Page 66 of The Reunion

I’ma strategic step in the right direction—it sounds like a line straight out of a publicist’s mouth. And after watching Ransom’s publicist in action on set earlier, it isn’t hard to imagine this line coming from her, specifically.

The words swim in my head, not to mention the insinuation: that Ransom’s motives in hooking up with me had less to do with his actual feelings for me and everything to do with changing the trajectory of his own career.

I want to believe the best in him.

I want to believe he had nothing to do with this article, or the one that blasted our news to the world—just like he swore he had nothing to do with the article that tore us apart in our final season, everything his girlfriend spilled to the press.

I want to believe it’s real this time. That even though I was wrong in the past whenever I thought there might be something between us, that this time is different.

He’s a good actor, though. And things aren’t adding up.

There are only so many places they could have heard “rumors” of Ransom being unsatisfied with his massive commercial success, and I sure didn’t spill about it. No one would look at his résumé and think,Oh,there’sa guy who’s lacking for opportunity!I know all too well, though, that there are secret sides to success—that we don’t talk aboutthe darker parts of being in the public eye because we’re expected to be grateful for all of it, even when it’s painful. I know for a fact that Ransom is unsatisfied. I heard it straight from his lips, right before he kissed me.

My own publicist suggested we use Ransom as a publicity stunt, so of course it makes sense that his would do the same. It’s hard to imagine Ransom being so calculating on his own—but even if it wasn’t his idea, I have to consider the possibility that he agreed to let it happen. If all he wants is to ride my success to places he hasn’t been able to go on his own, it definitely seems to be working. Even Jonathan Cast has reached out from a remote set in Iceland, according to that article.

I feel a little sick at how readily I offered to go out on a limb for him with Vienna; I left her a voice mail last night on the ride home from Ransom’s house.

“I have to be missing something,” I say numbly. “This can’t be what it looks like. It can’t.” IknowRansom. I know him, he wouldn’t do this—any of it.

“I hope there’s a good explanation,” Bre says, and my head snaps up. I’d forgotten for a minute that I wasn’t alone, thinking out loud. “For everything.”

There has to be.

I’m itching to text him, and itching to see if he’s texted me, but my phone is still locked away in my safe, upstairs in the back corner of my bedroom’s closet. Surely by now there’ll be something.

“Back in a minute,” I call over my shoulder as I rush upstairs. “Feel free to make some tea, or coffee, or… anything.”

A low rumble of thunder rattles the house. My bedroom is dark and moody thanks to the storm, not the usual sunny haven I’m used to, and my office-sized closet feels even more like a cave. I kneel in front of my safe, tap in the code.

I scroll through all the missed texts—several from my mom, a stack of them from Vienna with only a mysteriousCall mevisible on the top message, a dozen from Attica, two missed calls from Mars, more missed calls from my mom and Vienna and Attica and Bre and even Shine Jacobs.

It’s a dizzying mix of names—who’s in the mix, and moreover, whoisn’t. I scroll through again, making sure I haven’t missed anything: nope, nothing from Ransom.

A brief memory surfaces from late last night, though, along with a flicker of hope. I have the vague recollection of turning off notifications for Ransom’s texts on the ride back to my house. After our perfect night in his backyard, I fully expected some texts today that would have given us away—one glance at my phone from the wrong set of eyes and our secret would become the biggest news in Hollywood.

Ohhhhh, Liv of yesterday, how sweet and optimistic you were.

I open my phone, certain I’ll find a novel’s worth of messages waiting beside the crescent moon icon by his name.

But… no. Nothing new, nothing since our messages last night after he dropped me off, confirming he’d made it back to his place, telling me to sleep well, a couple of kiss emojis from me and a shy, blushing emoji from him.

I tap into Snapaday against my better judgment, ignoring all the other messages still waiting for me. I also ignore the notification bubble that pops up—though its stratospheric new comment and follower counts make me do a double take—and head straight to search.

When Ransom’s profile pops up, it’s obvious he’s also seen a major boost to his following today. There’s a new post in his feed, and new stories, too—he clearly hasn’t had his phone locked away all afternoon like I have.

The new post is black-and-white—he’s staring straight into the camera, eyes sparkling even in grayscale. The caption is simple: a single black heart. I’m about 90 percent sure it’s his publicist’s handiwork. His latest story, though—it’s definitely something he posted, a selfie taken by the pool in his backyard, no text or tags. He’s not exactly smiling, but he doesn’t look like his entire private life has just been blasted all over the internet without his permission, either.

I’m still staring at it when it disappears, and another story takes its place, an overfiltered shot of the waterfall in his pool. In tiny text, an artful italic serif, the wordsonly missing youare positioned just off tothe side, white letters against a shadowy stone background, punctuated with a simple white heart.

Are these words for me? Why didn’t he discreetly tag me, if so? There are a number of places where the text color could blend seamlessly with the photo. Maybe he simply left this story as a reminder of last night while working through all that made him so angry on set today.

Or, maybe this story is for everyone and no one all at once, another carefully carved facet of the whole Ransom-in-love narrative that’s been spun up today.

I close my eyes, put my phone facedown on the carpet. I want to go back to yesterday. I need to talk to Ransom, but right now, I just can’t stomach it. The fact that he hasn’t reached out at all since the news broke feels like a flaming red flag, a sign that I’m absolutely right to question whether everything between us has been one big publicity stunt for him.

And all those missed messages, especially that mysteriousCall metext from Vienna—in my voice mail to her, sometime around one in the morning, I proposed the idea of having Ransom play opposite me in her upcoming film.

I was so careful not to mention the fact that I wasseeingRansom, for the sake of having her consider him as a talented actor in his own right, and for my own credibility as a collaborator. As comfortable as I am with Vienna, I know she has a specific vision for every single aspect of every single project; for me to suggest Ransom as my costar felt like new territory in our working relationship. But I believed in Ransom, and—if I’m honest—the idea of going on location with him to a remote cabin in the woods thrilled me a little.

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