by Max Monroe
“But…it can’t be that big of a deal,” I reply. “I mean, all this shit usually dies down within a few weeks anyway.”
“Not this,” she refutes. “For Andrew, sure, but not you. Obviously, you’re the woman in this scenario. And now, everything you ever do is going to be related to your relationship with him. Ten years from now, you’ll be getting questions about Andrew Watson in interviews. This is going to be Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake all over again, but without the denim, honey. You’re going to be tied to him no matter what you do, and your fans are going to judge and his fans are going to be pissed at you and it will really start to get bad once this ends and he gets involved with another woman.”
Once this ends? My mind fixates on those three words.
But Candy isn’t worried about that. She’s worried about my career.
“From here on out, any love song, sad song, breakup song, happy song, any fucking song you write is going to be spun to be about him.”
Dear God.
This is information overload.
I mean, I knew it wasn’t good that those photos leaked, but I didn’t think the consequences of a relationship with Andrew Watson could last years into the future, even if we don’t work out. Especially if we don’t work out.
“Birdie, you still there?” she asks and I nod, but then I realize she can’t exactly see me nodding.
“I’m here, but I need to go,” I lie. “I’ll call you back in a little bit.”
“Birdie, wait. I need to—”
“Candy, I’ll call you back,” I say firmly and hang up.
“Sweetheart?” Andrew’s voice makes me look up from the phone. He still stands by the hotel phone but has made no move to make his planned calls for room service and flight switches. He steps toward me with concern in his blue eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Someone took pictures of us last night,” I whisper, and he furrows his brow.
“What? Last night?”
I pull up the article again and hold it up for him on my cell.
He takes the phone out of my hand and starts scrolling through the article. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Pretty sure this isn’t a joke,” I comment. “Well, actually, I’m the joke. I’m the woman who has fallen into your player trap.”
“My player trap?” Andrew glances up to meet my eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that my publicist is freaking out about the consequences of this.”
“Why would she be freaking out about this?”
He really doesn’t get it.
I guess I can’t blame him; I wasn’t exactly understanding it all myself.
A shocked laugh jumps from my lungs, and I point to the stupid article on my phone. “Because I’m the new gossip laughingstock, Andrew. Another notch on your bedpost. Your next jilted lover. Soon-to-be writing breakup songs about you like Taylor freaking Swift!” I exclaim, each word getting me more amped up by the second. “Good God, this is exactly why I wanted to keep this a secret!” I toss my hands up in the air, and I begin to pace the hotel room.
Way to go, Birdie! Looks like the sex cat is officially out of the bag.
What in the hell am I going to do now?
I know I’m fixated on very selfish, career-motivated things right now, but I can’t help it. I’ve spent the last several years working my ass off to get where I have. I’ve played in what feels like every single bar and venue and stadium across the country. I’ve maintained a schedule that’s so busy, free time is basically nonexistent.
I’ve made a lot of sacrifices to get here.
And now, my publicist is telling me that because of this, because of those goddamn photos, everything I’ve worked so hard for, everything I’ve strived for, is now going to play second fiddle to being Andrew Watson’s latest conquest.
Andrew
Everything is fucked, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
Birdie is quite literally freaking the fuck out over an article her sister sent her this morning. And when she had a quick phone call with her publicist, it only made shit worse.
Apparently, her entire team is convinced that her being connected to me in the press is only bad news for her career. And their negative commentary does nothing to help calm her down. If anything, it only works her up more.
“Maybe I’m a little dense here, sweetheart, but it’s just one stupid article. I don’t think it’s anything to get too worked up over. I’m sure we can find a way to fix this.”
She turns on her heel and looks at me in outright shock.
“It might be one article right now, but by the end of the day, it will be one of a thousand articles and social media posts and pretty much any media-related thing you can think of,” she retorts. “Don’t you get it? You’re Andrew Watson. The entire world is obsessed with your sex life.”
“And you’re Birdie Harris,” I add. “Pretty sure the whole world is obsessed with you too.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” She barks out a laugh. “I’m clearly the woman in this scenario. You’re the man. And how it’s going to go down is that now, everything I ever do is going to be related to you and our little sex rendezvous that occurred while we were filming Grass Roots.”
“Our little sex rendezvous?” I question. “Is that all this was to you?”
“I’m pretty sure we both know that’s all this was to you,” she retorts, and I hate how deep those words slice into my chest. But the truth is, it hurts that even after everything we’ve shared together, she still thinks that little of me. That she is still judging me on my reputation.
“Sounds like you have it all worked out, then, huh?” I run a hand through my hair. “I mean, I’m the Hollywood player and you’re the woman who got stuck in my trap, and now everything is ruined for you.”
“That’s not what I meant—” she starts to respond, but I cut her off.
“It’s fine, Birdie. I get it. I know the score. I’m the guy who serves the purpose of fun. I’m not the guy you get into a relationship with. I’m just the guy you fuck around with for a little bit.”
She frowns. “Andrew.”
“No, it’s fine. I get it.”
“Wait…” She pauses, and her teeth worry into her bottom lip. “That’s not what I mean. I just… God, Andrew, I feel like everything is crashing down on me right now. My team’s phones are ringing off the hook because everyone wants a comment from me about those pictures, and I have a hundred notifications on my phone, and I just don’t know what to make of it all.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you want from me?”
My question takes her back a step. “What do you mean?”
“How did you think this was going to go?” I question. “I mean, it’s very apparent that you don’t want to be tied to me at all in the media. So, when filming ended, did you just plan on saying goodbye? On ending shit between us?”
“I don’t know what I planned,” she says, her voice slightly above a whisper. “I mean, I figured we would spend time together in LA, but I wasn’t sure how it would work when I was back in Nashville…”
Right now, in this moment, it all hits me so hard I actually have to focus on pulling air into my lungs.
I’m in love with this woman, but she’s completely uncertain about me.
That realization makes me feel like absolute shit.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get Birdie to see me as more than the Hollywood jerk with the infamous reputation. I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to let go of the things she’s heard about my past.
I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to love a guy like me.
And you have too much fucking pride to stand around and wait to find out.
“You know what, sweetheart?” I toss out, the question entirely rhetorical. “I’m going to make this really easy on you. You don’t have to waste your time trying to figure shit out. And you certainl
y don’t need to deal with the bullshit of being tied to someone like me in the media.”
“What are you saying right now?”
“I’m saying you don’t have worry about any of it,” I retort, my chest growing tighter by the second. “I’ll have my team put out a statement that the photos were from filming. And then you can be done with it all. No stress. No issues with your career. No, as you said before, playing second fiddle to my reputation.”
“Done with it all?” she asks, her voice rising in frustration. “Are you breaking up with me right now?”
“Sweetheart, I can’t break up with someone who doesn’t even know what she wants from me. If anything, you’re the one doing the breaking in this situation.”
Birdie stares at me, her eyes wide and her cheeks red, but she doesn’t make any move to correct me or challenge me or tell me anything that leads me to believe she actually wants to be with me.
I make it really easy on her by tossing on my clothes, grabbing my shit, and leaving her hotel room.
Fuck if that wasn’t the most painful thing you’ve ever done, you prideful bastard.
Birdie
I feel like the world has ended, but I don’t understand why.
The instant Andrew walks out of my hotel room and the door slams shut behind him, my knees buckle, and I end up sitting on the fucking floor.
My God, what just happened?
You just let fear get into your head and ruin every-fucking-thing.
I roll my eyes at myself, but at the same damn time, tears come out of nowhere and start dripping down my cheeks.
Stress and sadness and emotions I don’t even understand sit like a rock inside my chest, and all I can do is focus on inhaling and exhaling deep, staggering breaths in and out of my lungs.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, on the floor, basically sobbing into my hands, but when I hear my phone ringing from where Andrew left it on the bed, I scramble to sit up and grab for it.
Maybe it’s him?
Maybe he wants to come back and talk this out?
But when Incoming Call Billie flashes across the screen, that rock in my chest only grows heavier.
I don’t want to answer it, but I know I need to. My sister has been trying to reach me for the past several hours, and I’ve been completely MIA.
Swiping a hand down my cheeks, brushing away the tears, I try to answer with the calmest voice possible. “Hey, sis,” I greet, but I don’t miss the way my voice wavers.
“Birdie,” she responds, her tone already concerned. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound like you’re about to freaking cry. You’re not fine. What’s going on?”
I swallow hard against the onset of new tears. “Nothing.”
“Birdie. Seriously. What is going on?”
“God, I don’t know, Billie.” A shaky sigh consumes my lungs, and it causes a domino effect, opening the dam of tears again and allowing the stupid fuckers to flow down my cheeks in steady waves. “Everything is fucked.”
“If you’re freaking out about that article, you need to take a breath and realize it’s not a big deal.”
“It’s not just the article,” I whisper.
“Then what is it?” she questions. “Did something happen with Andrew?”
Just the mention of his name makes my chest ache. “I just feel like everything is crashing down on me.”
“I get that you’re upset right now, but you’re going to have to be a little more specific for me to actually understand what you’re talking about.”
An unsteady exhale jumps from my throat. “Here’s the thing. I don’t understand what’s going on, so I don’t even know what to tell you.”
“I think the beginning is a good place to start,” she coaxes gently. “How about, why don’t you tell me how the paparazzi managed to snap photos of you and Andrew kissing and laughing and hugging and doing all sorts of cutesy shit on a night that I know has nothing to do with the movie? A night that I know with certainty was after you guys wrapped up filming.”
I make no move to answer.
“Okay, fine. I’ll make this simple. Answer me this—have you guys been hooking up in Memphis?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t…” I mutter and cringe at the same time. “Pretty much ever since we got to Memphis.”
“Seriously?” she questions. “And yet you didn’t tell me about it?”
Ugh. I’m the worst. And the fact that she even had to ask me that question spurs guilt to roll around in my belly.
“I’m sorry, Billie, but I just didn’t know what to say.” I try to explain something that even I don’t truly understand. “I guess I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know what any of it was. Or what it meant. It started out as just fun. Just sex. But then…” I pause, still completely confused about everything between Andrew and me.
Or, I should say, everything that was between us. Past tense.
Fuck. That hurts.
“But then, what?” she asks.
“I don’t know, Billie!” I snap back in frustration. “I don’t know what in the hell any of it was, but it doesn’t matter because he already made it apparent that he’s done.”
“What the fuck? He broke up with you? That asshole! I swear to God, I will murder—”
“No,” I cut her off, oddly irritated that she’s calling him an asshole. “It didn’t exactly go like that. I mean, he’s the one who walked away, but not without telling me I’m the one who did the breaking.”
“What? What does that even mean?”
“It means when he asked me what I wanted out of our relationship and I didn’t have an answer, he decided he was done.”
“Birdie, honey, I love you, but you’re really going to have to lay this all out for me so I can understand what in the hell went down. Pieces and parcels are not making things clear.”
“Fine,” I mutter and make myself comfortable on the bed.
And then, I tell my sister everything.
How it all started between Andrew and me.
How I went from hating him to enjoying secret sex with him.
How, at times, he was incredibly sweet.
How he’s the one who ordered the blueberry waffles.
I tell her about the surprise party at his parents.
The motorcycle ride last night.
And how shit went down this morning after I showed him the article and I had a stressful chat with an angry Candy.
Even though thinking about every detail, every memory, makes me feel like I’m falling apart from the inside out, I suck it up and leave no detail out of the equation. If there’s anything my sister deserves from me right now, it’s the truth. No matter how painful it feels to talk about it.
By the time I’m finished, Billie stays quiet for so long that I start to think the call has disconnected.
“Are you still there?”
“I’m still here. I’m just trying to process it all.”
I snort. “Tell me about it.”
“Birdie, I love you to pieces, and I’m always in your corner,” she begins, “but I have to be honest with you. I think, even though Andrew never actually came out and told you he wanted more with you, he wants to be with you. His actions were trying to show you that.”
I shake my head, completely taken aback by what she’s saying. “Billie, I don’t know about that. I mean, he’s the one who left this morning. He’s the one who said goodbye. Not me.”
“Yeah, well, a man can only take so much before his pride steps in and makes him walk away.”
“So, let me get this straight,” I retort. “You think I’m the one who pushed him away?”
“I know you’re going to get so mad at me about this. Hell, your stubborn ass is probably going to hang up on me the instant I say it, but yeah, you’re the one who pushed him away. Truthfully, you didn’t give him much choice.”
Anger floods my v
eins, and instead of screaming at my very pregnant baby sister, I hit end on the call and slam my phone back down onto the mattress.
Welp, it’s safe to say she got one thing right…
Instantly, I feel guilty for hanging up on her and grab my phone again, but instead of calling her—because, hell, I just can’t right now—I type out a text message.
Me: Look, I’m sorry. It’s just…really fucking hard.
Thankfully, she responds right away.
Billie: It’s okay. Even though it was a total bitch move, I still love you.
Me: I love you too.
Billie: When do you fly back to LA?
Me: Today. My flight leaves in a few hours.
Billie: When does Andrew’s flight leave?
I sigh and shut my eyes, but eventually, I find the strength to respond.
Me: Billie. You need to let it go.
Billie: Fine. But just so you know, I think you’re being really stupid.
She always has to get the last freaking word.
Me: And I think your pregnancy hormones are making you crazy.
Billie: In my opinion, both statements are valid.
God, she’s so annoying sometimes.
Me: I’ll call you when I make it back to LA.
Billie: Maybe you should also call Andrew. You know, just so he knows you made it back okay.
Me: Shut up, Billie.
Her response? The middle-finger emoji followed by, I love you, even though you’re a total lunatic. I swear you’re just like Granny.
I roll my eyes and toss my phone down onto the bed and try to mentally prepare myself to pack my bags and get ready for my flight, but I find myself staring at my stupid phone.
Should I try to call him? Or text him? Or go to his hotel room?
I don’t know what I should do.
All I know is that I don’t like what happened. I hate what happened, actually.
My phone chimes with a text message, and I hurriedly pick it up off the bed.