Enough sitting. Ben sprang from the sofa and yanked off his sweat-stained T-shirt. “Where’s my clothes?” he asked. He tore through the room: opening every drawer and looking in every cupboard. “I don’t like Brishell,” he said, although he felt like he shouldn’t have to reaffirm that. He’d already said it over a dozen times after Dubai. Ben reached for some deodorant spray—the brand that he had done the commercial for last year, even though Paul had said it would kill brain cells if overused—and sprayed a very liberal amount. But Paul didn’t even choke. He handed Ben his clothes, which were apparently hung in an armoire that looked like a TV cabinet. That’s when Ben noticed the Plasma on the wall next to the armoire. Oh.
“You’re upset. You’re not being rational. I can see that you’re starting to wear down. Let’s cancel that dinner with Les. You might benefit from taking the night off.”
“I don’t need the night off. Besides. It’s Friday. I can sleep in tomorrow.” They had done the weekend morning show last week. All they had scheduled tomorrow was the Saturday night comedy show—which was a rather big deal, but still … he did get to sleep in. That was all he cared about.
Paul looked him over, the way a doctor would do when trying to determine if a patient needed sedated. “Actually, I will cancel the dinner with Les. He can fly to L.A. in a few weeks and meet with you then.” Les was press, but second rate. Not a priority. Even though Ben really liked Les. He’d always given Ben rave reviews. But Paul was right: Les could wait. Ben exhaled deeply. It felt good to make the load a bit lighter. “Let’s get you back to the apartment so you can rest before the game.” The Knicks. Front row. Exactly what Ben needed tonight.
“I need to talk to Kat first.” Ben found his phone and began a text. Paul was heading for the door but then he stopped and pivoted slowly. Great. There was more.
“Maybe you should wait a while before you talk to her. Calm down a bit more.”
“I’m fine, Paul.” Ben could hear the irritation in his voice. He was surprised Paul didn’t duck or run for cover. Well, no, this really wasn’t surprising. Because Paul wasn’t afraid of anything.
“Just give it a sec to think things through before you call to apologize.”
Ben felt every muscle in his body tense. He didn’t need to be reminded of this. He wasn’t ten anymore. Wilders never, ever apologize. He knew that. He knew that power is everything. And that apologizing is a sign of weakness. He could never go there. He wasn’t going to go there with Kat. Then his muscles tightened even more. So then what was he going to say to Kat? Saying that he didn’t mean to diss her on national TV was a bit of an apology, wasn’t it? Oh, Paul. Ben felt himself growling. He felt more anger towards Paul than he had towards Mike just minutes ago, if that was possible.
“If you tell Katrina that you feel more for her than was communicated on TV, what exactly will you be saying? What will you be declaring to her? What will you be committing?”
Paul had just barely said that he didn’t think much of Kat, so the last thing Ben was going to admit was that he was in love with her. He’d even almost told her that. Twice. No, technically he’d only tried once. But he’d chickened out. The other time, he actually had said it. But it was in Italian. And it wasn’t with absolute certainty. He’d said, “I think I’m falling in love with you ….” He didn’t think so anymore. After being away from her for nearly two weeks—and still not making it through a single hour without thinking about her—he knew so. But he’d kept that locked within his heart.
Obviously Ben had betrayed himself somewhere along the line, because Paul said, “You tell her you love her and you’ll be giving her all the power. I wouldn’t … advise it. Think of the damage she could do to you once this ends. Does the word ‘needy’ ring a bell? Do you really want to go there again?”
Maybe Paul was afraid of Ben after all because Paul left the room rather quickly. Which was good, because Ben envisioned himself chucking his cell phone at Paul’s head. Not that Ben actually would have done it … unless the phone accidently slipped out of his hand. But that didn’t mean that Paul didn’t deserve to have it done. That was really harsh: to bring up what Malia had said. To the press. After they broke up.
It had taken Ben months to recover from that one. She hadn’t given Ben much of an explanation when she had broken up after their year long relationship. Basically, all she had told Ben was that it was over; she’d had enough. Then she went and blabbed to Inside magazine. Said that Ben was needy. And clingy. It stung like salt in a flesh wound. No, worse. Like pouring acid into a surgical incision. Because he had to face it on two different levels. Although he thought that the fallout within his own heart was probably worse than anything that the press said—it actually got him some sympathy with the media. But still, it was embarrassing.
Ben laid down on the sofa and sunk in as deep as the leather would allow. He wished that he could morph. Just become the sofa and nothing else for a time. The burden of being a Wilder weighed him down so heavily he felt like he was lower than dirt. That he was with the earth. In a grave that was dug for him by his father.
He stretched his arm across his forehead, covering his eyes. His head was beginning to throb with pain. Like he needed a headache on top of this. But it was inevitable. Lack of sleep plus stress always resulted in a massive headache. He needed some A.C.&C. But he’d sworn off anything stronger than Tylenol. He didn’t want any addictions to ensnare him, as simple and diminutive as they may seem. They could lead to something greater. Something that would keep him in that grave next to Dan’s decomposing body. So that meant fighting a throbbing headache in the same manner one would use a Band-Aid to stop bleeding from an arterial laceration—ineffectively.
The sofa quickly grew uncomfortable. It was too short. And the leather was cheap. And he wasn’t really capable of lying still right now. So he sat up again, cell phone in the palm of his hand. Katrina’s number was lit up on the screen. He sighed deeply. Ultimately, Paul was right. Like always. Ben craved the day when he would be the wise one. The one who held the reigns instead of being the ass in a harness.
What to say to Kat? His heart begged him say it all. His head warned him to be cautious.
……
He felt better after he talked to Kat. She handled it well—of course. Why had he been so worried? It’s not like she’d go into a tirade and yell at him. That wasn’t her style. She even said the same thing Paul had said, “It probably wasn’t as bad as you thought.” Paul should know this—that Kat often had similar thoughts to his. It might make him like her more. But Ben still wasn’t talking to Paul.
They had ridden in silence from the studio to the rented penthouse suite. Not that Ben was still mad at Paul. Ben recognized, and was even grateful for, Paul’s wisdom. But Ben wasn’t ready to tell Paul that.
Ben locked himself in his room, where the leather sofa was much more comfortable than the one at the studio. He wanted a nap, but was afraid to climb onto that Tempur-Pedic bed. He knew he’d sleep right through the Knick’s game if he did that.
Once settled in on the couch, Ben scrolled through some pictures of Kat on his phone. Her lock of hair was wrapped around his finger. It was like a sleep aid. Once he saw her image and was able to touch that fragment connecting his body to hers, he could relax. He felt warm inside. Happy.
He wished that he would have been able to talk to her longer. But she said she had to go. She wasn’t supposed to be talking right then anyhow. If they could have talked longer—and not in hushed tones—he was positive he would have told her that he loved her. His heart was winning over his mind. It just felt right.
But she was going to call him later tonight—after she watched Mike’s show. She promised she would, even if she was mad about it. And even though it would be nearly two a.m. New York time. Some things were worth waking up for.
It startled Ben when his phone vibrated in his hand. He was just drifting off … experiencing that feeling where his body felt like it was floating. The
picture on the screen startled him even more. It was Brishell.
“Guess where I am?” her voice said in that thick Czechoslovakian accent.
“Prague?” he hoped. Let her be someplace cold, where she needed thick layers of clothes. Someplace far away.
“I’m in New York. Same place as you.”
Chapter Twenty-one ……
Friday had turned out to be an odd day. There was the phone conversation Kat had from inside her locker. Seriously, inside of her locker. With the door closed. It was dark. It was claustrophobic. But it was Ben. What else could she do?
On top of the curious location of the conversation was the time of the call. (Hello, middle of the school day! He knew not to call then. But she just so happened to forget her assignment in her locker and just so happened to be there at that very moment to take the call. Fate smiled for a moment … maybe.) Then, to top all, was the topic of the conversation. He was giving her some kind of warning about the Mike Andrews show that would air that night.
While the conversation was vague, she did sense that Ben was worried about something that happened during the taping. Something about Brishell. Yeah. Even hearing that name made Kat cringe. Brishell’s name sounded like a stinky cheese or something. But her fancy-schmancy European name wasn’t really what caused the seriously high cringe-factor. It was the fact that there was nothing stinky about Brishell. Nothing. At all.
So what Ben did say was that #1. The interview made it look like he was blowing Kat off and that #2. The interview made it look like he was more interested in Brishell. But what he also said was that, in reality, A. he was trying to protect Kat from a media frenzy and that B. he was not in the least bit interested in Brishell.
What Ben didn’t say—but what Kat read between the lines—was that Ben was worried about her. Kat. That she would feel dogged after seeing this interview. And he didn’t want that to happen. He wanted her to know that he cared—that she was more to him than he said on the interview. She knew this because he called during the middle of science. And because he sounded … remorseful. So what he didn’t say really said everything.
She had promised to call him tonight after the segment aired so they could talk about it, even though she had assured him that she’d be fine with it. And then another weirdness: he asked her what her Friday night plans consisted of, other than watching Mike Andrews. Regrettably, she said “nothing.” Then thinking that she sounded pathetic for not having plans, she explained why she didn’t have plans. Which was what was regrettable. All the girls were going shopping for prom dresses. And Kat wasn’t going to prom. So she didn’t need a dress.
Telling Ben about prom was almost as bad as asking him to go, which was exactly what all the girls had been harassing Kat about incessantly for the last two weeks. They all swore that if they were in a relationship with a rockstar, they’d be all over asking him to prom. Really, how cool would that be to have the hottest prom date ever? Whatever. No rockstar would stoop to going to a high school prom. Kat had sworn that she wouldn’t so much as mention it to Ben. So much for that.
That was embarrassing. But what was weird was his response. “You’re not going to your prom?” he asked. But it wasn’t disdainful. It was more like … he was intrigued or something. And then he asked, “Well, when is it?” When she told him the date, he said, “Hmm.” Not like a boring hmm. An interested hmm. Like he was thinking about it! Weirder!
All that had happened early in the afternoon. By late afternoon, the media was buzzing about the interview with Mike. The implications about Ben and Brishell. And not Kat. It was starting to hurt. None of the media outlets had the full story … just clips and tidbits released by Mike, drawing them and the rest of the world into his ten o’clock show. That picture of Ben and Brishell was all over the place. Fabulous. A real ego booster for Kat.
Then more weirdness. As the night wore on, Kat began getting a lot of phone calls from school guys. Asking her out to prom. Like now that news was out that Ben was into Brishell, Kat was suddenly on the market. Great. Was she? Had she actually ever been off the market? She guessed she’d find out soon enough.
End of weirdness. Time for … for … ah … what would it be exactly? A stab in the heart maybe. But not with a real big sword. Or a real sharp one. She envisioned one of those little cocktail swords—the tacky plastic ones—stuck through her ribcage as she watched the Mike Andrews interview. It hurt. It was uncomfortable. But she’d survive.
She could see—or hoped that she could—how Ben defended her. He curtailed Mike’s questions in politician-perfect form. Especially when Mike showed that picture of her. That picture! Whoa! Where did he find that? She’d never even seen it. But it only took her a few seconds to place it: dance camp at the university last summer. The picture was from their end-of-the-week performance. And Kat’s parents had complained that many of the routines had been too provocative for high school girls. Upon seeing that pose, Kat had to agree. Her parents were probably going to have her head over that picture. Or someone else’s. It was really infuriating to realize that there were people out there making money off of pictures of her. She realized that she had entered an entirely new realm. A vicious one.
All in all, the interview wasn’t horrible. She was probably slouching as she left the family room though. She felt like someone had stripped a few layers of her confidence away. She wasn’t worthy of Ben—she’d always known that, deep down. But she had buried it. Now it was on the surface. She would never be good enough for him. She would never be Brishell.
She sat on the edge of her bed and took several cleansing breaths. Eyebrows up. Clear throat. Perky voice. Dial Ben.
Hmm. No answer. She waited another five minutes before trying again. She’d cut out of the last five minutes of the Mike Andrews show; Ben’s interview was over, why did she need to watch that slimeball Mike any longer? So when she dialed the second time, she really, really expected Ben to pick up.
Odd. He didn’t. And he knew that she’d be calling. He’d told her to call. At two a.m. Eastern Time. So why didn’t he answer?
Kat thought about how tired Ben had sounded when they’d talked earlier. Way tired. He must be zonked out, sleeping so soundly he couldn’t even hear his phone. So she wouldn’t keep calling. He needed his sleep.
She sent him a quick text.
MA sho nt so bad.
Nthn 2 wrry bout.
L8r.
……
Ben couldn’t believe the clock when he woke up on Saturday. It was eleven thirty. It was twelve by the time he showered and made his way out of the master bedroom suite. His head was throbbing again. This time it wasn’t a stress headache. It was a late night, wild night headache. That club last night—as fly as it was—had been incredibly loud. Ben’s eardrums were still pulsing from the beat of the electronic music.
Lena and Paul were just sitting down to lunch. It smelled great. Ben’s plate was served and he began to dig in, mouth too full of food to worry about conversation. But halfway through his meal, he realized that it was oddly quiet in the kitchen. Paul had said a few words. His mom had said none. Ben began to glance back and forth between them. Had he interrupted some sort of argument? Paul looked like his typical cool and collected self. Whatever it was hadn’t ruffled Paul’s feathers. But Lena? She was scowling. All out pouting. And not looking in Ben’s direction.
It was easy to determine that this wasn’t one of Lena’s bad spells. She was dressed. And she was eating. When she finished her tofu, she left the kitchen without saying a word. “What gives?” Ben whispered to Paul.
Paul shrugged and said nothing for a time. He was probably waiting until she was out of earshot. “She’s not real happy … with the whole Brishell situation,” Paul eventually said.
“Brishell?” Ben was confused. Lena had seen the Mike Andrews footage when they got back to the penthouse yesterday. She wasn’t all that upset then. She had immediately said that she could see that Ben was defending Katrina. And Lena agreed
that Ben had handled it perfectly. So why was she upset now—nearly twenty-four hours later?
“Last night,” Paul added.
“Last night?” Still confused. How did Lena know that Ben had gone out with Brishell? Lena had gone to bed early … long before Ben met up with Brishell. “Why’d you tell her?” Ben wanted to know. He’d already accepted that Paul was going to know where Ben was every moment of the day. But they had this unspoken agreement between them. Sometimes it benefitted them both to keep Lena out of the loop. She tended to worry. And micro-manage. Late night clubbing was one of those things that Lena typically didn’t need to know about.
“I didn’t,” Paul answered.
Ben could feel himself squinting. Why would anyone else tell Lena? Then he felt his stomach hit the floor. The press. Someone had the story. “Who has it?”
“Everyone, by now. But it started with HTV.”
Ben swore as he rushed to the bar. The laptop was on HTV.com within seconds. Front and center. Their main story. Ben dirty dancing with Brishell. He swore again.
“Paul! Who did this?”
“Cell phone camera, Ben. It could have been anyone.”
Ben’s hand covered his mouth as he scrolled through the pictures. They went from bad to worse. That entire moment—that retched moment when Brishell had seemed to think that she was a Vegas stripper—had been caught on camera. Ben didn’t need to click on the video player to know that his relationship with Katrina had just ended. The stills were enough. It looked nasty.
He looked at his watch. It was after nine in L.A., but Kat could still be asleep. He hoped. He even prayed.
He was on his way to his room; Paul called out after him. Ben didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to be reminded about pride and power and not looking average and such. He just wanted to hear Katrina’s voice. To know that this, too, was going to slide right off her shoulders. That they would be okay.
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