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He’s given up what he wants for what he needs.
And even though he didn’t say that he loves me back, I said it to him. And they weren’t just idle words. Cory has only just come back into my life, but he’s already the most important person in it, after Lizzie, of course. And I’m not about to let him go—physically or emotionally.
“If tonight’s going to be our last, we might as well go out with a bang, right?”
Cory’s smile is tired, but it's genuine. “Be careful what you wish for, girl. This is Hollywood. You’re not ready for a Hollywood-sized bang.”
Chapter 21
Cory wasn’t joking.
Looking back, I have no idea how it all came together. I was with him the whole time, and it didn’t seem like Cory made more than three or four phone calls. Sarah arrived first, directing in men with crates of wines and champagne. Then came the caterers. There were at least four people wheeling in platter after platter of food, so that by the time they were gone, there wasn’t a square inch of the kitchen or dining room that you could rest even a spare cup on. Everything was covered in charcuterie boards and silver trays of bite-sized food that I couldn’t recognize but looked absolutely delectable. Another delivery came, this one smaller, with three kegs of beer, which were set up on the back deck, a tiny blackboard in front of each with the type of beer it contained handwritten in chalk.
I tell Cory that this all seemed like ov
erkill. I even say that word: ‘overkill’, while inwardly thinking that it is a tremendous waste of money. But I’m not going to say that last bit out loud. If Cory wants to splurge on his last night in his dream house, who am I to get in the way?
In reply to my negativity, Cory only smiles. That wonderful smile that I didn’t think I would see again any time soon. The one that made me fall in love with him. The smile that I hope he reserves only for me, delivering a more plastic substitute in his other interactions.
“Have you seen the rest of this city? Los Angeles is built on overkill,” Cory replies. “What you need to see is all the boxes this party can check. Not only will it give me a chance to explain my side of this—which I’ll be lying about, by the way, saying that I’m only going to live in a hotel for a while because the bigger, better house I planned to move into was bought out from under me—before the tabloids can start printing sightings of the great Cory Flint living under a bridge. Tonight’s also the best networking experience you’re going to get this side of fame. I get to show off my new star, which gets your name and face out there while also creating buzz for the movie.” He holds up two, then three fingers. “How many birds are we killing with one stone?”
“One very expensive stone,” I say, but when Cory explains it all like this, it makes sense. But Sarah’s problems with Cory’s party begin where mine leave off.
“How could you only order three dozen bottles? We’re going to run out in two hours. And then what?”
While Cory tries to assuage her fears that their party will be a disappointment, I head to the bathroom with Lizzie. While she can get away with wearing jeans and her nicest t-shirt, I have to busy myself checking my make-up and adjusting the dress Cory insisted I wear. It’s on loan from Sarah. She apparently wore it on the red carpet a few years back. Before I finish, Lizzie darts out, yelling back that she’s going to check out if there are any celebrities she recognizes. The silver medal from her Kid’s Ninja excursion this afternoon bounces off her chest. At least it will be a great way for her to start conversations. I wish I had such a convenient icebreaker.
Ten minutes later—I swear it wasn’t any longer—I step out of the bathroom and into an absolute mass of bodies. There aren’t just a dozen or two milling about; no, there are at least a hundred people packed into the house, spilling out the back doors and onto the deck. Champagne flutes clink and silver platters surf between the waves of people, nimble fingers flicking off tidbits here and there.
After the initial shock, I start noticing the faces connected to the countless guests. There are a great many I don’t recognize, but even these hold themselves with the surety of a person who has accomplished what they set out to do in life. Some have silver hair, others comfortably large bellies, but the majority of the people I’m elbow-to-elbow with are the most beautiful people on the planet. People who have lit up my television screen multiple times. Faces that grace billboards, the sides of buses, and full-page ads in fashion magazines. These are the elite of Hollywood, and they are currently inside Cory’s house.
Speaking of Cory, where is he?
Even if I stand on my tiptoes, I can’t make him out anywhere. I begin to push around little cliques of people, feeling like a meteor bouncing between the gravitational pull of planets and galaxies. I almost get pulled in once or twice, but then the people inside the group realize I’m not someone they know, and they return to their conversations of restaurants they recently visited, trips to Florence, and even the charities they’ve set up to save the trees.
I snatch a glass of champagne from a passing platter, mouth a silent ‘thank you’ to the server, and down it in a single go. Then I grab another, but this one I keep in my left hand, the stem balanced delicately between shaking fingers. My stomach flutters about inside me, so I pass up all the little hors d’oeuvres flittering past. The only way I’m going to calm my nerves is by finding Cory. But when I finally come upon him, he’s at the center of what appears to be an adoring crowd.
“You’re telling us that your next movie is based loosely on one of Haruki Murakami’s novels? But you won’t tell us which one?” This exclamation comes from a mousy-looking fellow who appears to have been invited to the party on accident. He’s holding his phone out between him and Cory, the device upside-down. I can only assume that he’s currently recording the conversation.
So he’s a reporter.
The other two aren’t as pushy. They hold drinks instead of microphones, and talk amongst themselves as much as they do to Cory.
“Hot Stuff!” Cory calls out all of a sudden, ignoring the reporter. “I was wondering where you got off to. Come here. Meet my little attaché.”
“Attaché?” I ask, even as I shake hands politely.
“Every year, I sponsor two acting students from my alma mater. I get them small roles in my movies, and in return, they buy me far too many coffee gift cards.” He turns to them and says, “Tonight’s a helluva networking opportunity. So stop hanging around me and go meet and greet.” When they don’t move right away, he shushes them away like he’s herding ducks. “Go on, now. Go, go.”
The reporter with the phone in his hand doesn’t take the hint. Leaning in close to Cory, he says in a secretive whisper, “I’ve heard a few other rumors as well. Like the fact that you’re far too broke to be hosting a party like this one. People are saying that you’ve been blacklisted by every producer who can put their money where their mouth is.”
To his credit, Cory doesn’t punch the reporter’s nose into his pudgy little face. But the pushy young guy just has to add in one last jab that loosens Cory’s fist from its formerly resolute position.
“Is it true that the main actress is a nobody girl from the sticks you dug up just to keep costs down?”
Something cracks. Perhaps it's the cartilage inside the reporter’s nose. Or maybe the edge of a tooth. All I know is that blood is everywhere, a few screams draw more attention and phone cameras, and I’ve suddenly got my arms wrapped around Cory’s waist, struggling to pull him into the backyard. Once we’re under the soothing stars, the party just a warm hum in the distance, I release my grip and ask him what the hell that was about.
Before he can answer, we’re both turning as a third party stomps across the perfectly manicured lawn.
