Page 59 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

“Zach, come on,” I say with a laugh. Because if I believe him, I’ll never be able to hide how I feel. “My mom did me no favors giving into my demands to cut my hair short and let me wear only sweatpants and soccer jerseys.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t have some awkward years.” He returns my laugh, and disappointment slides into my belly where it sits, heavy and cold. I wanted him to argue a little more that I’ve always been pretty, even if it’s not true.

“Only about eighteen or so.” My voice is too high, too light. Like a balloon clinging to the wall with static electricity as it loses its helium. I take a long sip of my coffee to wet my throat.

Zach chuckles, then grows serious again. “People calling you Ham probably didn’t help either.”

I want to protect his feelings and tell him it wasn’t that bad, but he’ll see right through my lie. “No. I didn’t love that. But it wasn’t as bad as people making fun of me because my mom petitioned to change Smuk Lake’s name to a Native American one or because she wanted the school to serve more vegetarian meals or because she advocated for more comprehensive sex education.”

Zach laughs. “Your mom never met a liberal cause she wasn’t willing to fight for.” Then there’s a long pause, and I hear Zach take a deep breath before he speaks again.

“Clothes and makeup aren’t what made you pretty then, and they’re not what make you pretty now. It’s always been who you are that makes you pretty. The way you laugh. The way you care about people. Your loyalty. Your determination. Your enthusiasm for everything you do and the way you get everyone involved. You make everything fun.” He pauses, and I hold my breath. “Those are the things that make you pretty. Not your high heels.”

I let his words wash over me, like a hot bath on a cold day. They should warm me, buoy me with belief in myself. But then I catch my reflection in the mirror opposite my kitchen table. What I see isn’t Georgia Rose, but Georgia from Paradise: a fleshy, freckled, red-haired girl with a bad haircut.

I look away and press the phone to my ear. “But it’s the lipstick and heels that makemefeel pretty.”

The words come out in a whisper. I spent too many years pretending I didn’t care that I wasn’t one of the skinny, blonde cheerleaders Zach and all the other boys took to the high school dances and kissed on doorsteps after dates. I was the non-threatening friend. Other girls knew their boyfriends wouldn’t cheat on them withGeorgia Beck.

Zach sighs. “You’ll still be able to wear lipstick, but I saw your ankle today. Heels are going to be out of the question tomorrow—probably for the rest of the week.”

Maybe it’s the empathy in his voice, but I’m finally ready to concede that he’s right. “I know. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll even be able to walk by tomorrow. Which means the whole shooting schedule will get thrown off, and we’ve got to be done by Memorial Day.”

“I know. But we’ll make it work,” he says with the self-assurance I’ve always loved about him.

But that doesn’t mean I believe him. “How?”

“You’ll lean on me. That’s how. We’re supposed to be acting like we’re in love, anyway.” He says this with enough firmness that I can’t find a way around his argument.

And I hate that.

Zach knows I don’t ask for help. I hate it. I like doing things on my own. Capable and independent is how every teacher described me on every report card. Those two traits are as much my trademark as my heels and red lipstick.

But if I’ve got to lean on anybody for a little while, Zach is definitely my first choice.

At this point, he’s my only choice. My ankle is throbbing. The only heels I’ll be able to wear are my Timberland boots. I wanted to wear something less construction-y tomorrow since our shots include a lot of design discussions and what Ike calls “shipping shots” that focus on mine and Zach’s “relationship.”

I’ve got to look my best in every shot with him. I’m already dreading the comments from trolls wondering why someone who looks like Zach would choose someone like me.

But we also have some “taking down walls” shots, which I would usually do in heels because I do very little actual hammer-swinging—Ike just makes sure it looks like I do. Those shots would definitely be more eye-catching if I had on a great pair of shoes.

The Timberlands will give me the ankle support I’m going to need for a little while. And so will Zach. I can do that for a few days.

“Okay,” I agree with a resigned sigh. “But you’re going to have to slouch a lot so I don’t look so short.”

“I don’t know if it’s physically possible for me to slouch that much,” he teases.

“Shut up,” I reply, but I’m sure he can hear the smile in my voice.

I guess it’s my turn to rely on someone. And there’s no one I’m more sure I can rely on than Zach Thomsen.

Chapter 24

Zach

After I finish my call with Georgia, I text Dad and tell him I’m coming over to sit with Mom so he can go to church. Usually I spend Saturday afternoons with her so that Dad can take care of the store. Bear helps him there, and Britta helps Adam with the Saturday night rush at the Garden. But, obviously, I wasn’t at either place yesterday, which only adds to my growing regret over almost proposing to Carly.

Spending time with Mom today won’t make up for abandoning my family yesterday, but I’m hoping she’ll have a Sunday today like she did last week. I’m aching for her to tell me what to do about Carly and Georgia. Carly hasn’t texted me back, and I want to be relieved about that, but I’m just sad.

---