The Risks We Take

by Barbara C. Doyle

  But clearly it’s contagious, because he ends up joining me.

  “You’re an everyday Dr. Phil, aren’t you?” I muse, wiping tears off my cheeks.

  “All that training I went through in college and the academy I guess.”

  I finally stop laughing, and catch my breath. “You think it’s good to let people in?”

  “I’m just saying that I believe in second chances.”

  “Even if they hurt you the first time?”

  He nods. “Even then.”

  I think about it, playing with the end of the blanket. Everybody told me that I didn’t need my father in my life, especially after he left. I think they told me that because they knew he wasn’t coming back. Even the possibility of him showing up changes that—gives me choices that I can start choosing from when I never thought I could.

  Everybody has choices.

  Ian’s words keep bouncing around in my skull.

  I wonder if Jake considers Ian to be part of that. If he thinks I should forgive my father because he hurt me, then maybe he thinks I should forgive Ian, too. Or maybe he’s just trying to get his Dr. Phil fix in, and he’s giving me general advice.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I agree quietly, when the silence becomes too much. “I guess we’ll have to see what happens. Maybe he won’t even be found or show up. Then everything will just be … back to normal.”

  Or will it?

  He pats my shin. “Maybe, Kasey. Maybe.”

  But we both know that it won’t be, no matter how much we want it to.

  IAN

  The notes on my music sheet start to take form, and something inside of me begins to lighten as I strum the chords to the beat. A smile bends the corners of my lips up as my eyes travel along the lines.

  My notebook lays open next to me with lyrics, the red lines crossed across some of the words. Seeing the revisions makes me smile wider, because I know the process wasn’t easy to get to, but it was worth it.

  Twelve years is a long time

  To move on when I said good-bye

  It should have never been that way

  But the past will never change

  Don’t you wonder what we’d be?

  If we unpacked just to never leave?

  Do you think we’d be okay?

  Would we ever be the same?

  We could ask questions

  Or we could move on

  We could make suggestions

  Or we could prove them wrong

  Chorus

  It’ll never be easy, and it’ll never be right

  If we pretend all day, just to fight all night

  And if this is real, but we never say

  Then we’re wasting all the choices that we make.

  Because when it’s just us, and the memories fade,

  We’re only left with the risks we take

  Yeah let me be the risk you take

  I put my guitar down on the couch and stood, stretching my tired limbs. Since eight this morning I’ve been working on new music. Maybe it’s because none of the guys have reached out to me in days, but I’ve been able to get work done without any pressure. There’s no one pushing me to write something new, no questions about why I haven’t been able to.

  After our ice cream escapade, Kasey became withdrawn again. I wanted to believe that we were working things out. Even the almost kiss—because I can do way better than that—should have meant something. There’s no way I’m the only one who felt something, and if Pop hadn’t stopped us, I could have shown her exactly what it meant.

  But Kasey doesn’t seem like the type to do that, to just move on. She doesn’t understand that staying in the past only hurts more unless we let go of what’s holding us there.

  Clearly, I need to stop watching so much daytime TV.

  Just as I pour myself a glass of water, my phone starts going off in the bedroom. I know without walking over who it is, because I can’t go more than three days without being bothered by somebody in the band.

  At least I have something worth talking about now.

  I am surprised to see Bash’s name on the screen instead of Dylan’s.

  “You see the article?” he asks as soon as I pick up.

  “Uh …”

  He sighs. “Dylan was going off about it all morning, but I told him it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, we dispelled the other rumors. Or, Tess did with the tour promotion. We can easily dispel these.”

  I curse. “What rumors are going around now?”

  “Dude, check TMZ.”

  I walk over to my laptop and type in the website. As soon as it loads, a string of curse words fly out of my mouth.

  “Yeah,” Bash says quietly. “That’s about what we said.”

  I stare at the picture of Kasey laying on top of me at Pop’s, both of us a mess from the food fight we were in. There are witness accounts of it, which is odd considering I didn’t see anybody there. Not to mention there’s a quote from an Abigail Wright, a cashier at the local Stop ’n Shop, that confirms the relationship between me and Kasey, and they used her name in the article.

  “Listen, if you’re dating her, then fine,” Bash begins, his voice more level than Dylan’s would be if we were having this conversation. “But if that’s the case, then the other speculation would be pretty bad. Although, we could spin it. There’s always a way to do that.”

  I scroll down to see what he’s talking about, and I see red.

  They’re accusing Kasey of cheating on me with Jake. There’s a picture of them sitting at some event in town, getting cozy on a picnic blanket. Although he’s not named in the article, there are plenty choice words used to describe her.

  I slam my laptop shut. “Get the damn article down.”

  “It’s viral,” he admits.

  “Who the fuck cares? Kasey can’t be called a whore or a homewrecker like that. We’re not even dating.”

  “I get that people make shit up all the time about us, but there’s always something that leads to it.”

  “Everybody thought the band was breaking up, and that didn’t happen.”

  “But you leaving to another state made them think that.”

  “So it’s my fault?” I ground out.

  “I’m not saying that, Ian. Calm down.”

  “You might as well have!” I start pacing around the apartment, raking my hand through my unkempt hair. “Shit, it’s not far off from the truth. I’m the one who came here to seek her out. I’m the one who told the fucking cashier she’s my girlfriend.”

  “You what?” a new voice blasts in the backroom.

  “Am I on speakerphone?”

  “Uh, sorry man. The guys are all here. I told Dylan to pipe down until I could break the news to you first. We’re going to be level-headed about this.” The last part sounds like a warning, probably to Dylan.

  “So you are dating her?” Dylan demands, his voice anything but level.

  Bash sighs. “Don’t be an ass, dude.”

  “I’m not dating her. I lied to the girl. I didn’t think—”

  “Exactly!” Dylan yells. “You were always the one who told us not to feed into people, because anybody could get juice from something so little. Telling somebody that you’re dating a girl is just handing them a story, especially someone like you.”

  Someone like me. Does it matter that I don’t know who that is anymore? Thanks to the press, the paparazzi, and the tabloids, I lost my identity. Everybody who claims they know the real Ian Wells only knows the version of me that they want to exist. The playboy. The heartthrob. The front man to a kickass band. But the real me? I wasn’t sure he existed anymore.

  Ben speaks up now. “It’s not like people are accusing him of being into drugs or in rehab. So what if he’s dating somebody? Real or not, there is worse press to have.”

  “I don’t care what they say about me,” I seethe. “They’re talking shit about an innocent girl.”

  “She’s not innocent if she’s involved with you,�
�� Bash says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he tries to explain. “I’m just saying that being tied to you in anyway means that she can get just as much bad press as us. She’s not just some innocent bystander caught up in your life. She’s part of it.”

  “But she’s not in my life.” I hated admitting it, but it wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Those pictures say otherwise.”

  “We were getting ice cream.”

  Dylan snorts. “I’ve been getting ice cream wrong for years now if that’s what it’s supposed to look like.”

  “Shut up,” I growl.

  “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

  “Really?” I bark back. “You’ve had a stick up your ass for weeks now, and you’re coming after me? At least I have an excuse to be pissed! Somebody I care about it being blasted as a slut on social media. What’s your deal?”

  I’m met by silence.

  “Yeah,” I scoff. “That’s what I thought.” Dylan and I rarely have fights, but when we do, they’re never pretty. It comes with our friendship being publicized, because no matter how good the fame is for the bank account, it’s bad in every other personal department. It changes people. And I won’t have him play the hypocritical asshole and be the only one who’s allowed to have a bad day. Hell, a bad week.

  Bash plays mediator. “We all need to take a deep breath here. Tom is on the media situation, working to get the main article removed. He thinks it’s best if you make a statement about it, either confirming or denying the relationship claims. Ben’s right, this is nothing compared to what they do to some bands, so it’ll be easy to clear up.”

  “For me,” I point out. “Not for Kasey.”

  “And we’ll be sure to clear her name in whatever statement you make.”

  He says that as if I can choose which one to make, instead of being honest.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I accuse.

  “Well …” There’s a pause. “Tom thinks that you can play the heartbroken angle, and it might boost sales. You know, get the girls to sympathize you. Cheating happens, and it definitely doesn’t look good in those pictures. We could work it.”

  Was he fucking kidding me? “And ruin her reputation? Are you insane?”

  “I’m not the one who came up with the idea,” he reminds me.

  “But you’re telling me like it’s an option.”

  “You have plenty of options,” is all he says.

  “Kasey will not go down just because she knows me. She’s going through her own shit.”

  “I hate to bring this up, but you do realize her name is out there now. Even if we dispel the rumors and the article is taken down, a lot of people have already read it. The views on the article are too high to pretend like nobody has seen it. You’re Ian Wells, and she’s some mystery girl who isn’t such a mystery anymore. It was like a mystery that they couldn’t wait to unwrap.”

  I sit down on the edge of the couch, rubbing my stubbly chin. I can only imagine what Kasey must think of me right now. As if she didn’t have a reason to hate me before, I’m practically handing her one on a golden platter.

  “I’m screwed,” I groan into the phone.

  “You’re not,” Bash assures me.

  “Your little friend is,” Dylan chirps.

  There’s a slapping noise, and name calling, then cursing.

  “Sorry,” Dylan grumbles unapologetically.

  “We’re going to figure this out,” Bash promises. “But Tom might ask what shit show Kasey is in. If it’s bad, if in any way it can put you down, then …”

  Typical. The pros of the job outweigh the cons by a long haul, but it doesn’t make the cons suck any less. Like when our manager is so worried about our reputations, he’s willing to ruin somebody else’s. Or how Kasey’s situation can be damaging to me in the long run, when it shouldn’t be focused on me at all.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about being in this business, it’s that you’re no longer seen as a human once you make it. You’re an object. A number. An award. You have a name, but that name belongs to everybody but you.

  “Let me ask you something, Sebastian,” I prod in a low tone. “If this were Opal, what would you say? What would you do? She has her own past that not a lot of people know about, and it’s been locked up tight and tied with a pretty fucking bow. What if that comes undone? What then?”

  He doesn’t answer right away. Bash is a good guy, and he means well. He’s always the mediator of the band. It’s why our manager loves him the most, because he causes less trouble.

  But I know just as well as the guys do, that the day Opal is brought into our lifestyle the way Kasey is, he’ll stop at nothing to make it right.

  “I get your point, Ian,” he succumbs quietly. “And I’m going to help both you and her if I can. But you have to acknowledge that I’m also right. She’s in this now, and her name is known, and people are going to say whatever they want because they can. It’s not fair, but it’s our reality.”

  Our reality.

  Our reality is full of fake people trying to build themselves from our name. Whether it’s journalists looking for the next big scoop to earn a few extra bucks, or somebody hoping to find the secret that will put them at the top.

  And who ends up at the bottom every time?

  We do. The artists. The dreamers. The people who work their asses off to get where they are. People like me. Like Bash, Ben, and Dylan.

  But who’s really at the bottom this time? Kasey. And I’ll be damned if I let her stay there to be eaten by the wolves.

  Some hours later, I walk out the door to see a crowd forming outside the building. Based on the cameras I have a pretty good guess as to who they are and why they’re here. The leeches have been camped out since early this morning, and I know I can’t avoid them forever.

  As soon as I step out, the crowd buzzes. Cameras flash, noise raises, and my name becomes their favorite word.

  “Ian! Over here!”

  “Ian Wells! Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “Care to explain the rumors?”

  “Is she the reason you’re here?”

  “What about the man she was pictured with?”

  The questions bend together and echo in stereo. I take about half a second to figure out my two options are running back inside and hiding out, or making a run for it like I planned to from the beginning. All I want to do is talk to Kasey, but all the time I spent knocking at her door this morning with no answer told me she wasn’t home. Or that she is avoiding me.

  The only place she’d be is at work, and I can only pray that nobody knows that bit of info yet. The problem is, it’s only a matter of time before they do. I need to get to her before that happens.

  Knowing that my only option is going back in and taking the back entrance out without being seen, I retreat. Once the coast is clear, I start going down the back way to the diner, that hopefully nobody has discovered who isn’t from around the area.

  I pull out my phone and dial Eric and Danny, but get no answer. Silently swearing at myself for letting them go despite the band being against it, I call the only person I can think of next.

  “What?” Dylan greets irritably.

  “I need your help,” I say, looking behind me to make sure I’m not being followed.

  “What did you do?”

  I roll my eyes. “I didn’t do anything. The article has caused reporters to come here, and they’re camping out in front of my apartment building.”

  There’s a pause. “And you want me to do what, exactly?”

  “Has Tom come up with a plan? A press release?”

  It’s been over four hours. That’s plenty of time to come up with something.

  “He’s figuring it out.”

  I don’t ignore how cold his answer is, and it only makes the anger inside me boil. “You might want to pull out whatever crawled up your ass and died, because it’s seriously spoiling
your wonderful personality.”

  “Don’t be an ass just because you got yourself into a shit storm.”

  I stop walking, hiding behind a dumpster with less than appealing scents coming from it, for cover. “I’m the ass? Are we really doing this again? All of us have noticed you acting out, and we’re worried. Why? Because we care about you. We’re friends. Shit, man. You’re my best friend, if you want to get sappy. So excuse me if I want to know what’s going on with you, and heaven fucking forbid that I ask for your help. How many times have I gotten your ass out of trouble in the past?”

  Too many times, as far as I’m concerned.

  “I let Eric and Danny go because I didn’t think I needed them, and I know it was stupid. I had no clue I was going to ruin things. Honestly, I didn’t think the band was big enough here for people to care about this.”

  He scoffs. “And that’s the problem, Ian. You used to take the band by the horns and everything it encompassed. The parties. The press. The image. Shit, the girls. Then you changed when we came home this summer. It’s like the band isn’t what you want anymore. You’re so set on figuring out what the hell is missing from your life, you don’t see all the things you have.”

  There are voices coming in this direction, so I huddle closer to the wall.

  My voice is quieter. “I know what I have, and I appreciate it—”

  “You don’t,” he accuses. “You stopped caring as soon as we stepped foot into Clinton. Even before then you stopped going to parties, you stopped hooking up, and you stopped writing songs. Whatever is going on with you impacts us all, you know.”

  “Are you telling me that you’re pissed because I haven’t been one hundred and ten percent dedicated to the band? We’re on break for Christ’s sake. Excuse me if I wanted an actual break from what our manager wants. It’s tiring, Dylan. I’m tired. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be part of the band, or that I’m giving up what we worked for. It just means that I want to feel normal for a little while. To have what other people have.”