly a lie, because I would read them and win you over.”
“So have you been reading them?” Maybe I can work with this. I squeeze his rough palm with my manicured hand. Gel every two weeks destroys my nails, but they always look flawless once it’s on, and according to my agent, that’s what counts.
“Not exactly. I’ve just been so busy with training.” Josh eyes his home gym wistfully, like he wishes he could be in there now, bench pressing for the third time today rather than talking to me.
“Have you even read one?” Josh winces at my question, but I press onward. I just need to find one redeeming thing here, then maybe I can forget that he lied. Our relationship needs this to survive. “Is this your ‘to read’ list?”
“Well, my interior designer actually bought them for the party we met at. My mom was over and pointed out that it looked, well she said ‘shallow,’ but strange is a better word; it looked strange with only my own trophies on the shelves. I actually was going to recycle them after, because I wanted to put my stuff back up, but they led to me meeting you, so clearly it’s worth it.” He smiles at the end of this, as though he said something romantic instead of that he was going to send what must be six thousand dollars’ worth of books to their death.
“Recycle them?” It takes everything in me to keep my voice level. “There’s about four hundred hardcovers here. You could at least donate them.”
“Who would want this many books?” He looks genuinely flummoxed. Has he never heard of a library?
That’s it. I’m out of here.
“Josh, this isn’t working for me.” His mouth springs open in objection.
“Emerson, I don’t understand,” Josh pleads. He runs a calloused palm through his curly hair. “Baby, let’s just talk about this. We can take a vacation. Go to Cabo, relax, talk it out. I’ll buy six grand’s worth of more books and you can donate those.” He frowns skeptically as he says this, but then wraps my hand in his own calloused one. “This is it for me. You’re it for me. This is a silly blip; we can work through it together.”
I gently pry my hand out of Josh’s grip. “Josh, I don’t think we’re in love. Not really, and most certainly not the forever kind. I’m so sorry, but you’ll find someone that’s perfect for you.”
I’m ready to go in under a minute. I always have a bag packed so that I can travel at a moment’s notice for a shoot. I pause to say goodbye just as Josh stalks away and punches a hole in the wall, knocking a bunch of framed photos to the ground. I’m sure his assistant will have that covered by tomorrow night. And I’m sure I am doing the right thing. The suitcase slides behind me, the silence of its wheels matching my shame as I delicately close the door, nud
ging a now shattered framed photo of us at the World Series out of the way. I’m sure that photo is one of the many People will use in their inevitable “relationship timeline update” on me tomorrow. I can already see the headline: QUICK REFRESHER ON SUPERMODEL AND HEARTBREAKER EMERSON’S COMPLETE DATING HISTORY.
All press might be good press, but for once it would be nice to keep my failures to myself. To be able to walk out of the house with a makeup-free face and not have articles up within an hour saying I’m having a breakdown. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be natural. I have to be careful of every bit of myself I show to the world, since once it’s out there it’s no longer authentically me, it’s a part of my public image. I know I shouldn’t complain about the downside of the industry. This industry and the way I look gave me fame, and that fame gave me stability. Something I yearned for in my childhood. So I take the bad with the good.
* * *
The moment I flop down on the hotel bed I let my posture drop. I relish stooping my shoulders alone in my hotel room once the weight of everyone’s eyes is off me. I haven’t slouched in front of someone in a decade, not since I became Emerson (no last name) and Emerson became a household name. My career is my life, but looking perfect never ceases to exhaust me. My exes have all loved my “ballerina posture,” as do agents and clients, but it means that I never really relax. Which is fine. Totally fine. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I hunch over my phone and scroll through social media mindlessly, a constant stream of pictures of other models and celebrities flying by. I no longer flinch when I come across my own face in an ad. Images that are me but don’t really feel like me. But after a few minutes—or possibly a full hour, it’s hard to tell once I’m sucked into the numbing Instagram vortex—I freeze mid-scroll and stare at the notification that has popped up in front of me.
Reminder: if not married by 28 you’re marrying Theo! T-minus one week ;)
Theo.
My stomach drops. I can’t believe I completely forgot about this pact.
I haven’t spoken to Theo in a decade. Just the thought of him has several emotions fighting to break free. Regret, longing, shame. He was my first love, and maybe even my last love. I can think I totally love whomever I’m dating and then, after remembering what he and I had, for an instant I doubt that there could be anyone but him, really. I’ve been chasing the high of how Theo made me feel since high school. The way we connected, how he knew my thoughts before I even voiced them, the way he looked at me, not at all the pieces of myself I’m marketed as. To him I was Emerson Grey.
Even senior year, once I had bigger campaigns under my belt, and the whispers around me in the hallway at school were no longer negative, he only cared about whether it actually made me happy. While my mom blindly signed off on every campaign my agent called me in for, it was Theo who realized I was disappointed to miss Halloween in Salem for an Urban Outfitters job. He saw through what I said, to realize what I meant, and offered to pretend to be my dad and call my agent to convince him I had the flu. We then spent a perfect week making matching (and decidedly uncool) skeleton costumes. It was much better than a stuffy shoot.
This reminder must have been in the cloud—I’ve switched phones a million times, but my Apple ID has remained the same. I had completely forgotten about our pact. I lie back on the bed and clutch the phone to my chest. We made this pact in high school, back when we thought twenty-eight was ancient and a decade after graduation was forever. We both made a big show of setting the reminder for this to go off—first on Theo’s birthday, and then again on my birthday a week later. We joked it would give us one week to plan a makeshift wedding. I thought it was so romantic, like the finale to a rom-com where of course they ended up together, and their friends and family were secretly rooting for them from the beginning.
I stare at the reminder. It’s the first one, which means today is Theo’s birthday. I forgot his birthday. In high school it would have been unimaginable that I’d forget his birthday, that I wouldn’t be the one he spent the day with. But we aren’t those people anymore—so many miles and years between us. It’s been ten years since we last spoke. The gravity of it pulls me down. This is not how I thought my life would turn out.
If this reminder going off isn’t a sign from the universe that it’s time to fix my greatest regret, I don’t know what is.
I’ve followed Theo’s career avidly from my fake account. I watch every story he posts, but am careful to never like each grid post, and I closely examine his tagged photos. I know he shoots, but he rarely tags the brands. I see more of his nieces and nephews than him. But now I look at his page, click on the most recent post, and am absolutely frantic for more information.
I’m indifferent to most photography, but his shots are incredible. He hasn’t tagged the brand, but these images are gorgeous, more artistic than those one might typically see from a big-box retailer. Not only do the inexpensive clothes look great—and he’s worked in everything from string lights to space heaters, which I’m sure are also for sale—the models seem to be caught at both their most real and beautiful moments. He’s the only person I’ve seen shoot this well.
I take a screenshot of the page and send it to my assistant, Natalie.
I need to know who he shoots for asap!!! What’s his next job?
It only takes her seven minutes to get back to me, but by then I’ve found a tagged photo from three years ago and am deep into stalking Anthem’s page and 99 percent certain I have my answer. Natalie confirms it.
Theo Carson mainly shoots Anthem. They shoot Summer in two days
Two days. I sit up and call my agent. “Emerson?” he says. “Is everything all right?”
I wince at the surprise in his voice. I never call, since I’ve always been determined to be one of Matt’s easy girls. Easy for him to book, easy for everyone to work with, never burdening him with my personal problems like some girls mistakenly do. I understand that feelings aren’t what help you make it to the top. Which has been my only goal.
I can imagine the possibilities flying through his head. Was it a bad haircut? Overly aggressive chemical peel that would have me out for a week? Food poisoning? He could work with food poisoning. “Hi! So sorry to call.” I freeze, unaccustomed to asking him for something. I roll onto my stomach and play with my hair nervously. The strand is brittle, thanks to the highlights my team insists my already blond hair needs to be painted with to make me the perfect all-American girl. Time for a glaze.
“What’s wrong? Emerson?”
“Sorry, sorry, nothing’s wrong,” I stammer. “Um, actually, I was just wondering if you might be able to put me in for a job with a specific brand. It’s a bit different from what I typically book.”
“What brand?” His voice is laced with apprehension. I’m a high fashion model, and one of his best at that. I consistently book the shoots that front campaigns for Chanel, Gucci, Valentino, Prada. I stopped doing even high fashion ecomm about seven years ago, at his insistence that it cheapened my book, and now limit runway shows to fashion month.
“Anthem? They’re way more mass market, which I realize isn’t my usual thing. I just really want to work with their team, and they’ve been running some great spots.” I hold my breath. It’s a stretch to call Anthem mass market. In reality, they’re a Target- or Macy’s-esque monolith with a few clothing collections a year, not a fashion brand at all. But what I said about Theo’s work for them is true. It was gorgeous, more artistic than it had any right to be, rife with beauty shots and storytelling. It completely elevated Anthem and made it look like a place everyone from me to my mom would want to shop.
The disgust is palpable on the other end of the line. “Anthem? That makes no sense. It will tank your career, even if you were the face of it.”
“Don’t care.”
“Why don’t I just call Walmart? Or Costco? I’m not booking it.” It’s clear he thinks I’m losing it.
“Matt, please don’t forget that technically you work for me. And I’m pretty sure the AmEx campaign I was the face of last year was enough for you to retire on.”
