He opens my door with a flourish, extending his hand and helping me to my feet. The crowd roars their approval, and we turn around on the sidewalk, holding hands while waving to the thousands of men, women, and children lining the cordoned-off road as far as the eye can see.
My eyes lower to the charcoal-colored sidewalk before us that encompasses a part of the Hollywood Walk of Fame, instantly finding the coral-pink terrazzo five-point star rimmed with brass that houses Reeve’s name. I remember how proud he was the day he was honored with it. How proud I was to see the culmination of all his childhood dreams etched so permanently into history.
More well-wishers adorn the red carpet on both sides of the covered entrance as he leads me forward. Some hold signs, professing their love for Reeve. Other placards express love for Dillon. Up ahead, hanging back just inside the open doorway of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, are my parents along with my agent, Margaret Andre; the head of Studio 27, who produced the movie; and the studio’s overworked publicist.
My husband’s hand is steady on my lower back as we walk along the red carpet, smiling and waving. Excitement prickles in the air, helping to drown out my lingering nerves.
“Murderer!”
“Slut!”
The words slam into me like bullets, pushing through skin and tissue and bone, embedding deep in my heart and twisting my soul into knots. Acid churns in my gut, and bile pools in my mouth as I grip my husband’s arm tighter. The noise of the crowd fades, and all I hear are those taunts echoing on repeat in my brain. Panic surges through my veins, replacing the life-sustaining blood flow with liquid ice.
“Ignore those bitches,” my husband says, circling his arm around my shoulders and pulling me in close to his side. “Someone’s head is going to roll for this,” he adds through clenched teeth.
Scuffling breaks out on my right as security guards force their way through the crowd to reach the two women hurling obscenities and accusations my way. But I don’t hear anything else. I’m numb to everything going on around me, having retreated to that safe place in my head where no one can hurt me.
He hustles me through the open door, past my concerned parents and a clearly distressed studio publicist. My back hits the wall, and heat rolls off him in waves as he leans into me, his palms resting on either side of my head. Cocooning us in our own little bubble, he says, “Talk to me.” With gentle fingers, he tips my chin up, forcing my gaze to meet his worried one. We stare at one another, unspoken sentiments passing between us, and the hypnotic depths of his ocean-blue eyes reel me out of the desolate space in my head.
I clear my throat as I press my hand to his chest, the rhythmic beating of his heart grounding me in the moment. “I’m okay. It’s not like this is anything new.”
“How the fuck did they pass security clearance to get that close to you?” he seethes. “I’m going to shove that prick Rawling’s balls down his throat until he chokes.” Rawlings is the head of security at the studio, and we’ve had our fair share of run-ins with him over the past year.
“You’ll have to get to him first, and I already called dibs,” my dad says, appearing behind my husband.
“Darling, are you okay?” Mom asks, bundling me into a hug.
“I’m good. A few crazies aren’t going to ruin tonight.”
“That’s my girl.” Mom presses a kiss to my temple.
“We’re so proud of you, princess,” Dad says, tucking Mom in under his arm. At six-four he towers over her five-foot-four-inch frame, but they always look like they were made for each other. My parents just celebrated their thirty-seventh wedding anniversary, something exquisitely rare in Hollywood these days. One only needs to look at the adoring way they stare at one another to know theirs is an epic kind of love. The type that weathers any storm because the bond is far too strong to break.
After chatting with some studio heads and members of the cast and crew, we make our way into the famous theater, taking our seats in the front row as we wait for everyone to pile in.
When the large room is full and the doors have been closed, James, the head of the studio, stands in front of the curtain with a microphone in his hand.
Discreetly swiping my hands along the armrests of my chair, I give myself a silent pep talk. No one is forcing me into speaking, but it’s something I feel compelled to do. My husband leans into me, planting his lips to my ear. “You’re going to nail it.” He kisses my cheek and squeezes my hand.
“I feel like I might pass out any second,” I whisper truthfully. There is a reason I never wanted to follow Reeve or my mom into acting—I don’t like attention and I hate the spotlight. I have always been more comfortable behind the scenes.