One last shot, p.23
One Last Shot, page 23
I change into a sweatsuit and wait for him on the balcony. When he comes out, his arms are stacked high with the tiny takeout containers from catering.
“I hate to break it to you,” I say, “but you may have taken a few other people’s lunches.”
“Just wait.” Theo sets everything down on a chaise and then drags a small table over and begins unboxing the containers. He has our meals, pesto chicken and pesto gnocchi, but also grabbed one of every dessert and is laying them out in a tasting line. “I can’t rent an ice cream shop. But I wanted to make sure you have something you like. I’ll take one for the team and eat what you don’t.”
“Theo. This is so sweet of you.” There have to be ten different desserts lined up for me to try.
“Now you’re the one with cheesy one-liners.”
I crouch down so I can go eye to eye with the desserts. The last one is a miniature donut. “Catering got donuts? So American. They must have made them just for us.”
“I found a donut shop in Monterosso the other day, after I realized we were still on the … same snack wavelength. Priorities, you know? I thought you might need some extra sustenance after that hike last night.”
My stomach twists as I look at Theo’s gorgeous, thoughtful face. I want to kiss him, between bites of donut. “Let’s split it.”
“It’s all for you!”
I pick it up and sit next to him on the chaise. “It’ll taste better if we eat it that same time. Remember how we went halfsies that day? The great donut expedition of freshman year.”
“I designed that day to cement our friendship through plying you with sugar. Worked like a charm.” Theo jostles my shoulder lightly with his own and my entire body heats up.
“So share it.”
“I’m only willing to because I know where you can get more.” Theo has a twinkle in his eyes, but he accepts the donut. We bite into it at the same time, and though it’s not Ziggy’s or Coffee Time or Kane’s from where we grew up, it’s pretty phenomenal.
“Ranking out of ten?” I ask, just like I did back when we were fourteen.
“At one time, I would have given it a solid seven. But I’m a connoisseur now, so I have a harsher scale.” Theo licks his fingers one by one, and I can feel the blush creeping up my cheeks as I will my eyes to stay away from his mouth. “Six and a half.”
“Wow, harsh. I give it an eight. I haven’t had a donut in days, so I’m sugar starved.” I’m starved for more than sugar.
“How much do you want your lunch? Because I have a proposal.”
I choke on the sip of water. It’s silly, but hope soars through my chest. “A proposal?”
Theo looks at me steadily. “Yeah, a proposal. Let’s forget our food, save it for later, and sample every dessert. I think that’s a much better use of the final catering meal.”
“Of course. Let’s do it.”
We start to eat our way through the desserts, but my mind is still on the word proposal. It’s completely ridiculous, totally illogical to think he was about to suggest we get married, but the crushed feeling in my gut now is definitely real.
CHAPTER THIRTY
—Senior Year—
Theo
It took me three months to plan a promposal. Senior prom was supposed to be fun, but after spending more time agonizing over the perfect, rom-com-worthy promposal than I did on sports and classes combined, it was feeling uncomfortably high-stakes.
Emerson made sure at least 70 percent of what we watched were rom-coms, so I had the good fortune of learning everything that she did and didn’t like. Flowers after a fight or before a date—like. Casual, spur-of-the-moment proposals—dislike. Guys stepping out of their comfort zone for the grand gesture—like. Weddings that were planned in under a year—dislike. I knew we were just friends, and that now that she was modeling she had to be meeting guys who were hotter and cooler than me every day. But when Owen came home for Thanksgiving and saw me and Emerson talking by the half-eaten dessert table, he pulled me into my room.
“Bro, you’re clearly completely in love with her. And although she is out of your league, out of even my league—” At this my scowl transformed into an eyebrow raise, since Owen had never, ever, admitted someone was out of his league. “Hey! I can admit the obvious, on occasion. But anyway, somehow you’ve tricked her into spending all of her time with you, and if you don’t make a move now, she will move on.”
“I-I don’t—I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” I stammered. “She doesn’t think of me like that.”
“And she never will if you keep being the guy who drives her to the train and buys her tampons.”
“She uses a cup. It’s sustainable.”
“The fact that you know that but haven’t slept together?” Owen shook his head in disgust. “Look, she has no prom date, right? So this is your chance. Get a haircut, step it up, and make a move.” He cuffed me on the side of the head, and I tackled him to the ground. He had me pinned in a headlock in seconds, since although I’d learned to be scrappy, he had fifty pounds of muscle on me. “Hitting the weight room wouldn’t hurt either.”
Owen rolled off me with a grunt, and I hauled myself onto the bed. A three-hour meal of every food imaginable threatened to come up at the thought of asking Emerson on a date. “And if she says no?”
“She won’t,” Owen smirked.
For my promposal, I would combine the three romantic things Emerson loved most: a guy making himself look silly for a girl, flowers, and the grand gesture. I’d gotten myself five minutes at intermission of the school talent show through promising the drama teacher that I would put her glee club signs up in the locker room. Initially, she was under a fantastical delusion that I would join glee club, but after stopping me three bars into an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” I was off the hook.
While Emerson flew to LA to model for Free People the weekend before the show, I enlisted my mom’s help to make an oversized sign covered in glitter and readable from the last seat in the auditorium. “You Belong With Me” was our song, but I worried it would be ruined if Emerson rejected me, so instead I practiced the lyrics to “Love Story,” which would be much more embarrassing and thus fulfill the goal.
As I sat in the auditorium next to Emerson, I began to feel physically ill. I was sweating, possibly more than when I played soccer, and I felt feverish. Emerson whispered snarky comments to me throughout the show, but by the time we were five acts from intermission, she looked concerned. “Do you have food poisoning or something? You look horrible.”
The fear of rejection, of ruining our friendship, gripped me with a claw-like vise. It was squeezing the life out of me. “I’m fine,” I muttered as sweat dripped down my temple. “I’ll just get some air. Meet at intermission?”
“Want me to go with you?” Emerson’s brow furrowed with concern for me.
“No!” I practically shouted as people began clapping for the act that had just ended. “You stay here. Fill me in later.”
I booked it out of the auditorium and rushed to the bathroom. If this went south, I’d gone too hard to claim I was just asking Emerson as a friend. She would know I’d pulled out all the stops, and the thought of altering our dynamic was absolutely paralyzing.
My family thought Emerson was interested in me by virtue of how much time we spent together. I saw how that was the obvious assumption and was only mildly surprised when I caught my dad awkwardly placing a box of condoms on my dresser the summer after freshman year. He’d turned to me with a guilty expression. “Mom made me do this.”
“It’s not like that,” I assured him, but I was met with a skeptical wince and a swift exit.
Owen ducked into the bathroom and began banging on stall doors until he knocked mine open, smacking me in the back. “Get up. You have like three minutes, and then it’s showtime. I didn’t come home from school for nothing.” He hauled me up by my shirt and propelled me toward the sink, where I was greeted by my absolutely dismal reflection.
“He’s in here,” Owen shouted out the door while I splashed water on my face.
My mom walked into the men’s room, change of clothes in hand. I had ironed my suit that morning before school, so I could dress up for Emerson.
I braced myself against the sink and one sweaty palm slipped off entirely. “I can’t do it.”
“You have to,” Owen said firmly. “You’ve been inseparable for three years. Man up and get out there.”
“This will ruin everything.” I was unrecognizable in the mirror, my eyes wide with terror and my face pallid.
“Dude, you told me yourself that she’s a romantic. She’s not going to walk up to you one day and be like, Hey, bestie, I’m madly in love with you, let’s bang. Not gonna happen.”
“Owen, language,” my mom said.
Owen rolled his eyes. “Theo, just get out there and shoot your shot. Man up.”
“I can’t,” I choked out. I suddenly began to hyperventilate, gasping for air, hunched over at the counter. Someone tried to open the bathroom door, and my brother slammed it shut. “She’s everything to me. I can’t risk messing things up between us.”
My mom put her hands on either side of my face. “Honey, you don’t have to. I do think she’ll say yes, but you don’t have to do this. There will be more opportunities.”
“Yeah, why not just try again at college graduation?” Owen asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or would her wedding be more convenient?”
“Owen, lay off,” my mom barked. “Listen, honey, we won’t make you go out there. But in a few minutes people will break for intermission and then this window is closed for today. So it’s time to decide: Do you want to go out there, or do you want Owen to go tell that theater teacher you’re sick and can’t go on? We’re here, whatever you decide.”
“I’ll do it.”
“That’s my man!” Owen clapped me on the chest and shoved the bag of clothes at me. I changed quickly, already late for the five minutes I’d spent months meticulously planning.
I was barely conscious of walking out of the bathroom, but in what felt like seconds later, I was on stage, giant sign propped next to me, and flowers and mic in hand. The lights were blinding, and I couldn’t see anyone beyond the front row. Emerson was three rows from the back and as the song began to play, Taylor Swift’s voice still on the track because I was too musically challenged to sing alone, I shielded my eyes and tried to find her in the audience.
But then suddenly I realized I’d been looking for too long—I missed the first few bars of the song. In a panic, I locked eye’s with Clarissa, a girl I’d known since we were in the same kindergarten class, a perky cheerleader whom even Emerson had admitted was pretty nice. She began to sing along with the song. Her aisle of cheer teammates joined in, and soon the entire auditorium was belting out this Taylor Swift song. This was exactly the kind of gesture Emerson went crazy for, and I wished more than anything that I could see her face. My eyes stayed trained on Clarissa as the momentum of the sing-along she started dragged me through the rendition, and when I got to the end I turned and picked up the sign.
I held the sign above my head for a moment, like the guy in one of Emerson’s favorite eighties movie, Say Anything, and prayed that from the back of the room Emerson was smiling. But I couldn’t see her. I had a speech planned. But I was paralyzed, and just mutely stood there holding the sign.
I knew I was making a fool out of myself, but I couldn’t say a word. Emerson had to know she was the only person I would ever do this for.
“Ask her!” Clarissa had her hands cupped around her mouth, shouting up at me. She yelled it out again. “Ask her already!”
A few of her teammates picked up the chant. “Ask her. Ask her. Ask her!”
I still couldn’t see Emerson. And I had forgotten every word of my speech. But I took a deep breath.
“Emerson. Prom?”
Every second felt like an eternity once those words left my mouth. The audience was silent, and I felt a bead of sweat trickle from my brow. But then I saw her. Emerson walked briskly up the center aisle of the auditorium, and relief coursed through my veins. Because she was smiling.
She ran up the steps and I dropped the sign to the floor and split the difference of the stage, stopping a foot in front of her. I stared at her, my heart in my throat. “Yes,” she said, with a huge grin.
A smile spread over my face and I sprang forward and wrapped her in a huge hug. The audience started clapping, and she wrapped her arms around me tightly. I hadn’t admitted my feelings yet. But this was definitely a good start.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Emerson
All afternoon I’ve practically begged Theo to try a few more angles and locations because I’m desperate for anything that will extend my time with him. I only have tonight or I need to finally put an end to this and move on. But it’s the final shot, and after Theo humors my fifth location suggestion and takes us dangerously close to overtime, Stacey intervenes.
“Let me see what you have.” Theo turns the camera toward her and clicks through the shots. She smiles triumphantly. “You’ve got it. That’s a wrap, everyone! Let’s break this down fast. Thanks for a great shoot.”
Everyone sets about breaking down without fanfare. Lights that were being kept partially built out all week are taken apart, and wardrobe is packed back haphazardly into suitcases. The other models left one by one when they wrapped their final shots, and Theo is whisked away by the digi-tech to look at the one sheet. The second we’re done working, I’m alone.
But I have one more chance to see Theo before I go. It’s a tradition after most shoots that there’s some sort of wrap night festivity—a dinner, drinks, a party—followed by everyone flying out the following morning. I haven’t gone to a wrap night party in years. I typically take a red-eye home because I hate pretending to let loose. I would rather sit alone in my apartment. But this time I had Natalie change my flight to a leisurely ten a.m. departure tomorrow, so I can stay out all night if I want to. If Theo wants to.
I can hear his shower turn on through our shared wall when I step out of mine, so I take my time getting ready. All week long I’ve been in natural makeup, but tonight I go all out, pulling out the sparkly eye shadow and dramatic lipstick that Georgia pressed on me last night. After I assured her I was okay, and confirmed Harry was staying another night just in case things with Theo completely blow up in my face, she went back to Greece to see her boyfriend. And, happily, she reported that she got Allison booked for a test shoot for her swim line, so I could have this day alone with Theo to say goodbye.
My dress is short and slinky, form fitting without being skintight. In this look I am the Emerson on the magazine covers, the confident supermodel that can do anything she puts her mind to without even a moment of self-doubt.
I wait until I hear Theo’s door close behind him to leave my room, so that I can walk with him to the club. Tonight is it.
I step out of my room and spot him stepping into the elevator. “Wait!”
Theo’s hand slides out and stops the elevator doors in their tracks. They creep back apart and reveal Theo. It’s my first time seeing him in street clothes, rather than set clothes, and he looks amazing. He’s wearing a pale blue shirt tucked into broken-in jeans, the kind that once were stiff cotton and now have been worn in to fit him perfectly. The shirt makes his eyes pop, and the way he’s rolled it up to reveal his tanned forearms is dizzying. But I can barely take him in because of the way he’s looking at me.
It’s as if he’s devouring me with his eyes. I feel spread wide, vulnerable. “Emerson. You look incredible.” His voice is a ragged whisper that sends shivers down my spine.
I step into the elevator with him and stand entirely too close. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
The elevator doors open too soon, and we’re forced into the harsh light of the lobby. Most of the crew is there, in various levels of attire. When I step out, clearly dressed to go out, I see the glances and whispers start to pass between crew members. Miranda looks around, as though someone might miraculously appear to take me on a date, or just explain what’s happening. She seems surprised that I’m here, or maybe that I’m this dressed up to hang out with the crew.
But my girls are ready for the last night. I walk over to meet them and Theo trails behind me.
“You two look so good!” Rachel squeezes my hand encouragingly.
“Let me take a photo. I can’t believe you’re coming out with us!”
I hand over my phone. Theo wraps his arm around me, pulling me close, and it only takes a second for me to sink into his side.
Theo takes a quick photo of all us girls together, and I share it in a group chat with all of them. I appreciate their support this week, so I extended a standing invitation to each of them to come over next time they shoot in LA.
“You guys ready?” Jillian asks. “I have three hours before I have to be back here in my bed. My flight’s at five a.m.”
Evonique winces at the thought of the early wakeup. “Oh, girl, you’re better off staying up all night.”
“I can’t, I’d fall asleep at three a.m. and ruin everything. I was on the ten a.m., but my agent had me change it because there was a weather alert.”
We step out the door and into the night, the air crisp and cool on my bare shoulders. Theo and I trail the group, and it’s the first time I can remember him being the one to tag along with my friends. Walking next to Theo feels deliciously normal, and for a moment, just a second really, I wish my life was normal, so that this is something we could have every day.
I wobble for the briefest moment, my heels pinprick on the cobblestone, and Theo’s hand steadies me. The heat of his palm on my back is scalding. I jump into the conversation, desperate to deflect, to hide how much he affects me. “I’m on the ten a.m. flight too. Connection in Milan, then direct to LA.”
