Page 63 of The Kissing Part
“It was great,” I say. “Really fun.”
“It’s always fun when the leads don’t die in the end,” Owen says.
Rodney laughs. “That’s fair, though it would be fun to play out a tragic death scene. Are you coming to the after-party? They booked this awesome Korean barbecue place for us. We’re celebrating making it through the first week.”
I check in with Owen, who smiles. “We’ll be there!”
* * *
After delicious appetizers of kimchi pancakes, chicken wings, and barbecue chickpeas at Rodney’s table, Owen and I settle in the upstairs lounge. Jazz music plays on low volume, and people relax on cushy chairs, sofas, and even a few beanbags.
The actor who played Mercutio stops by. Sam Miller. We’ve met before.
“You look so familiar,” he says to Owen.
“I get that a lot,” Owen says. “You were great.”
“Thanks. Were you inThe Fantasticks?”
“No.”
“Ensemble forRent?”
“No.”
“Oh, sorry. So rude. I’m Sam.”
“Owen.”
“And of course I know the magnificent Shayla. How do you know Owen?”
I lean my head against Owen’s shoulder. “We had a summer romance when we were teens, and now we’ve reunited.”
Owen grimaces. “It sounds like a teen movie.”
“That’s sweet,” Sam says. “Well, enjoy yourselves.”
After he leaves, I ask Owen, “Why didn’t you tell him your mom is Claire Jordan? That’s why you look familiar to him.”
He looks to the ceiling. “Because then we’d have the whole Mom conversation, her movies, what she’s really like, what it was like growing up with a famous mom. I’d rather not get into it.”
“Oh. I’d be proud to talk about a mom like Claire.”
“I’m proud of her. I just don’t need to talk about her with every random person who recognizes me from one of her events.”
A group of twenty-something women head over to us, their eyes glued to Owen.
One of them approaches him. “Rafael Jordan-Campbell?” Then when she gets up close, she says, “Sorry, wrong person. Rafael has these stunning blue eyes. Yours are nice, though.”
Owen shoots me a look. Only Rafael uses his mom’s maiden name along with his dad’s name because he’s a photographer, and the name helps open doors.
“Rafael is his brother,” I say.
“Very cool,” she says. “I’m Brooke. He took my picture for my latest headshot. I always hoped I’d run into him again. Can you give him my number?”
“Sure,” Owen says.
She says her phone number slowly and clearly while he texts it to Rafael along with her name. She walks away with her friends, looking pleased.
