Emmitt and I head out of school together, walking the familiar path toward the subway. Last week’s good weather has carried into this week as well, and the sun shines high in the sky, a few puffy white clouds occasionally blocking its rays.

I take a deep breath of fresh air, letting it spread through me before I exhale. The world is still turning, and it will continue to do so.

Things will work out the way they’re supposed to.

25

It’s not until halfway through our commute, when half the train unloads at Union Square, that Emmitt and I snag two seats. They’re at the end of the train, two seats beside each other, pressed against the doors interconnecting the subway cars.

Emmitt gestures for me to sit first and then lowers himself beside me.

“Thanks,” I say, taking out one earphone.

He offers me a half smile, but his eyes are still dark. I chew on my bottom lip, wondering if it’s because I asked him about his mother.

If she’s away in London, it must be awfully lonely for him out here in New York City. And yet he never shows any sign of it—always maintains this facade that seems impenetrable.

There’s so little I actually know about him, aside from his reputation for stealing hearts and disrespecting the press. I’ve seen both at play, whether it’s the underclassmen in the film club fawning over him or his sharp tongue when he feels caged in. But I have no idea why his expression is oddly somber, why his fingers are tapping a nervous beat against the metal pole attached to our bench.

I don’t even know where he’s going to go at the end of the day. Is he staying with Grant? Does he have a relative nearby? Is he fine dining in the penthouse of a classy hotel?

“Where are you staying?” I ask, the words tumbling out without permission.

Emmitt glances at me, his face closed off. “What?”

I clear my throat, tugging at my braid. “While you’re in New York, where are you staying? Are you living with someone or...?”

“Oh. I leased an apartment in Brooklyn,” he says mildly, looking away from me. “It’s not too bad. I’m used to living alone when I’m filming in new locations. Such is the life of an actor.”

For some reason, my heart drops lower in my chest at the despondency in his voice.

Not for the first time, I get the sense that he doesn’t like acting. But I still don’t understand how that can be true—not when he’s Emmitt Ramos.

“So do you just ride the R train all the way home?” I ask instead. It’s odd seeing him withdrawn, and I don’t want to contribute to it more than necessary.