by Sara Biren
“What do you mean, don’t take this the wrong way? Are you being sarcastic?”
“Nope,” he says. “I’m serious. I can’t imagine arguing with anyone but you. And in case you were wondering, I didn’t kiss her.”
“What? I—I never said—” I sputter.
“She tried to kiss me, but she was pretty sloshed, and I was able to dodge it. In case you were wondering,” he repeats.
From the other room, Violet saves me from further embarrassment when she calls for Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago. Gabe looks down at his watch. “Three minutes,” he says. “Not bad.”
“It’s not what you know,” Ted says. “It’s who you’re related to.”
I follow Ted, Amelia, and Gabe through the crowded diner to a corner booth in the back. Not a minute later, Uncle Bud himself comes over with a tray of root beer floats.
“On the house,” he says as he sets a foamy drink in front of each of us. “Busy night or I’d stay to chat.”
“This beats Trash in Chloe Horrible’s pole barn,” Amelia says as she reaches for a glass.
Gabe holds his float out to the center of the table. “To Chloe Horrible,” he says, “without whom—and without whose boring, annoying as fuck, horrible party—we would not be here today, enjoying complimentary root beer floats and soon, Bud’s Spuds.”
“Here, here,” Ted says, and we all clink our glasses.
“Cheers,” Gabe says. “There’s no place I’d rather be at this moment.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
GABE
Football season ends in a brutal loss in sectionals, and Ted’s out of sorts. Janie pulls me aside in school one day and implores me to get him out of the house. “He’s miserable,” she says. “See if you can get some of your friends together and get him to the movies Friday night. Otherwise, he’ll sit on Twitter all night to see the prep football scores and complain about missing his chance.”
“I’m on it,” I tell her. More and more, I’m finding that I like doing regular, American teenager things—parties, movies, even homework. It doesn’t erase the worry about the money or Marley, because that worry has settled in like a squatter, low in the pit of my stomach, and finds its way into my thoughts constantly. But it helps me feel like someone who doesn’t have to worry about a famous, addicted ex and financial fraud.
Ted skips lunch to shoot hoops in the gym, so I loop Amelia and Juniper in.
“Yeah, totally,” Amelia says. I’m no idiot. I know that Amelia has a thing for Ted, and since that first dinner at Ted’s house, I’m pretty sure the feeling is mutual. “I’m in. So, you, me, Ted, Juniper. Anyone else? Your new friend Chloe Horrible?”
Juniper snorts. Today, she’s wearing a big, bright, billowy skirt, sky blue and covered with embroidered rainbows, and a sunshine yellow cardigan. She’s also wearing flip-flops (even though it’s fucking cold outside), and her toenails are painted a glittery purple. Her bare legs are muscular and tanned. She’s small, but she’s strong.
I like this girl.
I clear my throat. “So? Blue? You up for the movies?”
“For sure.”
Ted’s a little harder to convince.
“Nope. Not going. I’m depressed,” he says when I catch him in the hall after school before he heads to the weight room with his depressed teammates. “Plus, I gotta watch the games.”
“All the more reason to go,” I say. “It’ll take your mind off things.”
“No,” he says again.
“Come on, man. The girls are looking forward to it.”
“What girls?” Now he seems interested. Girls > football.
“Juniper and Amelia, who else?” I watch carefully as his eyes flash. Part of me wonders if I’ve got it all wrong and he’s got a thing for Juniper, not Amelia, but I shake the thought away.
“Fine.” He sighs like it’s such a hardship to go to the movies with friends. “Fine, I’ll go. I don’t want to let the girls down.”
“Great. You’re driving.”
“As if I’d let anyone else drive,” he says as he walks backward toward the weight room. He throws up his hand in a wave, then turns and jogs down the hall.
Friday night, Ted picks Amelia up first and then drives out to Gran’s, where Juniper and I have been working on the Field & Flock project while we wait. I can’t help but laugh at myself and how I’ve so easily fallen into this lifestyle. Half the time, I didn’t bother to go to classes on Fridays when I was in LA. Now I’m studying on a Friday night.
Before Juniper and I are even buckled in the back seat of Ted’s enormous pickup, Ted and Amelia are bickering about which movie to see. Juniper and I haven’t argued about anything in days, I realize. I sort of miss it.
“We watched a slasher flick last time,” Amelia says. “I’m tired of blood and gore and jump scares. I want to see Greenwich Calling.”
“No. No way. No more romantic comedies,” Ted says gruffly.
“What else is playing?” I ask.
Juniper shoots me a look that screams Warning! “It’s better if you don’t share your opinion and let them hash it out,” she says quietly.
“But Mindy McAdams is in Greenwich Calling, and you love her,” Amelia says. “Oh! And Tess Daniels, too.”
“You make a good case, but no fucking way. I can’t stand Jake Washington. I can’t sit through two hours of Jake Washington.”
Amelia scrolls on her phone. “Fine. No Greenwich Calling. But we are definitely not seeing another stupid slasher movie. Especially one that is actually called Another Stupid Slasher Movie. I’ll see what else is playing.”
“I’m going to veto anything animated, FYI.”
Amelia grumbles. “What about First Harvest? That’s gotten really good reviews.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Now Juniper whacks me on the arm. “I thought I told you to stay out of this.”
“Yeah, Gabe,” Amelia agrees.
“I don’t care,” I say. “We can’t see that movie.”
“Why not?” Juniper asks.
I turn to look at her. “Because that’s Elise’s latest movie. According to Hollywood Today, she had an affair with her costar, Early Bingham. Not that I believe everything the tabloids say, of course, because she’s usually rumored to have affairs with all of her costars. But this time I really hope it’s not true, because she was already engaged to Ty Callahan when she filmed it.”
Everyone falls silent.
“Wait a damn minute,” Ted says. “Your mom is engaged to Ty fucking Callahan and you’re just telling me this now? What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Can I meet him? When can I meet him?”
“Oh my God,” I say dramatically. “Are you serious, Ted? You’re using me to meet someone famous? And all this time, I thought we were really friends.”
“Har de fucking har,” he mutters.
“Who’s Ty Callahan?” Amelia asks.
“Who’s Ty Callahan? How are we even friends?” Ted roars. “He only averaged ninety-two rushing yards a game last year. He’s already had three games with over a hundred this season.”
“You know that means nothing to me, Teddy,” Amelia says.
It doesn’t mean anything to me, either, but I like Ty, and he’s good for Elise. “Ted, you can’t tell anybody. Seriously. She’s trying to keep this under wraps until she gets back from Australia. So zip it, OK?”
“OK, OK,” Ted says. “So we are definitely not seeing First Harvest.”
“Another Stupid Slasher Movie it is,” Amelia mumbles.
Not five minutes into the movie, Amelia squeals and covers her eyes and, at one point, turns toward Ted and buries her face in his chest. He puts his arm around her and tucks her in close.
“You big baby,” he says.
I’m so right about this. I wish the two of them would admit their feelings for each other and get on with their lives already. I lean over and whisper in Juniper’s ear, “Is it me, or
are those two perfect for each other?”
Juniper nods.
“Will you hold me if I get scared?”
She smacks my arm. “Shh,” she says. “I’m trying to watch the movie.”
“Big fan of slasher movies, then?”
She shakes her head. “Quiet, Gabe.”
I lean in close again. “I’ve got a surprise for you. I’m on the soundtrack. End credits.”
“Shut up!” she says loudly, then slaps her hand over her mouth.
“You shut up!” someone calls from the back of the theater.
“Shh,” I mimic her. “It’s true. Song’s called ‘All Right Guy.’”
“Shut up!” she says again, this time in a loud whisper.
The movie is truly awful, made even more unbearable by the fact that more than anything, I want to hold Juniper’s hand like I did at the campfire or put my arm around her shoulder and tuck her in close. We share a bucket of popcorn, and every now and then our hands brush together when we reach in at the same time. It’s torture.
Juniper’s jaw drops when the credits roll and my signature sound—grungy guitars and scrappy lyrics—fills the theater. Well, signature sound until I fucked it up with Embrace the Suck.
“What the hell, Gabe?” Ted says as we’re walking through the parking lot. “You’ve got a fucking song on a movie soundtrack, and you don’t think to tell us? When we’re literally going to see that movie? You are full of secrets tonight, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “Didn’t seem like a big deal.”
“Oh, listen to Mr. Big Shot. Didn’t seem like a big deal, my ass.”
“Well, I only hope ‘All Right Guy’ has got some legs, because after Embrace the Suck, my career could use a boost.” And I could use a big fat check. Too bad I’m so deep in the hole, even a nice royalty check won’t help me.
“It’s so good,” Juniper says. “It reminds me of your, uh, earlier stuff. ‘Burden.’ ‘Imitation of Life.’”
I look at her and smile. “You know my first album?”
She blushes—hard to see under the bright lights of the parking lot, but it’s there. “Everyone in town bought your album, Gabe.”
“Did they now?” I ask. “Amelia, did you buy my album?”
“Nope,” she says.
“Me neither,” Ted offers.
“Asshole. You got one for free.”
“I’m hungry,” he says. “Hell, I wish Uncle Bud’s was still open.”
We go to a late-night walk-up taco place instead and take the greasy bags over to Riverview Park to dine with Big Louie.
“Why are we eating outside?” I complain. “I’m freezing my ass off here.”
“Could be worse,” Juniper says. “We haven’t even had a hard frost yet.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” I admit, “but it sounds horrible. Is that going to happen? A hard frost?”
Amelia snorts. “Wow, are you in for a rude awakening. Have you never seen snow before, Gabe?”
“Very funny.”
“Tell us how you got a fucking song on a movie soundtrack,” Ted says, then shoves half a stuffed taco into his mouth.
“I guess you could say I’m friends with Miro Abernathy.”
“Who’s Miro Abernathy?” Juniper asks.
“He’s the head of Capstone Pictures,” Amelia chimes in.
“Of course you would know that,” Juniper says.
Amelia nods. “Yeah, he’s one of the youngest studio execs in Hollywood. He made some big play at Sundance a couple years back, and now he’s a superhot ticket.”
I’m impressed. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”
“So how do you know him?” Ted asks.
I shrug. “How do I know anyone in Hollywood? Pretty sure I met Miro through Elise, though it could have been Chris. Might have been at Edie Garcia’s Christmas party, maybe?”
None of them say a word. I look over at Juniper, whose mouth has dropped open a little. I guess they all know who Edie Garcia is, but then again, every nine seconds someone in this country watches an Edie Garcia movie.
“I’m not trying to name-drop and sound cool, really,” I say quickly. “I mean, I barely know the guy. Miro, that is. But we got to talking—wherever it was, but I think, yeah, I think it was at Edie’s—and he asked me to write a song for the film.”
Ted snorts. “Fucking hell. That’s awesome. You wrote a kick-ass song and it’s on a fucking soundtrack to a kick-ass movie.”
“Teddy,” Amelia says, “no. That has got to be the stupidest movie I’ve ever seen, no offense, Gabe. I mean, a mannequin serial killer? A mannequin.”
“You loved it,” Ted says. “Admit it. So much better than Greenwich Calling.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Amelia bites back, “since I haven’t seen Greenwich Calling, no thanks to you.”
I look over at Juniper, who’s scrunching her taco wrappings into a small ball. “How do you stand all their bickering?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You’ll get used to it.”
For the first time in a long time, maybe my whole life, I feel like I’ve got friends who understand me. People who want to be friends with me for me and not my name or my famous parents or grandparents or the fact that I go to parties at Edie Garcia’s beach house. Genuine friends who don’t ask for cash to cover their drug habits.
Juniper’s right. I could get used to this.
Chapter Thirty
JUNIPER
I don’t mean to fall asleep on the way home from the movie theater in Frederick Lake, leaning on Gabe in the back seat of Ted’s truck, but I do.
I wake to Gabe’s whispers. “Blue, wake up. We’re home.”
Home.
My first thought is that yes, it seems like Gabe is more at home here now. And then it occurs to me that I’m sort of snuggling with him. I don’t think this is what Mom meant about the honey. I sit up abruptly and scoot as far over to the door as I can. “Oh, shoot, I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—God, I didn’t drool on you, did I?”
Gabe laughs. “No, you didn’t drool on me.”
A coyote howls in the distance, and Gabe’s face freezes. “I’m going to walk you to your door,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows. “It’s a coyote, Gabe, and based on that howl, it didn’t sound close. I don’t need a bodyguard.”
He shakes his head. “Nope, not happening. Don’t even think about arguing with me. I’m walking you to your door and that’s it.”
“You’re the one who’s freaked out about the coyotes and you’re trying to protect me?”
“Stop arguing about it and get the fuck out of the truck,” Ted chimes in. “I’ve got to get Sleeping Beauty here back to her comfy bed.”
“You. Stay. Here,” I say, punctuating each word with a finger to Gabe’s chest. He sighs. “Hey. Amelia,” I say, sticking my head in between the two front seats. “Today is someday.”
And then I’m out the door and up the sidewalk in a flash, and Ted’s peeling out of the driveway and barreling down the road toward the farmhouse.
I push the front door open. Mom’s still up, waiting for me like she always does, the TV playing softly across the room.
“Hey,” I say as I toe off my shoes.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says. She picks up the remote and clicks the TV off. “How was the movie?”
“The movie was horrible. But surprise! Gabe recorded a song for the soundtrack.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah, he dropped that bomb after we were already in the theater.”
“Good for him. Do you work tomorrow?”
“No, I’ve got the weekend off. Thank goodness. I’m sick of birthday parties. And I could use a good, solitary hike.”
“We’ve got the farmers’ market Sunday.”
I plop down on the couch next to her. “I’ll be ready.” I rest my head on her shoulder. “Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” she says and puts her arm around me.
“How do you handle being such close friends with Chris?”
She laughs. “How do you mean?”
“Like, he’s one of the biggest rock stars in history. And he’s your friend.”
“Well, he’s your friend, too. How do you handle it?”
“That’s different. He’s always been a rock star to me. You knew him before.”
“Right. I knew him before. And I think that’s what makes it easy, like you think it’s easy because you’ve always known him as a rock star. I’ve known Chris and his family most of my life. You know that Chris and your dad were best friends. Thick as thieves, that’s what Leona used to say. And I was lucky enough to have both of them in my life.” She pauses, and then, “But you know all this. What’s this really about, Juniper?”
I shrug against her shoulder. “Do you think Gabe will sell the farm?”
“I see. You’re still worried about Gabe.”
I sit up. “Of course I’m still worried about Gabe. Even if his latest album hadn’t been such a huge loss for him, I’d be worried about Gabe and what he plans to do with the farm.”
“Is there more to it than that?”
I sink back into the couch, nestle against her again, and blow out a long breath. “Yeah, I think so,” I say, but I don’t continue. I’m not sure how to put my feelings into words.
She kisses the top of my head. “I think that you made up your mind about Gabe a long time ago. You decided that he wasn’t someone who was worth your friendship because of how he acted or who you thought he was or what you saw about him on the Internet. But now, now that you’re getting to know him as a person and not as a celebrity, you’re finding out that he’s not a bad guy. He’s someone that you might actually be friends with, and—if I can take a guess here? Maybe more than friends?”
Well, that about sums it up. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
“Gabe’s a household name,” I say. “He’s never known a life outside of the spotlight. I’m a girl who lives on a farm. Let’s say—hypothetically—that I have . . . well, feelings for him. Beyond friendship. How could I possibly expect him to feel the same? Look at Chris. He married a film star who makes, like, twelve million dollars a movie.”