“Jesus,” the producer muttered. “Can we please keep rolling?”
“I’m rolling,” the guy behind Marissa said.
“So, you do want a can?” Layton pressed, one finger pointed at me.
“I’m good,” I responded.
“Let’s have Eileen come in and meet Cash and Layton. Where in God’s name is Emma?” The producer’s voice grew shrill.
“She’s on the phone,” someone called out from behind the kitchen cameras.
“Get her off and in here,” she snapped.
“I’m here.”
We all turned as a group to see Emma standing in the doorway off the living room, the one that led to the pool deck. The sun framed her thin frame, and I held up my hand to block the fierce rays, wishing I could see her face past the glare.
“This is Layton.” Marissa took over as the introducer. “And you know Cash, of course.”
"Of course," Emma drawled, stepping forward and letting the door slam behind her. "Hey, Layton. Big fan of your videos. Team Q?" She held out her fist to him for a bump.
He hesitated, surprised. "Yeah," he managed, returning the pump. "Team Q. So, you watch the reviews?"
"Stop talking about YouTube," the producer said loudly. "No one cares about your stupid barbecue reviews."
Emma winked at Layton, and I watched as a shy smile tugged across his face, which looked naked without his customary cowboy hat. "You guys already settled?" Her gaze swept past me and landed on Johno, who had yet to say a word. He straightened from his slouch in one of the stools in the kitchen. "Hey, Johno."
"Hey, Em."
"You two know each other?" Eileen made it into the living room, and I tried not to stare at her shirt, which was completely sheer once she stepped into the light by the windows. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Yeah,” Johno said. “We did a panel at Vidcon.”
“I was thinking of grabbing something to eat at that beach bar that’s on the corner.” Emma glanced at Marissa, then Layton. “You guys down?”
“Okay, stop." The producer stepped forward, wearing a headpiece that looked way too big. "I'm Dana." She raised her hand in a quick and dismissive greeting. "When I shout things, it's for a reason. LISTEN TO THEM. Now, we're having you guys fix dinner here at the house, together.” She spun her finger in the air in a continue on gesture as she returned to the sidelines. “Marissa and Layton— you guys are going to argue about the menu options.”
Emma ignored the directive entirely. "It's in walking distance, and they have killer happy hour margaritas."
“I’m down.” Layton, who was already ready to follow her anywhere, finished off the last sip of the energy drink, then crushed it in his hand.
Marissa glanced dubiously at the producer, who was shaking her head adamantly, then at Eileen. “I guess I could do a margarita.”
“I’ll grab my shoes.” Johno stretched and glanced at me. “You coming?”
Everyone looked at me, including Emma. I moved reluctantly to my feet. “Sure.”
The producer squawked in distress, and, just like that, Emma somehow became their leader.
But not mine. I watched her as we walked to the restaurant, her head bent toward Eileen, her laugh floating back along the breeze, the sun shining off her glossy hair, and swore that —no matter what — I wouldn’t become one of her followers. Neither figuratively and literally.
37
#thestruggleisreal
EMMA
It was so hard, that first day.
I had decided the week before we moved in, that I would adopt a light-hearted mood with Cash. I had aimed for playful and slightly flirty, which was the exact opposite of how we'd ever interacted, but given that I'd horribly failed all prior encounters, I was turning a new leaf and seeing how that worked.
I couldn't tell how the new method was working. He completely avoided and ignored me that first day. On the second… well, you know what happened then. The cameras caught the entire thing.
38
#absfordays
CASH
The show schedule had Emma and I getting into an argument on the next day, but we’d deviated from the first script to get drunk at Amigos and eat tacos, so I woke up that morning with no idea of what was to come. I laid in bed and could hear, from somewhere in the distance, yelling.
I sat up slowly and glanced at my roommates, both still asleep. Standing, I shuffled to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, then moved downstairs.
The house was a typical Beverly Hills mansion—which meant that there was nothing typical about it. Towering ceilings on both the first and second floors. Windows everywhere, with arched details and authentic poured glass. Marble floors and a sweeping staircase that took up the space of two New York City apartments. Someone with a penance for oil paintings and heavy furniture had decorated the house. I moved down the main staircase and eyed the Persian rug at the foot of it, wondering how long it would last before Johno vomited on it.
A girl with a messy bun and headset skidded to a stop as she saw me. She paused, then screeched out Dana’s name.
“Use the damn headset,” Dana snapped, appearing off the left side. She saw me, then snapped her hands up as if I was about to step on a bomb. “Hold it right there. Don’t move a single step. TONY!”
A camera hustled into the room, and I scratched the back of my neck as the operator kneeled, the camera angled up to me.
"Yes," Dana breathed. "Yes, this is gold. Cash, continue down the stairs. Please, for the love of God, go into the kitchen, and get coffee. Don't look at the camera. JOHN, leave the girls for a minute and come catch this!”
I was certain, thudding down those final stairs and taking the long path into the kitchen, that something would be waiting there for me. Some big AHA surprise moment that would leave the viewers and me stunned. I slowed at the arch entrance to the large open space, prepared—but there was nothing. The long glistening white counter. A coffee pot percolating by the sink. I opened a cabinet, then another, then five more before I found the coffee cups. They were all red and lined up in a perfect row by someone with severe OCD. I took the cup and flipped the cabinet shut, then reached for the coffee pot.
“That’s it…” Dana said softly. “Zoom in on his abs. Catch all of that beautiful definition.”
I chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all and received an immediate and sharp reprimand from Dana. Looking back, I guess she knew her stuff. That two-minute clip of me coming down the steps and getting my coffee got two hundred million views and birthed ninety-six different memes and gifs. Apparently, tousled bed hair and low-slung pajama pants got a woman's juices going. Add in a steaming cup of coffee, and I had two seven-figure offers on Frank's desk, one from Keurig and one from Folgers. We took them both.
The yelling, which had subsided slightly with Dana's focus on me, resumed, and I took my coffee and followed the sound, curious at what was going on.
I was stepping over a thick tangle of cords between the kitchen and dining room when a carrot flew by my head, the point narrowly missing my eye. I paused and followed the source of the projectile.