Page 73 of The Devil Gets His Due

Graham is in a foul mood throughout, ignoring me and grunting at the stylist when she greets him. And I’ve had it…mostly with the being ignored part.

It’s late by the time the stylist leaves. He’s sitting at the kitchen table on his laptop, acting like I’ve left too.

I ask if he wants to see the dress we chose, and when he grunts,“I’m good,”I finally explode.

“What the hell, dude? My dreams are coming true and you’re being a dick.”

He shuts his laptop and leans back in his seat, letting his eyes fall closed before he looks at me. “Has it occurred to you how hard life is for celebrities? And how unsafe? Drew Bailey wears a disguise everywhere she goes and still can’t walk out her door without getting photographed. A guy scaled a twelve-foot fence and hid in their backyard, for God’s sake. If this goes the way you hope, you’ll spend the rest of your life in danger.”

I laugh. “I’m not going to be Drew Bailey-level famous. Doctors don’t get stalkers.”

“Youwould,” he says morosely. “You’re the type of female even someone mentally stable marries on the fly. Imagine what you’d unleash in someone whowasn’tstable.”

I’m tempted to suggest he’s not acting all that stable himself at the moment, but I manage to refrain. “Drew manages just fine.”

“Drewdoesn’t want to chat with every person she meets,” he counters. “She’s not hanging out at the bakery for twenty minutes catching up with the cashier. She doesn’t stop complete strangers to ask about the meaning of their t-shirts or where they get their hair done.”

My eyes sting. “I’m not that bad.”

He sighs as he rises, tucking his laptop under his arm as he turns for his room. “I never said you were bad, but I worry every time you walk out the door, and it’s about to get worse.”

I wakeon Sunday less excited for what lies ahead than I thought. It’s not because what Graham said worries me. My plan is to attain the exact right amount of fame: the sweet spot where I get pretty clothes and Khloe and I are workout buddies, but where I can still do whatever I want and talk to whomever I want, and I’m only recognized when it’s convenient for me—like when I need to cut in a line or get a table somewhere.

But—though it was fun having the stylist here and dreaming about it all—the reality is that today isn’t going to be especially interesting. I’m not going somewhere to diagnose a crazy skin condition. I’m not even talking about what I know. It’s just going to be all about catching a baby on a kitchen floor, and that’s a story I’m already tired of.

Graham is off doing one of his extensive, unnecessary, workouts while I putter around in the morning, but when it’s time to leave for the studio, I find him waiting.

“I’ll drive you,” he says. He hasn’t shaved since Friday and is in a button-down and jeans. He looks rugged, like an off-duty Secret Service officer.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I have to get hair and makeup done and it’s a whole thing.”

“I know. I’ll stay.”

“It will be hours—”

“Keeley, do youwantto do this alone?”

“No,” I admit. I’d feel a little better if he was with me. I think, perhaps,he’dfeel a little better about it too.

“Then let’s go,” he says.

He plugsin the address and drives us slowly, safely across town to The Grove. I stare out the window, wondering what my mother would make of this moment and when it’s going to feel the way I thought it would. Because I pictured the excitement and the clothes, and I pictured the compliments, like the stylist telling me I was adorable a thousand times yesterday, but what I didn’t picture was this strange discomfort that’s present at the same time. It’s nerves, yes, but it’s also this...disconnect. I thought I loved attention—I’mknownfor my love of attention—but this is the wrong kind.

Graham parks and walks me to the back door of the building, which temporarily serves as a hair and makeup/greenroom. We take a glass-walled elevator upstairs, through which we can see the entire crowd waiting.

“Wow,” I whisper.

“Are you okay?” Graham asks.

“That’s a lot of people.”

I wait for some kind of admonishment from him, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he reaches over and wraps his hand around mine. His palm is large and warm and dry, while mine is sweaty and cold and small. Nothing has ever felt better.

“It’s all going to be okay,” he says.

I blink back tears. He’s going to be a really good dad. He’s going to make someone a really good husband.

I can see clearly the life he’ll have with her, this mystery female he’ll one day marry. It will be intensely boring. They’ll eat in all the time and she won’t buy an olive-green suede trench coat that costs as much as their mortgage on a whim. They won’t go to Cabo for the weekend. They’ll live in a house like Ben and Gemma’s, and they’ll grill in the backyard while our daughter plays in the pool.

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