Easy on the Eyes by Jane Porter Read Free Book Online

at Grill on the Alley in Beverly Hills at a quarter to six. I’m tempted to cancel, as I’m
     exhausted and tomorrow’s going to be a nightmare with three events in one day. But I can’t cancel on Celia. We’re friends,
     but she’s a bit like Shelby. When with her, I’m always aware that I’ve got to watch my back. Too many of my relationships
     in this town are like that.
    I arrive at Grill five minutes late because of traffic, and Celia’s already at our table against the brick wall, texting furiously.
     A senior editor for
People,
Celia works nonstop, but that was what brought us together. We were both fiercely ambitious, and as it turned out, we both
     were running from our past.
    Raised in Selma, California, daughter to immigrant farm-workers, Celia has worked hard to make sure Hollywood sees her beauty,
     not her Latina past. She’s self-made, too, excelling in school, becoming the first Hispanic girl to hold all three positions—
     Student Body president, head cheerleader, and homecoming queen— her senior year of high school. She was offered a full scholarship
     to UCLA, where she promptly made the dean’s list each quarter, while cheering at UCLA’s football games every weekend.
    I work hard, but I’ve never worked as hard as Celia, and I don’t think Celia would ever stab me in the back. But she might
     prick me with a fork. The entertainment industry is cutthroat, and a girl has to do what a girl has to do.
    “Hello,” I say, arriving at our table and bending down to kiss Celia’s cheek. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
    “No problem. I’ve had plenty to do.” Celia finishes her text, presses send, closes her BlackBerry, and looks up at me with
     a smile.
    Celia is beautiful. Jennifer Lopez meets Catherine Zeta-Jones beautiful. Tall, slim, olive skinned, with long thick, glossy
     black hair, Celia has learned to work not just the red carpet, but life itself, and I admire her for that. She’s one of those
     women with a take-no-prisoners attitude, and in that respect, she reminds me of Marta. Marta has never apologized for being
     beautiful or brilliant, and maybe other women don’t always immediately warm to her, but she has confidence and peace. She
     knows who she is, she knows what she is, and she’s good with that.
    I’d like to have that kind of self-acceptance, but between the pressure of my industry, where everyone’s always judging and
     criticizing, and my own inner demons that don’t let me forget what a bratty, self-centered kid I once was, it’s hard to feel
     good about myself.
    I know that growing up, all kids go through a bratty phase. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was at the height of my
     hatefulness when my parents and sisters died. It doesn’t change the fact that for years, I secretly believed it was my hatefulness
     that killed them.
    I’m old enough now to know that’s just survivor’s guilt, but they did die without knowing the real me. They knew the selfish,
     preoccupied me, the one who wouldn’t talk, the one who didn’t want to spend time with them, the one who expressed contempt
     every time they opened their mouths and told me what they thought.
    And this is the part that haunts me.
    My parents were good people. Wonderful people. And they will never know how sorry I am for being selfish and treating them
     as if they weren’t important.
    They will never know that I’ve worked hard to become who I am to make up for who I was then.
    I know I was just fourteen, but still, I was wrong to be rude and to always act so irritated with them. I was wrong to walk
     away when my mom was talking to me and my dad was trying to explain things. I was wrong to tell them that I didn’t love them
     and I couldn’t wait to leave home.
    But I can’t even tell them that. Can’t even say sorry.
    “Tiana, you okay?” Celia’s looking at me over her menu and her expression is concerned.
    “What?” I say blankly, my chest tight and heavy. I’d still do