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17
It was finally Friday, and Bronte was enjoying her lunch, counting down the minutes until the last bell. It’d been a long week, and she couldn’t wait to get home. She may not have been able to see Chris in person yesterday for his birthday, but she didn’t plan on letting him leave her sights for forty-eight hours once school ended.
She pulled up her cell phone to text him exactly that when Rachel made a delighted sound.
“What?” Bronte asked distractedly, admiring a selfie Chris had sent her. He held a plastic turkey under his arm, one of her mother’s Thanksgiving decorations. With a big, cheesy grin on his face, his brown eyes sparkled. How she ever thought she might’ve been able to ignore him was beyond logical comprehension.
“CJ Cunningham…”
Bronte glanced up, noticing her friend reading a celebrity gossip magazine. “Who?”
“CJ Cunningham, the actor.”
Bronte shook her head. She could, maybe, pick out a dozen actors by name, and CJ Cunningham wasn’t one of them.
“He used to be in the news a lot. He was in Silence, that modern retelling of Hamlet a few years ago and got into a physical fight with his costar, Mickey Little.”
“I think I remember hearing that, and I actually saw that movie. Not my favorite Shakespeare adaptation.” She was able to count the number of movies she’d seen this year on one hand, and Rachel knew it, laughing at the haughty review.
“A source has told us exclusively that Cunningham is in the running to star in a new film, a period piece from the Gilded Age about the daughter of an oil tycoon who falls for a brawler affiliated with the criminal underground,” Rachel read. “It sounds promising, although where he is hiding out is still a question. From the new look he’s sporting, we’re going to guess Portland or Seattle. The source would neither confirm nor deny.” She lifted the magazine, pointing at the picture. “That’s funny. Doesn’t that look like that gas station over on Hamilton?”
Bronte’s giggle was stifled when she got a good look at the picture. “Oh my god.”
“What?” Rachel put the magazine back down.
“I know him.”
“See, I told you. You—”
Bronte shook her head, closing her eyes to block out the printed photo of Chris. “No, I know him. He’s been living next to my parents.” She slowly opened her eyes to see Rachel sitting on the edge of her chair, a grape halfway to her mouth.
“You know CJ Cunningham?”
Bronte swallowed around a thick lump in her throat, suddenly sick to her stomach. “And I may or may not have made out with him. A few times.”
“What? Holy shit!” Rachel squealed so loud, other teachers in the lunchroom twisted to look at them, and she lowered her voice. “Holy shit. How do you know him?”
“I met him on the plane coming back from Illinois.”
“And you didn’t know who he was?”
“No.” Bronte moaned. “He had the hair and the beard, and I don’t really watch—it doesn’t matter.” She held her head in her hands. “I don’t… I thought I might have… I was going to…” Her sputtering words broke on a gasp.
Chris had been lying to her this whole time.
“I’m going to run to the bathroom before next period,” she said, her vision blurring as she gathered her things and darted to the faculty restroom. Leaning her unsteady legs against the counter, she typed out a text to her sister, Did you know who Chris was?
Finally figured it out?
Bronte growled in anger. So much for honesty. First Chris, then her sister. Who else knew?
Tears of humiliation stung her eyes as she thought of how she’d acted with him, how she’d thought she felt about him. It was all a lie.
With yet another SOS text to the girls, Bronte opened the web browser on her phone to find pictures of CJ Cunningham before texting a few of them to the girls. Gem, usually always available with her easy come, easy go work schedule, was the first to appear on the FaceTime call.
“Hey, how’s it— Are you crying? What happened? I thought your dad was doing well.”
“No, he is. He’s—”
