Page 35 of Wildest Dreams

“I thought about it. At the same time, these past two weeks have been good for me. I guess I’m scared. Not just of getting hurt, but of not having anything to look forward to anymore. For years, I’ve been existing in a void with no horizon in the distance. You changed that in a startlingly short amount of time. I’m freaking out is all. It’s a me problem.”

I nod my head as she speaks and rub my thumb across her knuckles. She takes a deep, palpable breath.

“Can we talk about something else?” she asks, releasing my hand and pushing her hair back over her shoulders. “Tell me about your favorite places to travel.”

I breathe a sigh of relief as the tension lifts. I’m glad she was honest with me, but I also don’t really know where to go from here, so I go along with her change in subject. I tell her about hiking at Mt. Rainier in Washington state, flying over the Alaskan glaciers in a helicopter, taking my mom for a walk along the Champs-Elysées at night, and seeing the northern lights in Iceland.

She listens, enraptured, one elbow on the table and chin resting in her palm. As I’m talking, I catch myself almost saying things like “I’ll have to take you there” or “I can’t wait to show you this.” I know she doesn’t want to talk about the future, but all I want is to sweep her out of here and watch her face light up all over the world.

KENDALL

Dinner is wonderful once I get my little meltdown out of my system. I honestly don’t know why he’s putting up with me. I’m all over the place.

We leave the steakhouse and decide to go to Cattywampus. I thought about going back to my apartment, but I know where that will lead and I don’t know if I’m ready.

The walk to the brewery is heaven. The sun has gone down, the stars are out, and a warm June breeze is blowing over the river and into town.

Our table in the back corner is taken, as are all the rocking chairs on the porch. We settle at a high top in the middle of the huge room. I’ve never seen it this packed, especially with so many people I don’t recognize.

“A lot of the crew is here,” says Pierre after he orders our beers and meets me at the table. “Pussycat Blonde for you, Swamp Ass Stout for me.”

“Thank you.” I take a sip of my beer, wiping the foam from my upper lip. “I figured they were mostly movie people,” I say, looking around the room. “There are only a few faces I recognize.” Of course, two of the faces I do know are Tucker and Whitney.

Pierre spots them at the same time. “Do they ever leave?”

I chuckle. “I guess not. Honestly, I never come here unless I’m dropping off some tax stuff for the owner.”

“Oh well,” he says. “Don’t let them bother you. At least Marina isn’t here.”

“Yes, that would be…” I don’t have words for how uncomfortable that would be, so I simply make a face. She’s a model. Or was, anyway. I certainly am not. Never have been. Not even close.

For the next hour, we drink our beers, exchange stories from our childhood, and he tells me about his upcoming projects and all the new movies he wants to see, many starring his friends. He name-drops in such a casual way that I know he’s not doing it to be self-important, which only reminds me of our drastically different realities. He goes to catered parties at Jennifer Aniston’s house. The parties I’m used to involve a barn and a bonfire.

A few locals interrupt us while we talk to take selfies with Pierre, but for the most part everyone is polite and leaves him alone once they get their shot. He’s gracious and polite with each person, making sure to ask their names and tell them how happy he is to meet them. It must get old, but he doesn’t show it.

Then the inevitable happens.

Pierre is mid-sentence, telling me a story about doing his own stunt work in an action movie years ago, when all the color drains from his face. “Shit,” he says. “One of the crew members must’ve texted her.”

I know who he’s talking about before I even turn around.

Marina Breton. Former Victoria’s Secret angel. Cover of Vogue. Red carpet queen. Movie star. She may as well be seven feet tall. All legs in her beige miniskirt, flawless dark skin, hair flowing like she’s fresh from a high-end salon, and teeth white enough to blind the sun.

Her face lights up when she sees Pierre. She waves like he was expecting her. He immediately tenses up and looks around, aware of the fact that her dominating presence has drawn more attention to our table. He clears his throat and rubs his hands nervously on his thighs.

“Pierre!” she says as she gets to our table. She says it like we were expecting her, then tries to hug him. He looks stunned, instead awkwardly patting her on the back.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I heard everyone from set is hanging out tonight. Of course I had to be here.” She scoots one of the barstools close to him and sits down at our table. She’s closer to him than I am. He moves his chair towards me.

“I’m in the middle of a date here, Marina.”

Not once does she look at me or acknowledge that I’m here. Even with him pointing out he is here with me, she pretends I don’t exist.

“God, I can’t wait to get back to California. The food here is awful. Not to mention the mosquitoes. I swear I’ll be eaten alive by the time this shoot wraps. I’m surprised we don’t all have yellow fever.”

“Marina—” Pierre is agitated, but obviously trying not to make a scene.

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