Stay Gold - Tobly McSmith Page 0,66

they get in their car, drive to Dallas, drive home, and do it again and again. It’s depressing.”

“The American dream!” I exclaim.

She’s lost in thought. “I guess if you love what you do, it wouldn’t be bad.”

“Or you hate your job but have a great carpool companion like me.”

She looks at me and says, “You’ll be in Hollywood.”

“You could come with me,” I offer. “We could move to East Hollywood, get jobs, and figure it out there.”

She judges my seriousness. “I thought you’d never ask,” she says. Not a yes or no, very clever.

I turn off the highway, confident. I know my way around Dallas. We drive down a street full of cool bistros and cafés. City life seems so cool. Always something going on, and you never have to eat at a chain restaurant. “Georgia, if you could live in any city, where would you be?”

“Addison, obviously. That town has it all.”

I invoke Ted London’s method of remaining quiet until the truth comes out. Eventually, she says, “I could see myself in New York.”

“Cool. My sister lives there. She loves it.”

“I think I would love it, too.”

“OK, shut your eyes,” I say channeling one of my mom’s positivity exercises. Georgia plays along and shuts her eyes (after rolling them). “Now,” I continue, “it’s the morning in your dream life. Where do you live? Where would you work? How do you feel?”

She takes a deep breath. “OK, it’s morning, so I’m running late. Scratch that, this is my dream life, so I’m on time and relaxed. I’m in my apartment in . . . New York! I’m getting ready for work. It’s a small place but cute. And clean. Very clean. I have a great closet full of smart work clothes.”

She opens her eyes. “And not one cheerleading outfit!” She closes her eyes again.

“I put my coffee cup in the sink, pick up my designer purse, and hit the subway. I walk into the New York Times building and go to my desk. The hustle and bustle of the office is addictive. I sit down and get to work on a story that will change the world forever.”

She opens her eyes and looks at me, almost surprised.

“Breakfast tacos?” I ask.

“Don’t tease me,” she says. I pull into the drive-through of the Taco Joint, voted one of the ten best breakfast-taco places in Dallas by some website.

“It’s almost like you had that planned,” she says.

“Who, me?”

10:07 A.M.

We are eating tacos under the stars.

Well, fake stars in the planetarium at the Perot Museum of Nature and Science, but it’s still the most romantic picnic with a friend ever. We snuck our breakfast into the museum.

I take the last bite of the bacon-egg-and-cheese taco and immediately miss it. Georgia sounds like she’s making out with her taco, but I don’t blame her—they were amazing. Sometimes the internet is right.

After breakfast is devoured, I recline my chair and look up at the stars. This place is like a movie theater with the screen on the ceiling. Georgia is typing away on her phone. “Sorry, this is so rude,” she says. “Almost done.”

“Cheerleading emergency?” I ask, hoping she isn’t texting Jake.

“Something like that,” she says, putting her phone back in her purse.

“Check it out: the Medium Dipper.” I point at a random group of stars. “Always overshadowed by the Big Dipper.”

She reclines her chair and leans over, our shoulders barely touching. “And there’s the elusive My Little Pony configuration,” she says, pointing at some other stars. “Speaking of stars, how’s that actor you are helping? Get any good gossip?”

“None for you, Barbara Walters.”

“I’m more Anderson Cooper,” she says.

I look at her, stunned. “You and Ted should meet. I think he would like you.”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling,” I say.

“Answer me, weirdo.”

“Is this off the record?”

“Completely.”

I tell Georgia about my night with Ted London. He told me not to tell, but I trust Georgia with his secret. She listens attentively, living for the gossip. It’s a relief to finally tell someone. My go-to would be Max, but he’s done with me. Just thinking of him makes my heart heavy. I miss him. I’d do almost anything to hang.

“Wow,” she says once I’ve finished, taking it all in.

“Yeah, it’s heavy,” I admit.

“What a sad life,” she concludes, then rests her head on my shoulder.

“Sad? Why?” I ask. “He lived his dream of acting. He just had to hide one part of himself.”

“But to not have love?” she says. “What’s it all worth?”

I don’t know the answer to that.

She picks