Page 84 of The Ex-Best Thing
I wakeup to my grandmother calling the police from my living room.
“What’s going on?” I ask Colby, who’s leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping a protein drink.
“She’s trying to get rid of the paps.”
“They’re outside?”
“All over the sidewalk.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “As long as they don’t cross private property, there’s nothing the police can do. The sidewalk is public space.”
Colby’s brows shoot up. “Tell that to Grandma.”
“The police better tell her so she believes it.” I pour a glass of water and down it. At least nothing from the beach last night has shown up online yet. They must not have gotten any good shots. “How are we going to shoot the video if they’re all out there?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
My frown follows Grandma as she paces the living room and speaks on the phone. “Yes. Lining the sidewalk. Yes. Exactly. It’san infringement of our rights and personal boundaries. I appreciate it, thank you.” She hangs up and marches into the kitchen. “Good morning, Benny.”
“Morning.” I try to give her a bright smile. “Nothing like a couple of paparazzi to wake you up.”
Grandma scowls. Maybe now she’ll remember why I gotoutof the business and think twice before pressuring me back into the spotlight. Anyone can see she wants Bree to become her next granddaughter-in-law, and nothing will catapult me into regularly hiding from aggressive photographers than a public alliance with Bree Belacourt.
“Once the police come and move them?—”
“They can’t do that,” Colby says patiently. “The sidewalk is public property.”
“We’ll see,” she says primly.
That’s concerning.
“We have to get the girls out to film. But anywhere we go, we’re going to run into the same problem. We need a private strip of beach.” I close my eyes, watching Bree’s dream of filming a few scenes at the Bodega school fly away on the wings of her evil birds. “Or even a deserted field would do.”
“Bay Hill Road?” Colby suggests.
“Wherever we go, they’ll follow us.”
We stand around the kitchen in silence until I can’t take it. “I’m going to shower. Let me know when the police are here.”
“I’ll get my equipment together,” Colby says.
Grandma pulls my broom from the closet.
“Where are you going with that?” I ask.
“Just to wait outside.”
“Grandma,” I say in warning. “Remember that anything you do will be giving them a story, too.”
She pauses, then makes an unintelligible grumbling sound. “I’ll cook then. Do you think those girls have anything to eat over there?”
“Unlikely.”
She picks up a lemon and opens my fridge, and I escape.
By the time I’m ready for the day, I find Colby and Grandma in the entryway speaking to two tan-clad police officers from the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office.
“As I was saying, ma’am,” the first officer says, his short buzz cut so low he nearly looks bald. I check his badge for a name. Officer Gutierrez. “There’s nothing much we can do unless they cross onto private property or use extensive zoom lenses to film inside your home.”
