Emmitt lets out a heavy breath. “Mum called and said I have to do some interviews downtown. She wants me to leave right away so I can meet her there.”

My nose wrinkles, and I reach forward, brushing away a strand of blond hair curling on his forehead. “It’s okay. We’ll film one of the scenes without you today, then. Have fun at the interviews.”

Emmitt’s expression screws up. “I doubt I will.” Then a flicker of a cold smile. “I doubt they will, either. Maybe Mum will get a hint then.”

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, hesitating for half a moment. I’ve been thinking about Emmitt’s situation for quite a while. After last night, I can’t help but think that Emmitt should be up-front about his feelings toward the film industry—that he should consider telling his mother the truth.

Not wanting to overstep, I quietly ask, “Maybe you could tell her you don’t want to go? Instead of just acting out during the interview?”

Emmitt shakes his head. “It wouldn’t have the same effect.”

I try to catch his gaze. “I know you said school projects aren’t enough of an excuse, but...maybe if you said you’re participating in a school photography contest as part of your research? You can say you have to take photos today, because you’re on a deadline. It’s not technically a lie.” I place my hand on his arm, willing him to look at me. “I’m sure Grant would be happy to back you up if you needed it.”

“She won’t listen to me. She never does,” he says, but he finally meets my eyes. A small but genuine smile passes across his face. “I’ll see you on Monday. I’m sorry again.”

I nod slowly and squeeze his wrist. I want to say more, maybe try to encourage him further, but I can tell when a conversation is done. “See you Monday.”

When I tell the club Emmitt had a family thing to attend, Rosie cuts me a sharp look but doesn’t say anything. I can read it plain on her face, though—it’s okay when he does it, but not when I do it?

I wish I could scream that wasn’t the issue between us in the first place. If Rosie had just told me the truth, I wouldn’t have been upset.

But saying that feels useless at this point. Instead, a heavy weight sits in my chest, swinging its legs idly, as if it’s having a leisure day out in the sun, and not trying to steadily sink my heart.

Two hours later, I unlock my front door.

Baba is home, given the Rolling Stones music drifting through the living room. It’s unusually early for him, since he keeps his private practice open until 7:00 p.m.