“They’re fantastic!” she says between bites, with a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I just had the most interesting chat with Susan Martin—you know, our dedicated stalker-journalist? I invited her myself. Figured I might as well give her something real to write about if she’s going to keep trying to twist my story.”
My stomach lurches. “How’d that go?”
Reese snorts, rolling her eyes. “Oh, you know, she said my haircut gave me an edge right before questioning my mental stability. Because heaven forbid a woman change her hair without first alerting the press that she’s having a breakdown.” She takes another defiant bite, her knuckles whitening around the sandwich. “And even if we are having breakdowns, we’re still showing up, aren’t we?”
“That’s right. Think she’ll write something decent this time?”
“She better,” Reese says, then shrugs. “Though honestly? All this press probably doesn’t matter anymore. We buried Felix’s headlines after he quit, and that was the whole point of this. Now it’s really about me taking back my own narrative.”
It doesn’t seem like Susan told her. The relief that floods into my lungs is cruel.
“The tabloids are always going to write shit and spin stories. I’ve seen it happen to my family and experienced it firsthand.”
“You’re right. I guess some of the press coverage is getting to me more than I want to admit.” She runs a hand through her hair, that nervous habit she has when she’s holding too much inside. “It’s obviously not only Susan—it’s all the journalists whoare here today. Every single one of them has written something hurtful about me.”
“Are you regretting your evolution?” I pull myself out of the dirt patch I was rooted to and step out of the tree clearing.
“No. Not regretting.” She straightens her posture, putting on that media-ready smile. “I’m becoming someone new, and I’m not sure who that person is yet. I’ve always been this role model for young ladies, and I thought this transition would help that, show them that you can grow and be human and be bold!”
“But?”
“How do you know there’s a but?” She raises a brow at me, her façade cracking just slightly.
“I know you.”
“But.” She exhales shakily. “I feel like they’re all writing stories about a person I don’t fully understand. Like they’re turning this…whatever this self-discovery is into a spectacle.” Her voice drops to nearly a whisper. “Between the interviews, the acting, learning with Amara, I just…I cannot have anything go wrong right now. Not one thing.” Her eyes meet mine with an intensity that makes my chest ache. “This movie is everything to me. It has to be perfect. I can handle the press, the critics, all of that, but…” The parchment paper crinkles under her trembling hands. “I just can’t handle any more surprises or bad news. Not until we wrap.”
Fuck.
I can’t tell her about Susan now. It would hurt her. No matter my intentions, she’ll see me as another Ricky. Using her. And that’s the last thing I want. She already has so much on her plate, and she just said it herself—she can’t handle any more bad news.
Once the movie is over, I’ll tell her. No matter what happens. Just not now. Not when we have months of filming left, when I feel closer to her than I ever have.
I hate this, this withholding information, this pretending. It’s not who I’m supposed to be. Except it is, isn’t it?
Or it was. I don’t fucking know.
Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe I’m just rationalizing this with some bullshit protective instinct. Or maybe I’m just twenty-six years old and have never learned how to have a real relationship before.
“I don’t mean to sound pretentious.” I force the corner of my lip up. “But you’re like a phoenix. When I first met you, Reese Sinclair was this contained thing. Becoming Robyn helped you burn it all down, and now you’re becoming something else entirely.”
“That’s a very sweet way to think about it.” She attempts a smile, but I can see how fragile it is, how close she is to breaking.
“It’s okay to not know who you are right this second or how you want to show up in the world.” A part of me has been trying to figure out the same thing since meeting her.
“Maybe I can continue trying to be just Reese?” She looks up at me hopefully, desperate for reassurance.
“Sounds like a good plan, if I do say so myself. Identity is fluid,” I say softly, leaning in a little closer. “Questioning who you are shows how self-aware you’ve become.”
“You always know the right thing to say,” she sighs. My jaw tightens. “And you got me a fancy apricot tart—let’s share it before I have to do another one of these.” She smiles, and I forget everything else.
This is the best thing for Reese right now.
We settle onto a weathered log, the bark rough beneath us. I unfold a napkin across my lap, breaking the flaky apricot tart in half and passing her portion over.
The weight of what I actually needed to talk to her about today sits heavy in my chest. The timing feels wrong.
“Speaking of identity,” I venture. “After Em’s match, I want to keep training her. Even if my disciplinary review lifts. It’s been fun.” Ifit lifts, my mind whispers traitorously.
