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Thea's gaze flicks to the person off camera again—her manager, I imagine. But whatever she finds in their expression isn't what she wants if the gentle deflation of her shoulders is any indication.
“You know me, Julia,” she says finally, a forced smile on her lips. “I'm not one to kiss and tell.”
“Why won't she just answer the question?”
The shock of India's voice has me smacking my head on the hood of old Stanley Garrison's car.
“Jesus.”
“Shit, sorry.”
Rubbing my sore head, I duck out from underneath the hood and turn to find my girlfriend standing in the doorway of the garage.
“What are you doing here?”
“Bringing you breakfast.” She holds up a brown paper bag. “Got the pastries you like—the ones with the raisins.”
I don't remind her that I hate raisins.
She knows—or at least I thought she did—and mentioning it would only piss her off when she's tried to do something nice for me. I've told her about my hatred of the dried fruit a handful of times before and if she hasn't remembered it by now, she never will.
“Thanks, babe.”
She rounds the car with a smile and drops a kiss to my cheek, then looks at the television on the shelf opposite that is still showing the Thea and Julia Abernathy interview.
I reach up and mute it.
India scowls. “Why are you even watching this?”
Her disdain is written clear as day on her face. She's never bothered to try and hide it. She doesn't care who knows—never has. She hates Thea. Fact. And though I don't personally think she has a good enough reason to justify such a strong sentiment, it doesn't stop it being true.
“Just came on.”
Lie.
They've been advertising this interview all week and I came in early this morning to watch it while I work.
“Aiden's out of her league and would never go for her anyway,” she says. “Althea knows it too. I bet that's why she's not answering the question—'cause of what a relationship with him could do for her career. He's up for an Emmy, ya know? For that documentary about sea lions he did last year. No wonder she's not tellin’ the truth. Glory-hunting bitch.”
“India.”
The bite in my tone jars her and she looks to me with wide brown eyes. “What?”
“Don't call her that.”
Her eyes roll and she puffs out her cheeks like a petulant child as she pouts at me. “Don't get all butthurt just because you dated in high school.”
“It's got nothing to do with that.” Another lie. “But you've got no reason to hate her as much as you do, and even less to call her a bitch.”
“Sometimes I think you still love her.”
She says it simply and without emotion, but her forehead creases into a deep frown and her eyes are alight with resentment. She's never been able to hide how she's feeling. It's actually one of the things I like about her. There's no guessing when it comes to her, no games. I can read all her truths on her face.
“Why the hell would you say that?”
She shrugs. “You're always so quick to defend her.”
“No, I'm not.”
