Page 32 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

On Thursday night, I walk in my house, toss the keys on the table next to my door, and head to the kitchen. Everything is too quiet after weeks of constant motion and noise. I grab a beer and some leftovers from the fridge.

After popping open the bottle, I sip on it while I warm up my leftovers. While they reheat, I call Carly. Usually, she texts me throughout the day, but I haven’t heard anything from her.

Carly might be angry, but I don’t want to think about that. Better to stay positive and focus on what I have planned for my proposal.

She doesn’t answer my call, so I leave a message. “Hey. I miss you. And I’m so sorry, but I don’t know if I can make it to Florence this weekend.” I pause at the flicker of worry. I want to see her, but I don’t have to be on set Saturday, and I’ve got a ton of work to catch up on. But if I don’t go see her this weekend, she’ll have another excuse to be mad at me.

“I love you,” I finish. “Call me when you can.”

I hang up and carry my dinner to the table. Instead of turning on the TV, like I’d planned, I click an app and scroll through theAt Home with Georgia Roseposts. I’m relieved when I see there’s no Georgia and Zach content this week. But I didn’t give Stella any photo opportunities of Georgia and me together.

Then I go to the pics from last week. I smile as I scroll through the images. But my relief slowly ebbs into guilt when I notice the difference in the likes. There are twice as many for last week’s posts as there are for this week’s—and a lot more comments.

I close my phone and pull off my tie. Georgia has invested everything into this show. She’s put up the capital to rehab all the cottages, and she’s counting on the publicity from—and the popularity of—the show to help sell them fast. Of course, she already has a huge following on social media, but with the show, she’s casting a wider net to catch potential buyers.

And I’m supposed to help her with that. Because that’s what we’ve always done for each other—help. But when it comes to Georgia, I’ve been on the receiving end of that help more often than I’ve given it.

Even if I threw away my phone and never looked at her social media accounts again, I’d still be surrounded by reminders of Georgia. When I decided to build this apartment above Dad’s garage, I called her for advice about how to do it. She came up with the layout and helped me pick out cabinets, fixtures, and lighting.

The décor is her too. She didn’t pick it all out, but I got ideas from her posts. We have the same taste.

Carly, on the other hand, moves around the throw pillows every time she’s in this room, but I always put them back where I know Georgia would think they look good. Same with the decorations I have. Especially the framed photo of Georgia, me, and Adam at Grandma Rose’s funeral. That one always ends up behind a vase or other photos when Carly is here.

I take a few bites of my dinner, then send Carly a text.Call me. I miss you.

Even though I check my phone every thirty seconds, Carly doesn’t answer. The longer it takes her to reply, the more anxious I get. Finally, I move to my couch and flip on the TV, hoping basketball will distract me. The Jazz are playing, which usually does the trick of erasing everything else from my brain, but tonight I keep glancing at my phone.

When a message finally comes in, I’m so anxious that I fumble it. It lands upright on the carpet. My font is set to a large size to make it easier for me to track and read the letters. The giant text also makes it easy for me to see Carly’s message from my vantage point on the couch.

Out with friends. Talk later.

She signs off with a heart emoji, which seems kind of impersonal. She ends her texts to everyone that way. No question, she hasn’t completely forgiven me. So I guess I’ll take whatever sign of affection I can get.

I half-watch the rest of the game—which is a first. Usually, I’m totally invested in every play.

But I guess I love Carly more than the Jazz, because every time my phone dings, I swoop it up faster than their most eager rookie. It’s never her, though. Most are in my family group chat with everyone asking Adam about wedding plans and for pictures of the proposal. I send a jab or two about hearing the proposal was going to happen from Georgia instead of my own brother. Adam answers with pictures of him and Evie in NYC, looking so in love it makes me a little sick.

Sick with envy, if I’m honest.

I want that for me and Carly.

But I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen her look at me the way Evie is looking at Adam in their pictures. I pull up the few pictures I have of the two of us to ease my worry. In every photo, Carly is looking at the camera. Which, duh, is what people do when their picture is being taken. It doesn’t mean anything.

Then, even though I warn myself not to, I pull upGeorgia Roseagain. I pause on a post Stella put up an hour ago that already has as many comments as last week’s posts. It looks especially intimate: Georgia in her heels, but up on tiptoe, hand cupped around her mouth and my ear, whispering to me. There are as many comments on that one as there were on last week’s posts, most of them about how cute and in love we seem to be.

There aren’t any other pictures like that in this week’s posts, and I feel their lack as much as the commenters do, who ask for more shots of Georgia and me. Stella did her best with the opportunities for photos I gave her, but other than this post, this week’s pictures don’t make me smile. They’re kind of boring.

Last week was fun.

This week was work.

The reality of what’s happening in that picture is that Georgia was reading me what was on the teleprompter. I got nervous and froze, which made all the words get mixed up. I don’t know how she knew what was going on, but before Ike had to stop filming, she said to the camera, “Quick sidebar!”

Then she reached up, tugged me down, and whispered what I needed to say. All with a smile on her face that didn’t give away the fact I couldn’t read the words.

That’s the best thing about being friends with Georgia. She has this sixth sense for what’s happening in my brain. Sometimes she knows more about what I’m thinking and feeling than I do. She’s always one step ahead of me, coming up with an idea that’s just beginning to form in my head.

I wish Carly could see that. I love her, but IneedGeorgia’s friendship. That’s what’s happening in that photo, no matter what Carly thinks she sees. Maybe Carly is till pouting, but I have a sneaking suspicion the reason she’s not returning my call is because she’s seen this post.

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