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Laney appeared next, laughing. “Bronte, why did you send us photos of CJ Cunningham…and why are you crying?”
Bronte could only gurgle a few nonsense words before Sam came on the screen. “Hey, I— What’s going on?”
Bronte blew her nose and took a deep breath. “Chris is CJ Cunningham.”
Her best friends said nothing. They went completely mute.
“That’s why I sent you those pictures. The guy with the beard and sunglasses and long hair, that’s who I met on the plane. That’s who’s been living next to my parents.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” Gem said in a hushed tone.
Laney dug her pointer finger into her temple like she was trying to fix a machine. “CJ Cunningham has been living next to your parents? The guy you’ve been lusting after since the moment you met him is CJ Cunningham? Ho. Ly. Shit.”
“Bronte,” Sam said seriously. “How did you not know?”
“When he said he was in the entertainment industry, I thought maybe it was something to do with marketing or money…or I don’t know.” She flailed her arms around her head. “And you see what he looks like. I didn’t recognize him. It’s not like I’m a movie connoisseur.” She recalled him sitting next to her on her parents’ couch last month, going on and on about Princess Bride, and her thinking how cute it was that he knew so much. Like he was some kind of movie buff. When he was a movie star. Embarrassment and betrayal chilled her blood, and she shivered, suddenly cold. “He was so sweet, and-and-and…I thought…”
I thought I was falling for him.
I thought he was falling for me.
When Bronte broke down in tears, Sam stuck out her bottom lip. “Are you upset because he lied to you?”
“Yeah,” Bronte said, wiping at her eyes. “It’s not that I care who he is. I don’t.”
“You care a little bit, though, huh?” Gem said. “Remember we all went to see his movie together when you broke up with Hunter that one time in college.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh god, what was it? He was so hot in it…with the girls who were being experimented on. Remember? It was based on that book.”
“Final Girls,” Laney supplied. “There was a sequel too. Didn’t he date the girl in it? Layla Mahoney?”
Bronte wanted to wail. This man, who had wormed his way into her heart, whom she thought belonged to her, didn’t. He belonged to the world at large. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care he’s famous. I care that he lied, and he has this whole other life that I won’t fit in.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “We can’t be together. He’s a famous actor, and I’m a teacher. It could never work.”
“Well,” Laney said, her nose scrunching up like she was afraid to say whatever it was she was about to say. “Famous people get together with non-famous people all the time. Look at the couples who’ve stayed married in Hollywood. It’s mostly actors who are married to, like, bartenders and makeup artists.”
Gem slapped her hand down on the table, backing up Laney. “Like Matt Damon!”
Bronte wanted to laugh, but she could only cry.
“Aw, Bron,” Laney said, frowning. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you want us to come down?” Gem asked. “I’ll put Willow on a plane or in the car. Say the word and—”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“What are you going to do?” Sam asked as the bell rang.
She tipped her head up at the ceiling, like maybe if she stared hard enough, she could reverse time, un-ring the bell, go back to before this day started. Back to when CJ Cunningham was still only Chris.
“I don’t know.”
Bronte spent the rest of the school day in a fog, somehow making it through, mostly due to Rachel’s help, then headed right to her car as soon as she could with one goal in mind. To tell Chris off.
She screeched to a halt when she spotted the man in question on top of a ladder in front of her parents’ house. She slammed the car door, and he turned over his shoulder, his face breaking into a grin, proving Gem correct in her observation. He was hot. Stupid-looking hunting cap and all.
“Hey, Bronte.”
Even through her anger, she still loved the way he said her name like that. Like it was his favorite word. “What are you doing?”
“Something is stuck in the gutter, so I thought I’d—”
