I handed him my keys, and he drove us away from the school.

“Your house?” he asked.

“I want to go far away from here,” I said.

“Okay.” He flipped a U-turn at the next stoplight and headed for the freeway.

He drove for about an hour, neither of us saying much, before he pulled off the freeway and into the parking lot of a state beach. It was a weekday in October, so there were only a few other cars there, which I assumed belonged to the surfers I could see bobbing in the waves in the distance.

“This is the beach my parents used to take us to a lot.” He put the car in park, turned it off, and got out. I followed him to a bench that faced the ocean, where we both sat down. We watched the waves roll in. One of the surfers caught one and rode it until it fizzled.

The breeze blew hair across my face, and I tucked it behind my ears. My brain wouldn’t shut off, my eyes stinging with the thoughts. “Amanda hates me.”

“What?” he asked.

In sobs and hiccups, I summarized talking to the security guards and searching Amanda’s trailer. His face displayed the shock and sympathy he felt. When I was done, I pulled my knees up to my chest and buried my face in them. “I just want to do my job. I don’t understand why people are trying to stop me from doing that. I guess I’m unlikable.”

“Lacey,” he said. When I didn’t lift my head, he softly said, “Lace.”

I turned my head toward him so that now my cheek rested on my knees. My tears dripped sideways, over the bridge of my nose, and continued down the other side of my face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He put his hand on my back, as if he had no idea what to do. I had no idea either. “You are very likable.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t think it was Amanda.”

“I’d hoped it wasn’t her.”

“Back at your school . . . people knew me.”

He smiled a little. “You’re getting famous.”

“This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. People weren’t supposed to know me for something negative.”

“I know.”

Fresh tears followed the same trail. I sat back and looked up at the sky, trying to stop them. I hated crying when I wasn’t trying to. “But honestly, I don’t care about that as much as I do about what Amanda did. I thought we were friends. She made it seem like we were friends. Maybe everyone just puts on an act.” I looked at Donavan. “Are we even friends?”

He slid closer to me and took my face in his hands. He used his thumbs to wipe beneath my eyes. “Of course we’re friends.”

“Maybe I’ve been living in this world of fake emotions for so long that I don’t even know what real ones are.”

He brought my face closer to him and kissed my forehead. “You know what real emotions are,” he whispered.

There was something so comforting about that action that I pushed my forehead against his lips again and he complied with another kiss there. Then I lifted my eyes to his. He paused, his mouth lingering near mine, his hands still holding my face. This felt real. I was done thinking, and I didn’t wait for him to analyze this either. Because I knew he would analyze this, and I knew he’d come to the wrong conclusion: that now might not be the right time for this. I took a breath and pressed my mouth against his.

Maybe he wouldn’t have come to the wrong conclusion, because he didn’t hesitate at all, he kissed me back. He kissed me like this wasn’t the first time the idea had occurred to him. And for the first time that day, I was able to forget about everything but that moment—his hands, now in my hair, his mouth moving across mine, my hands, pressed against his chest, feeling his heart hammering fast. My heart sped to match the pace, taking my breath away.

He groaned and pulled back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be. Not for that.” That was the most real kiss I’d ever experienced. Amanda would’ve called it my first kiss. It felt that way, because nothing before it even came close.

He closed his eyes and brought me into a hug. I draped my legs over his lap and leaned my head against his chest as he held me.

“So do you think Amanda leaked that story to the press too?” he finally asked.

“Yes. I do.”

He hummed a little.

“What should I do?”

“We’ll figure something out.”

I tightened my arms around him. “You’re the best.”

“How long have you thought so? Just today?”

I laughed. “At least since that time we talked on the phone and you blew me off.”

“I didn’t blow you off, I . . .” He trailed off like he wasn’t going to or didn’t want to finish that sentence.

I sat back and looked at him. I was sure my face was red and blotchy and my eyes were puffy, but he’d seen me in all stages of horrible, so I didn’t really care. “You don’t date actresses.”

“That was part of it. And I work for your dad.”

“Hey, my dad is dating my makeup artist, so he has no room to talk.” Well, my ex–makeup artist now.

He smiled and shook his head. “You’re Lacey Barnes. Famous,” he said, using my words against me. “It’s just that I shared a lot with you that day on the phone, and I was convinced you were very close to becoming bored with me.”

“You’re not boring.”

“Not yet.”

“Are you saying we’re a bad match? We’re a worse match than a zombie and zombie hunter. An actress and a critic.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you really think so?”

He ran a thumb along my bottom lip and then kissed it. “Yes. But apparently I’ve abandoned all good judgment, so I might not be a critic for long.”

Twenty-Nine

We sat on that bench for a while. The breeze coming in off the ocean was starting to make it cold. We’d outlasted the surfers and our cell phone batteries when Donavan said, “Should we head back?”

“Do we have to?” I wasn’t sure what time it was without my cell phone, but going by the sun, it was probably late afternoon. I wasn’t exactly an expert on telling the time from the position of the sun though.

“Your dad is probably worried.”

“He won’t be expecting me until ten o’clock tonight.”

“Well, my mom probably started worrying the second the attendance line called saying I missed school today.”

“I’m sorry about that again.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty.” He stood, my legs sliding off his lap as he did. “Let’s at least move to the car. You’re shivering. I have a phone charger in my backpack. I can see how in trouble I am.” He held out his hand for me.

I took it, letting him help me to my feet. He could charge his cell phone; I really didn’t want to charge mine. I was done on set for the day, so I had nobody looking for me.

He kept hold of my hand as we walked to the car. “You still want me to drive?”

“Will you?”

“For sure.” He opened the door for me, and I slid in. Then he climbed in on the driver’s side and started the car, turning on the heat. He connected his phone. He put his finger up as if telling me to hold on, then reached into his bag again and pulled out a hoodie. He passed it across the center console to me. “It might smell like paper or dry-erase marker or something, but it’s warm.”