Every smile for the cameras would feel like a lie.
And I can’t go with Eva either. I can’t show up with her with my brother sitting in the front row and ambush him on one of the biggest nights of his career so far.
I’m stuck in the middle, and both sides are closing in. And after my conversation with Archie, I’m not sure how to make this right.
And I know Eva will be hurt, which would literally tear my heart out.
I think the best thing for me to do is not to go at all. I need to figure out where to go from here.
I pick up my phone and stare at the black screen for a solid five minutes, then decide to text Ace first.
Aston: I’m sorry to do this, but I have some sponsorship opportunities that I can’t pass up. You should take Mom anyway. She’ll love it.
I hit send, then set my phone back on the nightstand upside down so I don’t have to look at the screen light up with a reply, or worse, a call.
As for Eva, I don’t even know what to say to her yet. I know I’ll be letting her down. And I know I’m an asshole for not coming clean to my family like she did. I just need time to work this out in my head. I can’t lose my family, but I won’t lose her either.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
EVA
The multimillion-dollar machineryof Carrington Media moves with the precision of an arrow, and I’m the one pulling the bow.
The San Francisco air smells like stale espresso, hot plastic, car exhaust, and cannabis. I’m not a fan. And even though it’s February, the midday sun is beating down on five hundred yards of plush crimson carpet, melting the hairspray on a small army of publicists who are issuing orders into wireless headsets.
I'm inside a control room trailer that may be on wheels, but it's every bit as high-tech and luxurious as the production facilities where my father built his career.
The awards show is being held at the Palace of Fine Arts downtown, and parked just down the street from the red carpet, the trailer is packed wall-to-wall with monitors, switchboards, headsets, and producers calling cues over one another.
And for the first time …
I'm here as the executive producer.
My name is on the call sheet. Every camera angle, lightingcue, celebrity arrival, commercial break, and acceptance speech ultimately runs through me.
No pressure.
“Eva, we’ve got an audio drop on camera four’s auxiliary feed,” my producer barks from three chairs down, his fingers flying across a digital mixing console. “That talent interviewer on the western platform is picking up wind from the air conditioning vents. If we don’t damp it now, the audio track is going to sound like a wind tunnel when the athletes start arriving.”
“Patch it through secondary,” I reply, my voice cutting through the headset with clarity I’ve spent the last year perfecting. I don’t look up from the layout monitor, my eyes tracking the graphics sliding across the screen. “We go live to the entire country in two hours. I don’t want to hear the air blowing. Fix it, and give me a hard confirmation when the sound techs confirm the levels are green.
“Copy that. Swapping out the hardware now.”
I haven’t changed into my dress yet because it’s too hot and I’m just not feeling it. I reach down, my hand dropping into the pocket of my shorts, my fingers curling around my phone. I pull it out and read back through my texts with Aston.
He’s not coming. It feels like the words are mocking me with every minute that passes. My thumb scrolls through the log out of pure, masochistic habit.
Wednesday, 8:15 pm PST
Eva: Just landed in SF. Hotel is a circus. Sorry I didn’t get to see you before I left. Sorry it’s late. Call me in the morning.
Thursday, 8 am EST
Aston: Glad you made it there safely. Call me later when you get some free time. I miss you already.
Thursday, 10:30 am PST
Eva: Talking to you last night for three hours made me miss you even more than I already do.
