The Lobster Pot wasn’t far from the beach; Graham could see it as he made his way up the street. It was just after seven thirty, which meant Ellie was probably already in there. Outside, there was a knot of photographers, their dark clothing giving them away, even as they tried to look casual among the tourists. A few motorcycles were parked nearby; on more than one occasion, Graham had been chased by paparazzi as he tried to slip out of some restaurant or club. There was a breathless absurdity to these pursuits, and though he understood that they had a job to do, he had little respect for the way they did it, and even less for the people who were so desperate to read what they reported. The truth was, he wasn’t really worth reading about. He was a better-than-average-looking seventeen-year-old guy who occasionally took a pretty girl to dinner and who played a part decently well, but who mostly sat around at home reading books with his pet pig.
As he approached, the photographers began hoisting their cameras and calling out his name. He ducked his head as they gathered around him. There were fewer than earlier, only four or five; the rest probably had the sense to go get some dinner, or to stay behind and watch TV in their hotel rooms. Those who had stuck it out clicked away like mad, though, the flashes popping as they peppered him with questions, each more relentless than the one before.
“Who’s this girl, Graham?” asked one of them, a brick wall of a guy with a diamond earring and a head so pale and bald that it reflected the last of the day’s light. “Was that the first time you’d met? What does Olivia think? Are you two official?”
He ignored them all, shoving his way past, and when he reached the door of the restaurant, he was greeted by a thick man with enormous arms and a trim beard.
“Joe Gabriele,” the man said, extending a meaty hand. “I’m the owner. Listen, you like lobster?”
Graham nodded, surprised by the question.
“Good,” said Joe. “You eat enough lobster while you’re in town, and I’ll keep these clowns out of here. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said, looking past him to see if Ellie had arrived yet. The walls of the restaurant were covered with well-worn buoys and old maritime clocks, fish netting rigged like bunting and framed paintings of schooners and lobsters and whales. At a seat in the corner, beneath a huge iron anchor that appeared to have come straight off a fishing boat, Graham recognized the back of her head, her dark hair pulled up into a low ponytail. All around her, the other tables were empty, and he was grateful to Joe for clearing the way. There was nothing worse than trying to have a private conversation with the faint click of camera phones going off at every angle.
Joe waved toward the table, in case Graham wasn’t sure where to go, and then headed off to the kitchen. But Graham remained where he was, suddenly frozen with uncertainty. It wasn’t that he was disappointed. How could he be? She was unquestionably beautiful. But ever since leaving the ice-cream shop that afternoon, Graham had been trying to work out his feelings about tonight. After all this time, and all those e-mails, shouldn’t he be more excited? Shouldn’t he be overjoyed? Shouldn’t he be… something?
Maybe the problem was that he’d been forced to read too many scripts with happy endings. Maybe he’d been in Hollywood for too long already. Graham had never been in love before, so he had no idea what to expect. Maybe this was it: you strike up a long-distance conversation with a girl, you enjoy talking to her more than anyone ever before, then you show up and she’s gorgeous, and you count yourself lucky.
But still, he thought there’d be something more. He thought that when he saw her, when their eyes first met, that it would feel different. That all those Hollywood clichés were clichés for a reason. It was supposed to be unmistakable, that feeling, wasn’t it? Like a punch to the stomach.
But here now in this restaurant, he was feeling curiously empty as he approached the table. When she turned around and their eyes met, there were no stars or fireworks or anything else. There was only the two of them, gazing at each other, each a little bit awkward in their nervousness.
“Thanks for coming,” he managed to say as he slid into his seat. As soon as he did, he realized he should have kissed her cheek, but the moment had already passed. He unfolded his napkin and looked at her from across the table, trying to match up the girl before him with the one who had written to him about how much she loved poetry.
“Did you have any trouble with the photographers?” she asked, her voice a bit shaky. He could tell she was anxious, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. The first few times he’d gone out with girls from home after his face started appearing in magazines, he’d tried to put them at ease by telling them not to be nervous, but this always seemed to have the opposite effect, and they’d just become more jangly, more pink-cheeked, more self-conscious. He watched now as she twisted a silver bracelet around her wrist, unable to quite sit still.
“They weren’t too bad,” he said. “Nothing like the ones in L.A.”
“I bet,” she said, and Graham picked up the menu, trying to think of a way to change the subject. He wasn’t sure how to tell her that he was the one she’d been talking to all these months. Should he drop a hint? Ask her about her mom or her dog, mention some random subject they’d already discussed, something more obvious than ice-cream flavors, like her childhood trips to Quebec or her end-of-term paper on Irish poetry?
His hands were growing damp with sweat as his mind raced through the possibilities. He’d imagined that once he sat down, the truth would come spilling right out of him. But now that he was here, there was something holding him back, and he swept his eyes around the restaurant and wiped at his forehead.
“So what’s good here?” he joked. “The lobster?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “It’s their specialty.”
He glanced up at her and forced a smile. “I was only kidding,” he said, and she flushed a deep red. “I think I’ll get the surf ’n’ turf.”
“So have you ever been to Maine before?” she asked. “Or is this your first time?”
“First time,” he said. “Before I started acting, I’d never left the West Coast.”
“Wow,” she said. “I’ve never been to California.”
“Have you lived here all your life?” he asked, though he already knew the answer, that she’d been born in D.C. and moved up when she was little.
“Yes,” she said, and he snapped his chin up. “My parents too, and my grandparents. It’s sort of a family tradition, this town.”
Graham leaned his elbows on the table, frowning. “Really?” he said. “Your whole life?”
“Yeah,” she said, giving him an odd look.
Before he could say anything more, the waiter arrived with a shrimp cocktail. “Compliments of the chef,” he said, setting it between them and then lingering for a beat too long.
“Thanks,” Graham said, and to his surprise, the waiter—a lanky guy with curly blond hair and a crooked nose—gave him a menacing look in return.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, clearly making an effort to sound tough, though his voice was unsteady. He turned to head back to the bar, but the words that drifted behind him were unmistakable: “It’s really for Quinn.”
Even after he was gone, Graham found himself staring across the table in confusion, his eyes narrowed as he tried to locate his question.
“Sorry,” she was saying. “That’s just how it is in small towns. Everyone knows everyone else, and when you grow up with these guys, they can be a little overprotective…” She trailed off when she seemed to notice the look on Graham’s face. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”