Authors: Emily Snow
lunch.
What Not to Wear
Willow Avery: The Post Rehab Files
Ten Pounds and Counting as She Pigs
Out at Junction
The world would feed off my
downfall, savoring every morsel, and
there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it.
I pulled away from Dickson’s grasp to
slide into the booth. Kevin came in right
behind me, grinning like the cat that ate the
canary.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” Dickson
said, once he was settled into his own
seat. As I let his words register, I fought to
keep from flinching, to keep the look of
defeat out of my green eyes. Because he
was lying.
I
have
changed.
And in more ways than just the tiny
frown lines at the corners of my eyes and
the thin, silvery scars on the inner elbow
of my left arm (from an escape I’d only
tried a couple times, over a year before).
The last time I worked with Dickson
was more than five years ago. I’d played
the lead in a modern day Sleeping Beauty,
minus the creepy magical fairies. Back
then, I had been box office gold and the
only thing I’d wanted to do was act.
But now . . .
“I’m not popping gum,” I said in a
high-pitched voice, and Dickson chuckled.
I compelled myself to laugh along with
him. The winter we shot
Sleepless
, he’d
stayed on my ass about chewing gum
during scenes. The guy sitting next to
Dickson released an exasperated sound,
and my attention wavered back toward
him.
As if he finally remembered that we
weren’t alone, Dickson’s eyes widened
and he said, “Ah, I’ve been rude. Kevin,
you’ve already met Cooper, right?”
Kevin bobbed his balding red head.
“Last week, at the meeting with Tiff and
Jason,” he said, shooting me an apologetic
look.
My parents and my agent had met with
Dickson already, which meant Kevin had
lied to me in the Mercedes when I asked
him about the lunch date. I pinched the
inside of his thigh under the table. He
winced, but never dropped the sleazy
smile.
Creeper.
“Willow, meet Cooper,” Dickson
said, motioning to the blonde. “Cooper—”
Cooper kept his eyes attached to his
menu when he acknowledged me.
“Everyone knows who Willow Avery is,”
he said, in a quiet voice brimming with
sardonic undertones.
Holy hell, he had an accent.
A deliciously sexy one that I suddenly
wanted to hear more of, so I could place
it.
“I’m Cooper Taylor,” he said.
Australian. Definitely Australian.
Extending his hand across the table, he
finally peered up to take me in. Even
though he was mocking me seconds
before, I was mesmerized by his eyes.
Fringed in sooty, dark lashes, they were
blue—the bluest I’d ever seen, actually—
and set in a classically gorgeous face.
I took his hand, sucking in a breath
through my nose as his fingertips closed
around mine, as our flesh intertwined.
Both our eyes dropped to our hands, and
my pulse went from 0 to 60 in less than
two seconds. When I parted my lips to
speak, but didn’t let go of him, he pulled
away. Tilting his head to one side, Cooper
gave me a flash of straight, white teeth.
“I’m Willow Avery,” I said, stupidly.
“Yeah, I already knew that. Good to
know you.”
“Cooper is a surf coach,” Dickson
said, in a voice that made me feel like a
second grader.
Cocking an eyebrow in an effort to
look indifferent, I asked, “A surf coach?” I
locked my hands between my knees
hoping that the pressure would erase the
memory of Cooper’s touch from my skin.
It didn’t, and I felt his eyes burning into
the side of my face.
It’s only because I’ve been in rehab
,
I reasoned with myself.
That’s the reason
why I felt that pull towards him.
“He’s a damn good surf coach,”
Dickson answered.
“One of the best,” my agent piped in.
I shifted a strand of my dark hair
behind my ear, pausing to rub my fingers
back and forth across my earlobe. “And
I’m guessing him being here has something
to do with a part?”
Dickson grinned. “You always were
one to cut to the chase, but yes. We’re in
pre-production and set to begin filming at
the end of the month in Hawaii.”
“So it’s a surfing movie?” I asked.
“We prefer calling it a”—Dickson
raised his fingers into quotation marks
—“beach drama. And it’s actually a
reboot of a popular late eighties movie.”
Cooper made a little noise next to him, but
Dickson pretended not to hear him.
“Which one?” I asked.
“
Tidal
. It was the movie that launched
Hilary Norton’s career. I was a
production manager on the original.”
I’d seen a bunch of Hilary Norton’s
movies, but not that particular one, though
I’d never tell Dickson that. “And I’d be
what? The supporting actress who surfs?”
I questioned as I rubbed the back of my
neck. Kevin made an awkward grunting
noise beside me trying to get me to shut
the hell up. I gave him a look that said
“I’ll cut you”. Dickson missed the
exchange, but Surfer Boy caught it,
quirking his eyebrows and lips at the same
time.
“Lead, my dear,” Dickson said. His
answer knocked the breath out of my
lungs. I didn’t get the opportunity to
immediately reply because our server
arrived to take our order. Numbly, I asked
for a chopped salad and water, and ran my
fingertips along the outline of my fork as
everyone else ordered. The only person I
found myself listening to was Cooper,
who wanted a Coke and a burger.
My stomach growled, and suddenly, I
wished I’d asked for the same. Rehab
food had sucked.
“And we would start filming at the end
of this month?” I asked, mentally doing the
math in my head. I was looking at twelve,
maybe thirteen days. That would give me
time to see my friends before I was
needed in Hawaii. If I was lucky, Kevin
would negotiate enough money in advance
for me to spend those days happy.
“Well, yes, but you’d be going to
Hawaii tomorrow evening,” Dickson said.
My mouth dropped open. I looked
from him to my agent, from Kevin to the
surfer. “I have . . .
other
obligations,” I muttered, placing an emphasis on the last
couple words. Obligations meaning the
community service I was supposed to start
immediately, now that I was out of
Serenity Hills. Fifty hours, and it would
take me at least four or five days working
at breakneck speed.
Kevin shook his head. “Already taken
care of. Your parents had your attorney
file a motion to transfer your community
service to Honolulu.”
Angrily, I curled my fingers around the
napkin in my lap. Clay, my attorney, had
had enough time to file motions but not
answer my letters about a lawsuit I’d filed
against a business nearly three years ago.
And Mom and Dad weren’t too busy to
attend meetings on my behalf, but they’d
sent my agent to pick me up this morning.
Unbelievable.
“Looks like you have it all figured
out,” I said.
Cooper snorted. “Right down to you
scrubbing graffiti off park benches when
you’re not with me,” he said under his
breath. For some reason, the taunt sounded
so much harsher coming from him, in his
soft-spoken accent. I flipped my eyes
across the table at him, doing my best to
maintain my clenched smile. His face was
red from holding back laughter.
And this was who was going to train
me for my role? He could barely get
through lunch without laughing at me.
“Back. Off,” I snapped. Then, to
Dickson, I demanded. “Is he going to do
this while he’s training me?”
“Of course not, he’s only being
facetious,” Dickson said consolingly.
Then his voice turned serious. “You’re
really the only one for the part.”
His words were what every actress
wanted to hear, even reluctant ones who
didn’t want to return to work. James
Dickson was a fair man; making
Sleepless
with him had been a breeze. And most
importantly, I was broke. My agent was
right, I needed this part.
“You two will iron out the details?” I
asked. The question was aimed towards
Dickson and Kevin, but for some reason,
my eyes were locked on Surfer Boy. I
didn’t like the way he was smirking at me.
It was unsettling and intense and it made
me feel exposed.
And this will be my coach.
“Already working on it,” Dickson
assured me.
Dragging my gaze from Cooper, I
faced my new producer. I tried to think of
everything I would gain from doing this
job, and not the potential asshole I’d have
to work alongside every day while doing
it.
Cooper was still there, though, a
bronze and startling blue haze in my
peripherals.
“I’ll do it,” I said, my voice shaky.
Then, Dickson and I clasped hands.
But later that afternoon, once lunch
was over and Kevin dropped me off at the
nicest hotel I could afford for the evening,
I searched for Dickson’s newest movie. It
took two clicks to discover that a starlet—
of the mouse ear variety—had dropped
out of the lead role recently, due to a
scheduling conflict. Staring at the screen
until her picture and the adjacent photo of
Dickson became a blur, I dialed Jessica,
one of my best friends. I caught her
voicemail.
“Jess, it’s me. I’m out, so call me
back,” I said. Then I tried contacting
everyone else I knew, with no luck,
including my parents. Their shared
voicemail picked up and my mother’s
newscaster-like voice answered.
“This is Tiffany and Jason Avery.
We’re vacationing in Paris, but we’ll get
back to you . . .”
Frustrated, I punched the end call
button and tossed the phone on top of the
nightstand next to the hotel bed. Mom and
Dad would be on vacation. I flipped on
the TV and settled for reruns of a reality
show on MTV, waiting for one of my
friends to call me back.
But when I drifted off to sleep a few
minutes after midnight, curled into a tight
coil of flesh and bone and thinking of blue
eyes and an endless blue sea, my phone
hadn’t so much as vibrated once.
“It’s better this way,” I said, as I
hugged myself. If Jessica had called me
back, I would have gone out—I would
have gotten high. I couldn’t let myself do
that anymore. I needed a different escape.
But saying those words, and thinking
those thoughts, did nothing to stop the tight
pain in my chest.
I had dreams—no, nightmares—about
soft, blue blankets.
And when I woke up several times
throughout the night, all I found myself
wanting was more blue—Roxies, my once
favorite escape of all—to numb all of that
away. I cried myself back to sleep, hating
my weaknesses.
Chapter Two
A pounding outside my hotel room
door jarred me awake, unraveling me
from my fitful sleep. For a moment, I
remained still, squinting as the sunlight
poured across the bed. There hadn’t been
a window in my room at Serenity Hills,
which I’d shared with a steady influx of
other girls—the last being a rocker’s kid
who was only there for eight weeks. For
six months I’d missed waking up to the
light. It burned the edges away from the
darkness, at least for a little while.
The door shook again and this time a
muffled voice on the other side called out
my name. Groaning, I rolled over,
stumbled out of bed, and crept across the
paisley print carpet. After I wiggled my
arms and legs to shake out the stiffness, I
leaned forward to glance out the
peephole.
Kevin stood in the hallway, with his
hands in his pocket, biting his lip
impatiently. I knew better than anyone that
my agent spent more time dealing with me
than most of his other clients, but it still
made my throat go dry whenever he
dropped a silent reminder that I was
that
client. The nuisance who didn’t want to
cooperate, despite everything he’d done
for me.
Of course, not all of Kevin’s
suggestions and efforts had had the effect
he wanted them to.
Sucking in a long breath to force the
painful burn in my chest down to the pit of
my stomach, I flung the door open. Kevin
walked right past me, carrying a folder
under his arm and rolling a suitcase