Wish You Were Here

Chapter 4

You land in LA wearing leggings. For your first two signings, you switch out for jeans. But before the last one, when you go back to your hotel and cram a 7-Eleven sandwich in your mouth for dinner, you get changed into a tight leopard print skirt. You're aiming to look hot for your actor friend, and anyone else whose attention you'll get, but also want to be respectable enough to be signing books for teenage fans. Formal but fun. Like a sexy librarian.

In the taxi on the way there, your publicist touches up her makeup and asks if you've got any plans for tonight. You tell her you just want to go to bed. It's not untrue. You just omit the part where you want to go to bed with one particular person.

You are at the bookshop early – after it's closed, but before the event is due to start. You chat to various shop assistants to pass the time, and they've just started letting people in through the front door when a scream erupts from outside. When the special guests are guided into the shop, you are stuck on the other side of the room and can't say hello to him properly. He waves dumbly in your direction. You wave back. It's kind of weird seeing him in normal clothes again.

Staff guide them over to their seats at the signing table. The other actors have sat in the middle three seats, leaving you and him to sit at either end of the table. It's probably better that way, you think. Easier to forget that he's there when you can't hear his voice.

You lose an hour chatting to fans, sign obediently until you get to the end of the line. After the last book you excuse yourself, slip away to the YA section towards the back under the guise of finding your books on the shelf, checking behind you to see if he's seen you. He finishes up his conversation and follows you between the shelves. You turn your back, pretend not to notice he's coming until his footsteps approach and he's right behind you. He goes in for a hug and you push your body against him, throw your arms around his neck. Big inhale. You love the smell of his cologne.

"Don't get changed before you come over," he whispers.

"Why?"

"I like your skirt." You smile against his shoulder, pleased he noticed.

Aware of how long you've stood together – far longer and closer than a friendly acquaintance hug – you separate, step back a little. You're still close enough to reach each other, but there are too many people watching.

He leans an arm on a shelf above him, tilts his head to look you in the eye. "How were all the signings?"

"They were good!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You tell him about the little hiccups, ask him how his day was. He tells you he spent the day in front of a green screen and it's a relief to be in a room of actual stuff. You can feel the burning eyes of people watching the two of you, but try to ignore it. You don't want to take your eyes off him in case he vanishes.

"I'm so glad it's all gone so well," he says. "Congratulations, by the way. I don't think I've ever said."

"Oh." You're embarrassed. "Thank you."

A shop assistant wanders over and asks if he's ready to leave. You were certain she wasn't wearing red lipstick at the start of the event, before he arrived. You can see people queuing out the front, trying to get in. Word has spread that the stars of the film, that he, is here. The three kids say their goodbyes and go outside to greet their fans. He says he'll catch you next time and follows the assistant, disappears out a back door for privacy. Then, a few minutes later when he's in the car, he texts you an address – presumably where you'll be sleeping tonight, on the free side of his bed.

You help the staff tidy up and move furniture back where it belongs in the store, climb back into the car to drive back to the hotel with your publicist.  "Big day," she says. "We haven't had a chance to celebrate your book. Do you want to have a quiet drink at the bar downstairs? Just the two of us?"