by Haley Jenner
“Mom,” I call out. “Take a photo of me in my PJs, wine glass in hand.”
She does as I ask without a word, nodding at the photo in approval before handing my phone back.
Posting it to Instagram, I grin. “#OscarReady #RedCarpet #TookMeHours #WearingPeterAlexander #AfterPartyAtMoms #MyDateIsPizza.”
“I don’t know why you still keep that account, people are so...”
“Mean?” I lock my phone, eyes back on the TV.
“Yeah,” Mom offers softly.
“They’re bullies,” I murmur. “You give them power when you change who you are or the way you live. If I deleted my Instagram or Twitter account, they’d win. They’d silence my voice on social media. Fuck that.”
“I love you, honey.”
I glance at my mom, smiling. “Love you, too.”
“It’s up!” Brooke squeals, readjusting the volume on the TV.
My body immediately breaks out in a cold sweat. I sit up straight.
“Oh my god,” Mom fluffs. “You’d think I was in his position. I’m so nervous.”
“Shhh,” I admonish.
I can feel her eye-roll from my seat.
“The nominees for an actor in a leading role are….”
My mind blanks. Words not heard as A-list celebrities are introduced, camera spanning to them and their tight smiles as the crowd applauds them. But I hear nothing. Nothing but a heavy drum of nerves through my eardrums. My hands shake. I slide my wine glass onto the coffee table in front of me, the movement jittery and unstable.
You’d think I was there beside him. As was always our plan. My heart is racing in my chest like a horse galloping toward the finish line. I’d give anything to squeeze his hand in this moment. To look in his eyes and let him see how proud I am of him.
His face, like the nominees before him, flashes across the screen. A small smile pulls at his mouth. The right side, of course. Eyes tightening in embarrassment at the unwanted attention.
It’s in that moment my heart registers how much I miss him. He laughed at me when we were eighteen. A thick, offensive snigger at the thought that someone could love another from such a young age. He believed that feeling wasn’t sustainable for a lifetime. That we were too young to understand the complexity of such an intense and harrowing feeling like love.
He was wrong.
I know that in the very depths of my messily glued together heart.
Because I still love him. Even though he’s virtually a stranger. I love him. I have done since I was fourteen years of age. My heart stuffed full of Reid Rivere and that stupid half-grin.
Brooke screams so loud, Spencer begins to wail.
“Holy. Fucking. Shit,” she hollers. “He won, Rox. He fucking won.”
Tears spring to my eyes without permission as I sit there frozen.
Eyes widened in shock, his position is not unlike mine. Standing on unsteady feet, he shakes hands and accepts hugs and kisses from those around him. Those people that aren’t me.
Hands cupping my face, I force myself to take controlled, steady breaths.
And there he is. Standing on a stage unlike any other, trophy clasped in his white-knuckled hold. He looks down to the statuette, feeling the weight of the solid bronze in his hand, thumb stroking against the gold plating.
“Mom? Are you still conscious?” he jokes.
Laughter echoes out and he blows out a steady breath.
“Wow,” he stammers. “I… Wow.”
Shifting on his feet, he moves closer to the microphone. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I now understand why my mom encouraged me to write an acceptance speech. Just in case. I’ve lost the ability of coherent thought.”
Swallowing down his nerves, he looks out to his peers. “Donny… this is for you, buddy. Thank you for welcoming me not only into your world but your psyche. It was an honor and a privilege to bring your life’s journey to the world.”
Exhaling heavily, he pauses, considering his next words.
“I’m not alone when I say that my path to this very moment has seen me stumble more times than I’ve stood tall. But this dream was something I promised myself I’d never give up on, no matter how hard the road to get here might be.”
His body is bent slightly, head tipped toward the microphone, the dark brush of his hair falling over his brow, shielding his eyes.
“I didn’t get to this moment on my own. Life is rarely a solo act. I want to thank every person that’s ever lit my way, even on the darkest of roads.” I swallow deeply at the reference, my heart making itself known in my chest, pounding with a consistent and thundering clap. “I couldn’t have done this without you.” He pauses, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I hope you know who you are,” he lowers his voice, silence following his words for a strangled few seconds.
“As a child, I sat in my bedroom dreaming of this moment. I watched every movie I could to study my favorite actors. Some of who sit beside me tonight.” He gestures to the seats housing some of the world’s biggest celebrities. “This is for every little boy and girl that dreams of this moment. Dreams come true. Strive for it. Fight for it. Claim the life you want. It’s there, waiting for you to grab it with both hands.”
Looking at the statuette in his hand, he nods. “This means the world to me. I…” He exhales heavily. “Never mind,” he mumbles, forcing a smile, the gesture almost as beautiful as his real one. “Thank you. Truly.”
Seven
Take Two
Reid
Don’t Google it.
Absolutely don’t fucking Google it.
I groan, sliding my phone across the coffee table. It doesn’t slow as it reaches the edge, falling to the ground with a loud thump.
Picking up my glass, I stare at the amber liquid lining the bottom inch of the crystal. Whiskey. I’m a sadist. Obviously. Picking a drink that forces me to think of her name every time the malt slides across my tongue.
“Okay there?” I don’t bother lifting my head to look at Baxter.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Pass that bottle, would you.”
He pushes it closer to me, watching me with concerned eyes.
“Whiskey,” I declare. “Hold the Rox.”
“Sun’s coming up,” Baxter informs me. “Maybe you should head to bed.”
Glancing up, I look at my assistant, still dressed in his suit, too afraid to leave me alone.
“I would never Google it. Not ever.”
“Okaaay.”
“One,” I assert. “It’s a total fucking invasion of Roxy’s privacy.”
He scratches his head awkwardly, realization dawning. He says nothing. Not that there’s anything to say.
I don’t have any more reasons than her privacy. Just it and it’s enough to stop me from typing her name into any search engine. I can’t even look for the story to attempt to piece it all together myself, work out what the hell happened to see her fall so harshly. The fear that I’ll stumble across a picture of her that should not be on the internet is too real. I’d be the worst kind of asshole. Like every fucking sicko that’s taken advantage of whatever situation she seems to have tangled herself in, jerking their limp dicks over her.
Ugh.
I rub my face.
Tipping my head back, I swallow the contents of my glass.
I’ve opened Instagram no less than twelve thousand times. All with the intention of shooting her a quick message to see if she’s okay. Each and every time I convince myself I’ve lost that right. I lost it ten years ago, when I cursed her heart and ripped her from my life like an unwanted limb.
I’m not her friend. Not anymore. I haven’t been able to claim that for a full decade. Shit, I’m barely an acquaintance of hers. I’m nothing more than a guy she used to know. One that not only rejected her but chose, in that same moment, to turn away without ever looking back.
Not publicly anyway.
Fuck.
I can’t even ask Mom. For so many reasons, most importantly, she’d
smack me upside of my head for even considering Roxy had anything to do with this.
“What’s the story with you and Monroe?”
Refilling my glass, I consider his question. I could do as I’ve always done and shrug it off. Pretend she’s never existed in my life. That she wasn’t the most important person to exist for me for eight influential years.
“Roxy Monroe,” I start, twisting the lid back on the whiskey bottle and retrieving my glass. “Was the best friend I ever had.” Leaning back on the couch I’m perched upon, I lift my feet, crossing them at the ankles on the table in front of me.
“No shit?”
I nod, eyes focused on the shake in the amber liquid every time I move. “We met when we were ten, and for the next eight years we were inseparable.”
I look up at Baxter, my bloodshot eyes struggling to focus.
“We were a set. Where I went, she came too. And vice versa. We were gonna conquer Hollywood together.”
“What happened?”
“What happened.” I rest an arm behind my head, focusing on the closet thing I have to a friend. “Was that on April twenty-seven, two thousand nine, it all went to shit.” I indulge my ego, letting my anger relive that moment for the umpteenth time.
“We had an agreement,” I affirm. “Roxy and I, we had a fucking agreement. We shook on it.” I lift my hand, still clasped tightly around my glass, pointing it in Baxter’s direction. “Spat on our fucking hands and shook. We crossed our fucking hearts.”
The anger and confusion that overtook me all those years ago brims back to the surface. My heart begins beating in panic, my chest so tight in uncertainty, I feel ready to pass out.
“Have you ever had a best friend?” I ask quietly, my inebriated state attempting to breathe through my trepidation. “Not just a close friend,” I clarify. “But a best friend. Someone who feels a part of you. That one single person that makes your life better. So much so, you know that surviving without them is doable,” I contemplate, “but the thought of doing so seems like the world’s greatest burden.”
Baxter watches me silently.
“Someone who doesn’t fight against you growing as a person,” I continue. “Someone who not only accepts each new version of who you are but grows with you. Not necessarily in a similar way.” I shrug. “But your friendship adapts. It strengthens with each new you that shows itself.”
Gnawing at my lip, I reflect on how much Roxy and I changed over the years of our friendship. “Roxy accepted me in the same way I did her, with every single one of my flaws. I could trust her with my life. I never had to doubt that she’d only offer me the truth, no matter how hard it was for me to hear. Judgment didn’t exist between us.” I sip my drink, licking away the remnants that remain on my lips. “She was the best part of my life.”
Clearing his throat, Baxter nods in understanding. “Sounds like you loved her.”
I smile sadly. “I did. I would’ve given her the world if it was in my power to do so. I loved her the best way I could. With every fucking morsel of who I was. But she didn’t just want the world, not in the end, she demanded my heart and that was the only thing that was off-limits.”
“You fell in love,” Baxter surmises, his voice coated in understanding.
“I didn’t do shit,” I defend vehemently. “It was all her. She fell in love with me. She broke the rules.”
“She cut you out? I mean, I get it,” he emphasizes. “But it’s rough.”
I shake my head. “I cut her out.”
“What?” he cries. “Why?”
“She broke the rules,” I grit out, annoyed that I have to defend myself.
Hands gripped over his mouth, he stares at me wide-eyed. “Fuck, Reid. You broke her heart and just walked away from your friendship?”
“Yes.”
Eyebrows raised, he smiles, the gesture anything but amused. “I hope for your sake, you never cross that poor girl’s path. She’d have every right to sack whack you.”
I sit up straight, eyeing him intently. “She changed the rules,” I slur. “Not me. Her.”
I wait for understanding to dawn on his features, but it doesn’t come.
“Are you gonna fire me if I speak openly here?” He finally speaks.
I pause, considering my answer. “No.”
“She was eighteen. Her best friend was a boy. Her feelings got caught up. She cannot help that. You saying to her that she should’ve changed the way she felt is like telling me I should like girls. It’s impossible, Reid. There are few certainties in this life, one of them is that you can’t help who you love.”
I stare at him blankly.
“Do you think if Roxy could’ve helped it, she would’ve stayed in love with you?”
Opening my mouth, my words catch in my throat.
“Exactly,” he answers for me. “If Roxy could’ve helped her feelings, she would have. She knew that her heart had set her on a path that could’ve destroyed the very thing she longed for… she wouldn’t have taken the risk if she had the choice.”
When I say nothing, he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Just my two cents.”
“You’re fired.” I stand up. “I’m going to bed.”
“Leave the whiskey,” he calls after me.
I flip him off, slamming the door of the master bedroom with enough force to shake the walls.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard what Baxter just spewed. My mom sprouted the same shit ten years ago when I confided in her about what happened.
She took her side.
Not mine. Not her only son’s.
Hers. Roxy Monroe.
Stripping from my clothes, I climb into bed, ignoring the way the room spins steadily around me. Eyes closed, I attempt to center myself. Pulling a breath through my nose, I fill my lungs, holding it for a drawn-out second before releasing.
“Come on, Rox.” I grab her hand. “Let’s get you home.”
“No,” she argues, yanking her hand from my grasp as if my touch burns. Her eyes aren’t right. They’re filled with pain, with an anger I have no idea how to place.
Stumbling on her feet, she looks around the emptying room, no doubt in search of Brooke. “Charlie took her home,” I explain. “She was hammered. How much did you guys drink?”
She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms contentiously over her chest. “It’s my birthday,” she broils. “And prom. Forgive me for enjoying myself. What happened to no judgment?”
I take a step back, face twisting in perplexity. “Wasn’t judging you, Firefly. It was just a fucking question.”
“Firefly,” she grumbles under her breath. “Stupid fucking nickname.”
I scowl, uncomfortable at the daggers she’s throwing. “Cool story,” I bite, unsure what to do with the hurt she’s aiming to cause... “Let me get you home.”
Sitting in the car, her head rested against the glass, she stares out at the dark night. She hasn’t said a word since I helped her into the car. Her anger seems to have subsided, but there’s a melancholy surrounding her that I’ve never seen before.
“It’s not stupid,” I murmur. “Not to me.”
Glancing over, the lids of her eyes are heavy, readying themselves for sleep.
“Your nickname,” I justify. “It’s not stupid to me. I spent my early years content in my own company,” I offer unprompted. “Until you. Now I couldn’t imagine my life any other way. You lit a different path for me, one I much prefer. You’re my Firefly, so it’s not stupid. Not to me.”
Deafening silence meets my declaration, and I swallow my nerves at how needy I just sounded. My attempt to break through her despondence likely having backfired.
Glancing over to check her reaction, I watch her mismatched eyes widen, tears filling them.
“What?”
Swallowing, she shakes her head. “Nothing.” Eyes falling down, she thumbs at the firefly bracelet I gave her only hours ago. The glass insects glow faintly in the dim light of my car. I remain silent,
leaving her to her private thoughts, knowing if she wants to talk about it, she will.
“Fuck, I hope your dad is asleep,” I tell her, eager to change the subject to something lighter. “He’ll kick my fucking ass if he sees you in this state. He’ll try and ban us from hanging out.”
A soft bark of laughter hits my ears and I smile. “Remember that time we fell asleep in your bed watching Gatsby and he flipped.” I laugh to myself. “I thought he was gonna castrate me. Then you started yelling at him that you were a virgin, he went the color of a tomato.” Her soft giggle joins mine. “Then you told him I was gay.”
I look over at her, pleased that I’d managed to rid that look of sadness cloaking her.
“I think he still believes that.”
“Uh, yeah,” I snap jovially. “It’s the only reason he lets me crash at your place. He pats my shoulder awkwardly when he sees me too, like he thinks I’m gonna jump his bones.”
“Well,” she laughs, “he is handsome.”
Pulling into her driveway, relief courses over me, the house cast in darkness. “They’re asleep.”
She nods clumsily, her head moving too energetically for the moment.
“I’ll walk you inside.”
“You don’t have to.”
I’m out of the car before she can say anything further and we walk along the path in a silence I’m not used to. It’s heavy, a weight of expectation like dead air. I don’t understand it. The quiet has never been a dangerous place for us to be. But here, it feels like a hanging ax, ready to swing, cutting everything we knew at the throat.
I trudge up the stairs behind her, a small flame of anxiety burning in the center of my chest.
I watch her drop to her bed, sitting on the side to kick off her shoes. “You’re being awfully quiet,” I observe, moving farther into her room.
“Am I?”
Sitting beside her, I grab her hand. “What have I done? I’ve clearly pissed you off. Was it the dancing thing? Because—”
“It’s not that,” she cuts me off.