“We’ve had this conversation before.” Justine finally put her phone down, folded her hands in her lap, and looked at him. “What’s annoying is you asking me every five minutes if you’re being annoying.”
“Don’t ever leave me,” Reece said.
“Keep paying me, and I’ll stick around.” She grabbed her phone again and began to type.
“Isn’t she great?” Reece asked Dash, loud enough so Justine could hear, but she explicitly chose to ignore him.
“Thanks for the ride.” Dash changed the subject and ran his hands across the leather seat.
“The studio pays for these. Why not add an extra stop?” Reece eyed Dash’s suit. “The bow tie is a bold move.”
“Mom had it sent over, because apparently I’m still not old enough to dress myself.”
“I don’t dress myself either, but Mom isn’t my stylist.” Reece tugged at the ends of his jacket and grinned. He was classically handsome in a black suit with a button-down shirt and pocket square. He might as well have Hollywood Leading Man stitched across the collar. “I’m glad you’re here for the premiere. It really means a lot.”
“Happy to,” Dash said.
“And I’m sorry I put you on the spot the other night at family dinner.” Reece’s jaw clenched, like he was anticipating blowback. But Dash had never been confrontational with his older brother, even if he did deserve it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Dash said quickly.
Reece gave a genuinely appreciative look. “And besides, I need as many people as possible to tell me how good I look. Right, Justine?”
“Compliments cost extra.”
“Fine.” Reece took his phone out and began to type. When a new alert sounded on Justine’s phone, she looked up.
“You look very handsome, Reece. And you, too, Dash.”
“Hey, I only sent you the Venmo to compliment me,” Reece said.
“I know, but I complimented Dash for free because he does look handsome.”
Dash stifled a laugh, but Reece didn’t look at all amused. “That one hurt, Justine,” Reece said.
“For what it’s worth, I think you look fantastic,” Dash offered. “Don’t tell, but this look is better than Dad’s 1985 Oscar acceptance speech.”
Reece brought a hand to his lips in surprise. “I’d never tell him that, not unless I wanted to lose my life.”
The car stopped in front of a long red carpet where white pops of light flashed as cameras began to point and click. Dash sucked in a deep breath.
Justine stopped texting long enough to catch Dash’s eye. “Dash, go first. One of our PAs will escort you to the photo op.”
Dash rolled his shoulders back. He wasn’t surprised to be the opener for his brother, that’s what he always was—the appetizer before the main course. He just wasn’t looking forward to getting out of the car and seeing looks of disappointment as the media circus realized he wasn’t Reece.
Reece’s square jaw tightened as he glanced at Dash. “I’ll see you in there?”
Dash cracked a smile. “You were born for this. And, if you weren’t, then Mom would’ve sent you back. Just remember that whenever you feel like a fraud tonight.”
Reece clapped him on the shoulder. “See? This is why I gave you the ride, and not Poppy.”
Poppy would never do a red-carpet line and was likely entering through a secret back entrance, but Dash kept those thoughts to himself.
The driver came around and opened the car door, and a blinding number of flashing cameras forced Dash to look at the ground as he stepped out. He locked his mouth into a tight smile, the way his media training had taught him—stay brooding, stay mysterious, and play the role.
The PA waved him over toward the line for photos. There was an energy to a red carpet that was hard to deny—a kind of anticipatory buzz.
Dash turned at the sound of loud applause and knew before he saw that Reece had finally stepped out of the car. A slice of tension lifted at the reminder that Dash was not the focus tonight, his brother was. And, more likely than not, his presence here would just be a blip and potentially forgotten. It would be a welcome change when, in a few more years’ time, people stopped asking for his photo at all, but for now, as he queued up to walk the red carpet, he was still someone.
Dash stood with the PA at his side but wished that Sophie could be there with him. His fingers tapped at his thighs, and he longed for her hand to take his and still the nerves in his chest. She’d know what to say to calm him down, the same way she’d known what to say in writing his dad’s speech. In reading through her pages, she’d managed to capture Dash’s dry humor and made him feel seen in an entirely unexpected way. Spending time with her was easy, unlike all the dating he’d done when he was wasted. Not that he and Sophie were dating, exactly.
But Dash had never dated sober. In fact, dating and drinking used to go hand in hand—he couldn’t go out without having something to take the edge off. But when he was with Sophie, he didn’t feel the need to drink or try to be someone he wasn’t. She accepted him for who he was. He should’ve been thrilled to finally find a person he could open up to, but he also couldn’t be responsible for someone else’s happiness, not when he was still trying to find his own.
He didn’t like wanting to be around her—something about the way his brain latched on to her reminded him of how he felt when he drank. What if Sophie became his substitute addiction, and then they didn’t work out? How would his brain and body react if she took herself away from him?
Just in time to rip him from his thoughts of Sophie, the PA shouted into his ear, “You’re next!”
And then he was on the red carpet, standing in front of a wall-length step-and-repeat poster covered in the title of Reece’s movie, Final Judgment Day. Dash walked onto the carpet and angled his body slightly, the way his former publicists had taught him, to show off his good side—the one without the scar in his eyebrow.
“Over here, Dash!”
He turned to each voice that shouted his name and cracked a soft, barely perceptible smile that would photograph well and enhance his cheekbones. He hated that he knew so much about his angles but couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast.
“Dash, where have you been?”
“What’s next for you?”
“Is it true you’re going to be in your brother’s new film?”
“Dash, can you confirm that you were recently seeking treatment for drug abuse?”
Dash’s heart stopped, and so did his breathing, or at least it felt like that. Except for his mind, which whirred frantically at the words he swore he just heard. Drug abuse. Seeking treatment. What the actual fuck?
His mouth opened, but he forced it closed and swallowed down a panicky lump in his throat. What would his mom do in that moment? She wouldn’t react. She’d almost not hear the question and just continue to pose. But he was having a hard time not reacting. He was starting to shake—a little vibration—and he shoved his hands firmly into his pockets as he walked off the carpet and toward the hallway that led to the theater.