Now That I've Found You - Kristina Forest Page 0,85

the concealer from my hands and dotting my face herself. Deftly, she uses her thumb and index finger to smooth the concealer over my skin.

I feel a pang in my stomach, thinking of how we used to do each other’s makeup all the time.

“And this hair,” she mumbles. She wets her fingers with faucet water and runs them through my hair, trying to give my curls as much volume as possible.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” She frowns. “I feel bad for you.” She places my concealer back inside my clutch. “And I guess I feel bad about what I did to you.”

I blink. “That is not what I was expecting you to say.”

“I wasn’t expecting to say it either.” She’s completely straight-faced.

“You never answered me when I asked why you leaked the video,” I say quietly.

She stares at me for a beat, then sighs. “I saw a way for me to get a leg up, and I jumped at the chance. I don’t regret what I did, because it worked out for me in the end, but the consequence is that our friendship was ruined. That’s just a decision I’ll have to live with.”

I stare back at her, taking in the open and honest expression on her face. I miss us. But I know we’ll never be an us again. That doesn’t mean that I can’t learn to forgive her. Someday.

“I really hope you get everything that you want in life, Simone,” I say.

She doesn’t respond to this. Instead, she steers me toward the door. “No more hiding in the bathroom. It’s time for you to get out there.”

We step into the hallway.

“Thanks,” I say to her.

She’s already walking back to the auditorium, pretending as if she didn’t hear me, but I know that she did.

Everyone is frantic backstage. When a woman wearing a headset spots me, relief washes over her. “Evie Jones is here,” she says into her headset’s microphone. She listens for a moment. “Got that. We’re on our way.”

Right now, I really wish I were holding Milo’s good-luck pick.

“I’m so sorry about showing up late,” I say to her, but she’s barely listening, ushering me through the chaos backstage. Everyone keeps looking in my direction, and I feel the nausea brewing again. But there’s no time to run and hide. We’ve reached the wings.

“Thank God,” another headset-wearing woman says, anxiously standing by the curtain. She clutches a clipboard to her chest. “Ms. Jones, you need to look straight at the teleprompter. Make sure to speak clearly and directly into the microphone. Got it?”

“Got it.” I don’t got it. I’m terrified.

The auditorium darkens, and a large screen lowers onstage. A slideshow begins to play, featuring pictures of Gigi throughout her career, from when she was only a couple of years older than me to when she stopped acting a few years after my mom was born. The video is accompanied by a narration that lists her accomplishments. And then it ends all too quickly.

“That’s your cue.” The woman with the clipboard nudges me out of the wings.

The ceremony emcee says in a deep voice, “Please welcome Evie Jones.”

The crowd applauds as I walk to the microphone. All I can do is focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I try not to pay attention to how my heart is hammering in my chest. Or the faces of all the people I thought I’d impress tonight, how their eyes widen at the sight of my short hair. The people whose opinions I thought I cared about.

I spot my parents and Kerri in the second row, seated right behind where Gigi and I were supposed to be. My parents smile proudly yet look a little apprehensive. I’m sure Kerri’s caught them up on how Gigi won’t be here tonight. I wonder just how much she’s told them.

The teleprompter clicks on in the distance, and I clear my throat.

I begin, “My grandmother Evelyn Conaway…” Then I stop.

Say something good. That’s what they told me.

But where do I even start? How am I supposed to praise Gigi when I’m so upset?

And anyway, what does a teleprompter scriptwriter know about my relationship with my grandmother? What do any of these people know? They don’t know her life story. That she moved to Los Angeles on faith, with no guarantee that she’d become a star. They don’t know that she was intensely private for good reason.

They don’t know that she’s managed to find a sense of peace,