Parallel

that I’m complaining.” As his finger dances down my jaw, tiny beads of sweat prickle above my upper lip. I fight the urge to lick them away.
    The moment is gaining intensity by the millisecond, but I can’t bring myself to look away. Bret’s eyes are SO BLUE (colored contacts, no doubt), and he smells ridiculously good. How have I never noticed this before? I tilt my head forward to get a better whiff. Bret, decidedly less tipsy than me and thus still operating in the realm of normal behavior, assumes I’m leaning in for a kiss. Because, really, who leans in for a smell ? The crazy girl in pajamas and boots, that’s who.
    So he kisses me. It’s more of a prelude to a kiss, actually. His lips barely graze mine, and then it’s over. A second later, I hear the distinct click of a camera phone. I don’t even have to look to know whose it is. RBV #3 in one hand, cell phone in the other.
    “Smile!” Kirby calls in a singsong voice, snapping another picture. It dawns on me that there’s an excellent chance I’m going to end up in US Weekly , a notion that is both horrifying and thrilling. I grit my teeth and smile for the camera, already rehearsing rational explanations in my head. Oh, that. We were just rehearsing a scene for the movie, Dad. No, we don’t actually kiss in the movie, but the director wanted to see what it would look like if we did. . . . Yes, he does play my uncle, but the screenwriter was toying with an incest storyline. . . . CRAP.
    “Don’t be worried about the picture,” Bret says, putting his arm around me as Kirby keeps clicking away. “There’s no service in here, so she can’t send it to anyone until after we leave. And by that time, all incriminating photos will be long gone.” He nods at the guy next to Kirby. His biceps are the size of my thigh, but he can’t be older than twenty. “That’s Seth, my trainer. Every time we go out with Kirby, she goes camera crazy. So Seth’s been tasked with ‘borrowing’ her phone and deleting everything before she can do any damage.” Arm still around my shoulders, Bret steers me toward a plush couch at the other end of the room.
    “So you didn’t answer my question,” he says as we sit. “How’d I do?”
    “Are you kidding? This is great. Best birthday ever.”
    “But it’s not your birthday yet.” Bret points at his watch. “It’s only nine thirty.”
    “Hmm. Good point. So I guess this is the best day- before -my-birthday ever. Which sadly, doesn’t say much,” I tease.
    “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve saved the real fun for tomorrow,” says Bret with a mysterious smile.
    I raise my eyebrows. “These people barely know me, and you’re forcing them to celebrate my birthday twice?”
    “Tomorrow night it’s just you and me, kid. Dinner on the beach in Malibu.” He sips his champagne. “Unless, of course, you have other plans . . .” He trails off, taking another sip as he waits for me to jump in and assure him that I don’t. Expecting me to. But there is simply no way I am going to dinner with this guy. Sure, the idea of having an intimate dinner with the Sexiest Guy Alive is appealing, but he’s (a) too old for me, (b) too famous for me, and (c) too likely-to-seek-sex-on-the-first-date for me. Besides, I still have a firm enough grasp on reality to know that this—the Hollywood scene, thirtysomething celebrities, private cellars at trendy restaurants—isn’t my world. I am merely passing through.
    Bret is still waiting for my response when the first course arrives. “I’m starving,” I announce, practically sprinting to the table.
    “Let’s eat!” Bret calls to the crowd, and everyone sits.
    Three hours, four courses, and one very delicious molten chocolate cake later, I’m sipping my fourth glass of champagne and marveling at the difference between this birthday and my last. A year ago, I celebrated the big day with a Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake and dinner with Caitlin and my parents. Now here I am, all the way across the country, partying with celebrities and drinking Cristal. Beside me, Bret Woodward— the Bret Woodward—is talking college football with the guy who plays my brother, his arm draped around the back of my chair as though it belongs there.
    “Hey, BW!” Seth calls to Bret from the other end of the table. “I think it’s time to put Hollywood Barbie to bed.” He points at Kirby, slumped down in her seat and snoring. “Mind if we take one of the cars?” Seth