“Thanks, Mrs. O,” Quinn said, grabbing Ellie’s wrist and pulling her toward the door, already rattling off all the things they’d need to do to get ready for the evening. But just before they stepped outside, Ellie broke away and trotted back over to the register.
“Thanks, Mom,” she said, giving her a quick hug.
“Sure thing,” Mom whispered as she pulled back. “I’m just glad it’s not you.”
Ellie thought once more of Graham Larkin’s eyes, so guarded and sad, and of the way he’d paused in front of the store, his shoulders hunched and the brim of his cap pulled low as the photographers crept up behind him, as patient and certain as snipers. She glanced over at Quinn, who was practically dancing from one foot to the other, and it struck her how complicated this was, all of it, not just the cameras and the movie trailers, but the way someone could look at you, how it could feel like a question without an answer. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was go home and write an e-mail, to send her thoughts across the country like a message in a bottle, like the poems in the frames.
She turned back to Mom with a little nod.
“I know,” she said. “Me too.”
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sunday, June 9, 2013 3:02 PM
Subject: Re: what happy looks like
Meeting new people.
The light off the water was golden in the last hours of the day. Graham took the long way to dinner, cutting over to the beach, where he paused every now and then to pick up a stone, weighing it in his hand before letting it fall back to the ground. All day, the smell of the ocean had been calling to him.
A couple of sunburned tourists walked by with beach chairs under their arms, but neither of them bothered to look up at him as they passed, and Graham felt a little shiver of delight. After the first movie came out, it had been the opposite; each time someone recognized him in public, it was like a benediction, like in some strange way he was being knighted: Graham Larkin, Somebody. But now—now it was the lack of recognition that made his heart thump in his chest, that small thrill of anonymity, which had become such a rare thing these days.
He glanced at his watch, realizing he would soon be running late, but instead of heading back up to the road, he turned to face the ocean squarely, watching the light skip off the water. There were still a few boats on the horizon, silhouettes against the sun, and Graham had a sudden longing to be out there too.
He remembered a fishing trip he’d taken with his father when he was only eight, the two of them bobbing in the little rowboat, their necks lost in the orange lifejackets. For three days, they’d tied their bait and cast their lines and caught nothing. Dad kept apologizing, like it was his fault the lake refused to offer anything up, and as the last afternoon began to wear thin, he only looked more miserable. This had been his idea, the kind of bonding trip he’d taken with his own father, and he’d been telling Graham for months now about all the fish they’d surely catch.
“Salmon?” Graham had asked, and Dad shook his head.
“Probably not,” he said. “They’re tougher to find. But trout. Lots and lots of trout. You’ll see.”
They hadn’t brought anything else for dinner—he was that certain—and so the previous night, they’d eaten beef jerky and string cheese out on the cabin porch, swatting away the mosquitoes and listening to the thrum of the crickets. They were close to giving up that last afternoon when it occurred to Graham to tie some of the beef jerky to the end of the line. Dad had sat forward, the little boat rolling back and forth, and his eyes brightened.
“That’s not a bad idea,” he’d said, breaking off a piece.
Graham was the first one to get a bite, a rainbow trout that flopped and jerked on the line as Dad helped him reel it in. After that, it was easy. Dad pulled in three more trout, and then Graham caught a small carp. The light was fading and the water was getting dark all around them, but neither of them wanted to stop. It was like magic, like they’d conjured three days’ worth of fish, a whole weekend’s worth of memories, into that last hour of daylight.
When he felt one final tug on his line, Graham reeled it in to find a small salmon on the end, silvery and sleek in the dusky light.
“I guess you proved me wrong,” Dad said with a grin. He sat back in the rowboat, his face all lit up, and held up the empty package of beef jerky. “Looks like the wrong kind of bait can get you the right kind of fish.”
Graham was thinking about that now as he turned and cut up toward the town, leaving the fishing boats behind. Maybe that’s what it was like with Ellie. He’d cast his e-mail out into the world in search of a trout, and what he’d found instead was a salmon. He couldn’t help smiling at this, though he suspected a girl like Ellie might object to being compared to a fish.
He smoothed the front of his shirt as he passed the movie trailers, now dark and silent. They’d already shot a few scenes on a soundstage in L.A., but there was an air of excitement about being on location, especially in a place like this, and Graham couldn’t help getting caught up in it. He’d spent the past two years playing the same character and working with the same actors, so it was refreshing to be doing something different. The new director, the new script, the new costar—all of it helped him remember why he enjoyed acting in the first place. It was the challenge of it all, being set down in the middle of someone else’s life like a tourist and feeling your way through it.
The Lobster Pot wasn’t far from the beach; Graham could see it as he made his way up the street. It was just after seven thirty, which meant Ellie was probably already in there. Outside, there was a knot of photographers, their dark clothing giving them away, even as they tried to look casual among the tourists. A few motorcycles were parked nearby; on more than one occasion, Graham had been chased by paparazzi as he tried to slip out of some restaurant or club. There was a breathless absurdity to these pursuits, and though he understood that they had a job to do, he had little respect for the way they did it, and even less for the people who were so desperate to read what they reported. The truth was, he wasn’t really worth reading about. He was a better-than-average-looking seventeen-year-old guy who occasionally took a pretty girl to dinner and who played a part decently well, but who mostly sat around at home reading books with his pet pig.
As he approached, the photographers began hoisting their cameras and calling out his name. He ducked his head as they gathered around him. There were fewer than earlier, only four or five; the rest probably had the sense to go get some dinner, or to stay behind and watch TV in their hotel rooms. Those who had stuck it out clicked away like mad, though, the flashes popping as they peppered him with questions, each more relentless than the one before.
“Who’s this girl, Graham?” asked one of them, a brick wall of a guy with a diamond earring and a head so pale and bald that it reflected the last of the day’s light. “Was that the first time you’d met? What does Olivia think? Are you two official?”