by Jen Wilde
My jaw drops. “Will. Wait, Will? Like, Will?”
“Shh!” he says, even though I was practically whispering. “Yes. Will. Tall, nerdy, and handsome Will. TV star Will. Beefcake Will.”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve known Ryan for years, we’ve shared classrooms and tour buses and hotel rooms and stadium stages together, and yet I’ve only ever seen him date girls.
“You’re not saying anything,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
“I—” I start, then grin. “That’s awesome, Ry! Sorry, I’m just surprised. But yay! I love Will. He’s a babe!”
He blushes again. “Yeah, he is.”
“So,” I say. “Are you bi? Or pan? Or you’re not labelling it? Sorry, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. I’m just excited.”
He thinks for a moment, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m still figuring that out. I mean, you think you’re surprised, but it really surprised me. I’d never felt like this with a guy before. I thought I was totally, fully, one hundred percent straight. Until Hawaii.”
“Hawaii?”
He chuckles. “Yeah. We hooked up on the yacht. We’ve been low-key dating ever since.”
I laugh, thinking how funny it is that we both started secret, surprise flings, hiding in hallways on the yacht. I’m tempted to tell him about Alfie and I, but quickly decide against it. I don’t want him to freak out.
“Alfie and I have been wondering where you kept disappearing to,” I say instead, slapping his knee.
“Yeah, sorry,” he says.
I shake my head. “All good, man. Gotta follow your heart. Even when it leads you to unexpected places.”
“Thanks.” He looks away, then back at me. “I hope my parents are as happy for me as you are.”
“You don’t think they will be?”
He shrugs. “I think they will be. One of my cousins is gay and came out about five years ago. The family was shocked at first, and some of my relatives were real assholes about it.”
I slide closer, wanting to comfort him. “How did your parents react?”
“Well, they weren’t assholes. But they weren’t super supportive, either.” He’s quiet for a moment, then seems to shake himself out of it. “They seem cool with him now, though?”
He says it like it’s a question, then adds, “I want to tell them about Will, but I never, ever talk to them about dating anyone. It’s just too awkward.”
“But they know you’ve dated,” I say. “Even if you don’t tell them, they’d see it online and in magazines.”
Someone calls Ryan’s name and he waves back absentmindedly. “Yeah. They know, but we don’t actually talk about it. But I want to tell them before it gets leaked or something.”
I frown. “You shouldn’t have to come out before you’re ready though, dude.”
His shoulders visibly relax. “I’m in the general vicinity of ready. I’m just not one hundred percent there yet.” He smiles, and so do I.
“You’ve got time,” I say. “And if you tell them and it doesn’t go the way you want it to go, I’m here. We’re family, Ry.”
I give him a big hug, and then we sit in the booth arm in arm for a few minutes, people-watching. I spot Sal floating from one corner of the room to the other, schmoozing people in her Wonder Woman costume. Alfie is waving his arms in the air as he talks to his model friends, and they’re hanging on his every word.
“How does he do that?” I ask Ryan.
“Do what?”
“Look at him,” I point to Alfie. “He’s surrounded by some of the most beautiful people in the world, and they’re literally looking at him with stars in their eyes. They’re totally mesmerized by his spark. They love him.”
Ryan laughs. “He’s Alfie.” He shrugs as he says it, like that’s enough of an explanation.
I watch Alfie some more, smiling when he smiles, laughing when he laughs, even though I don’t know what he’s saying. And I realize I’m just like them. I’m looking at him with stars in my eyes. I’m totally mesmerized by his spark.
I love him.
Shit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“I gotta go,” I say to Ry. I spring up from the booth, my gaze darting around the room, looking for the nearest exit.
“You okay, Em?” he asks, concern all over his face.
I give him the most reassuring smile I can muster. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think I’m just gonna go, though.” I fake a yawn. “I’m super tired.”
He stands up. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Thanks.”
We walk through the crowd, and I steal a glance at Alfie again, testing myself. He locks eyes with me, and my heart stops. He smiles at me, and my knees grow weak. He waves, and suddenly I’m smiling. He keeps talking, and I keep walking. I need to get some air, collect my thoughts, straighten myself out, because something must be seriously off with me.
Just as Ryan and I walk out the door, Will walks in wearing a Thor costume. I feel Ryan stop breathing.
“Hey, you two!” Will says, flashing his trademark smile.
“Hi,” Ryan says, his eyes lighting up like fireworks. If I weren’t freaking the fuck out, I’d swoon.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Will asks, looking only at Ryan.
“I am,” I say. “Ryan was just being a gentleman and walking me out.” I turn to Ry and give him a hug. “Go get him,” I whisper in his ear, and he squeezes me tight.
“Bye!” I say, before leaving them to bask in each other’s cuteness.
Security hustles me past the cameras and into a car. I give the driver Chloe’s address and lean back, rolling down the window. I breathe in the night air, taking in this city and its awesomeness. Los Angeles on Halloween is perfect for when you need a distraction from your rebellious heart and imploding mind.
We pull up at a set of lights. The same set of lights where Jessie and I got into that accident.
“Hey!” someone calls from the car next to me. “Danny Zuko!”
I give them a casual chin nod and quickly roll the window up. I don’t want them to recognize me. Not here. I close my eyes until the car starts moving again. We pass Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, where people dressed as Buzz Lightyear and Zorro pose for photos with tourists for cash. All the famous names beneath their feet, engraved in stars. One day my name will be alongside them. I catch a glimpse of the Hollywood sign, peeking out between buildings and smog. I pull out my phone and take a picture for Snapchat, adding the caption: Happy Halloween, Hollywood xo.
It doesn’t take long for my worries to catch up with me, and I start beating myself up for letting myself feel the way I feel about Alfie. How could I let this happen? Why didn’t I see this coming? Alfie obviously is dealing with this better than I am. He was having a blast chatting up all those supermodels. He’s not stuck in traffic on Halloween, drenched in hairspray and self-pity.
By the time we reach Chloe’s house, I’m sick of my own thoughts. I walk into the dark, empty house, feeling tired and lonely and like my heart is betraying me in the worst possible way.
* * *
An hour later, I’m still awake. I can’t seem to turn my brain off. It’s strange being in Chloe’s house late at night by myself—every now and then I hear a sound, and my heart leaps into my throat.
As screwed up as it sounds, I need noise to sleep. I grew up in a house where music was blared until the early hours of the morning. My lullabies were shouting matches between my parents, chairs scraping along floors, and doors slamming. It was only ever quiet when they were both passed out or when my dad was stewing on something, getting angrier and angrier until he exploded. I’m used to the sounds of drunken bickering and beer cans opening, but here, in this big, dark, empty house, all I can hear is the sound of the pool filter bubbling downstairs.
The silence becomes too much, and I turn on the TV. Flicking channels, I find a horror movie marathon playing Charlie’s movie The Rising. I snap her a pic of me watching it, then check my feed t
o see if my friends are all still having fun without me. All their stories are filled with dancing and laughing and filters and posing with celebrities. I try not to be jealous. I try to remind myself that I made the best decision for me tonight. I did good.
I watch Alfie’s snaps, and I find myself smiling. And then I do what no one should ever do when they’re feeling sorry for themselves late at night: I turn to Google to find answers to my romantic life.
Is it bad to fall in love with your best friend?
How do you know if someone loves you back?
Do friends-to-lovers relationships work?
I read in-depth articles and top-ten lists, and I even take a quiz or two. After an hour of trying to turn the internet into my own personal Mirror of Erised, I give up. I know how I feel: I’m in love with Alfie Jones. So, basically, I’m screwed.
I rub my temples and groan. “Congratulations, Emmy. You played yourself.”
I hear a noise from outside and sit up. This place is too quiet. I wish Alfie were here with me. I go back into Snapchat and take a selfie of my face half hidden under the blanket. I caption it with: Can’t sleep, and send it to him.
I make myself close the app so I don’t send anything else, and try to focus on the movie. Charlie’s running through the streets, fighting gross zombies. My phone pings, and I see a notification saying Alfie replayed my snap. A second later, he sends me one back. I grin like an idiot as I open it. It’s a selfie of him pouting his lips, with one hand mussing up his hair. The red lighting of the club makes him look like a devil even though he’s dressed as an angel. His caption reads: Miss me?
I obey my stupid, stupid heart and reply.
EM: Not even a little.
ALFIE: Liar.
I send back the wink emoji. I am having too much fun right now.
ALFIE: these cake pops are the best.
EM: RIGHT?! I had like ten of them.
ALFIE: guess what they brought out after you ditched.
EM: what???
ALFIE: unicorn cupcakes.
EM: DAMMIT FML.
He sends me a snap of him eating one. It even has a tiny edible horn.
EM: I regret everything.
ALFIE: want me to bring you some?
He sure knows the way to my heart. My stomach somersaults inside me. Go with Your Gut, Em. Go with your gut.
EM: Yes.
My heart feels three times its size, and I can’t wipe the smile from my face as I squeal into my pillow. Tingles run down the back of my neck. I calculate the minutes it will take for him to get here. A voice in my head tries to talk me out of this, but it’s drowned out by the thump-thump-thump in my chest.
I’m waiting at the door when he arrives, standing on my tiptoes to watch for his car through the window. He pulls into the driveway, jumps out of the car, and leaps up the steps to the door. I don’t even give him a chance to knock. He doesn’t even give me a chance to say hi. He scoops me up into his arms, kissing me hard.
“I really didn’t want to be alone in this house,” I say when he puts me down. “I’m not used to the quiet, and Chloe is still partying.” He takes my hand, and I lead him up the stairs. I realize how much I love the feel of his fingers linked with mine.
“I stole cupcakes for you,” he says, gesturing to his backpack.
Yep. I love him. “Thank you. You’ve saved me from a lifetime of regret.”
“I’d never be able to live with myself if I denied you delicious baked goods.”
“The Rising is on,” I add. “We can watch Charlie kick some undead ass while we overload on sugar.”
He chuckles. “Whatever you want.”
We go into my room and crawl into bed. He lays an arm out over my pillow for me to lie on, and I snuggle into his chest. I’m instantly reminded of all the nights I ran away to his house when I was a kid. Hearing him breathing, knowing he was there, was all I needed to feel safe. He hands me a cupcake, and I stare lovingly at it before devouring it.
Soon, my breathing begins to slow. My eyelids grow heavy. In my sleepy daze, one thought bubbles up from my chest and into my mind …
I’m in love with Alfie Jones.
We’re both asleep before the credits roll.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The next day, Chloe and I are driving through Los Angeles to our fave Sunday brunch spot. We’re being tailed by paparazzi, so Chloe takes a couple of wrong turns and circles around until we lose them. We’re stopped at a traffic light when I notice a newsstand on the corner, the shelves lined with at least five different magazines with me on the cover. But one of them makes my heart stop.
I clutch Chloe’s forearm, lost for words.
“Em?” they say. “What?”
“My parents” is all I can manage to spit out. I point to the newsstand. Chloe follows my line of sight, their eyes narrowing when they see it.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” they say as they quickly pull the car over to the curb. With shaking hands, I open the door and step out. As I walk over to the stand, everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion. This can’t be real. They couldn’t have done this.
On the cover of a tabloid magazine are my mom and dad, their faces sullen and sad. They’re on our couch at home, although the place looks much tidier than usual. Dad has his arm around Mom, and her head is resting on his shoulder. I’ve never once seen them embrace like that. And then there’s the headline:
EMMY KING’S PARENTS TELL ALL: HOW THEY TRIED TO SAVE THEIR DAUGHTER AND THEIR PLEAS FOR HER TO SEEK HELP
I reach out to take it off the shelf, but Chloe swats my hand away.
“Don’t do it, babe,” they say, holding my hand instead.
“I have to see what’s in it.” I tug my hand out of their grip and pick up the magazine, flipping it open to the four-page spread. “Oh, God,” I moan. I’m immediately hit with photos of my parents, hamming it up like the fame-seekers they are. Mom’s hair is perfectly styled into loose waves, and she’s wearing a beige turtleneck sweater that she probably borrowed from a friend. Dad is clean-shaven, his hair brushed back and his button-down shirt tucked into jeans. These people aren’t my parents. They’re cardboard cutouts, stand-ins, fakers who orchestrated this so that they look like the good guys. My parents are hard liquor, but the people smiling at me from these glossy pages are virgin cocktails.
Chloe shakes their head. “Those pull quotes are just plain wrong.”
I scan the paragraphs.
“We did the best we could, and it still wasn’t enough.”
“It kills me to see my baby girl like this.”
“She’s out of control.”
“I’m trying my best not to blame myself, but a mother always cares.”
Lies. All of it. Made-up stories about how they caught me doing drugs, how they begged me to go to rehab but I refused, how they’re worried I’m going to end up dead or in jail. But the biggest lie of all is them acting like they care.
I throw the magazine to the ground like the piece of trash it is.
“Don’t worry,” Chloe says to the guy behind the register. “She’ll pay for it.”
“Yeah.” I scoop up every copy into my arms. “I’ll pay for these, too.” Then I dump them all on the ground and stomp on them like the Hulk. I don’t even care how childish I look. I pull out my phone and FaceTime my mom. When she answers, I point the phone at the pile of pages on the sidewalk.
“This is what I think of your tell-all bullshit!” I scream, then stomp on the covers some more. People have started to stop on the street and watch. I don’t care.
Mom sighs through the phone. “Classic Emmy. Such a drama queen.”
“How could you?” I ask, finally stopping so I can yell at her. “How could you do that to me? There isn’t a shred of truth in any of it!”
Mom laughs. She actually fucking laughs. “You sound so shrill, darling.”
“Because you lied about me in a national magazine!” I scream.
“Of
course we lied,” she says casually. “They would never have paid so generously for the truth.”
My cheeks burn from anger. I feel like my head is going to explode. “Well,” I say, “I hope it was worth it, because I’m done. I’m never talking to either of you ever again.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard that before.”
“I mean it,” I say. “You’ve gained some fame, but you’ve lost your daughter. And I’ll make sure no magazine or TV show or freaking stranger on the street ever gives you a dime to lie about me again. I’m taking legal action. Get a fucking lawyer. And don’t ever contact me again.”
I end the call, then pay the cashier for the trampled magazines before picking them up and carrying them over to the nearest recycling bin. Chloe holds it open so I can stuff every copy into it.
“It’s not worth it. They’re not worth it.” Chlo says as they pull me into a hug, and I just want to stay in their arms forever. I know in my heart that Chloe’s right. Reading this trash is only going to break my heart even more.
A car screeches up to the curb behind us, and paparazzi leap out. Before I even know what’s happening, they’re blocking our way back to Chloe’s car.
“What kind of daughter abandons her parents?”
“Emmy, are you going to rehab?”
“Did you know your parents were doing a cover story?”
“Have you spoken to them today?”
“Sorry, folks,” I say bitterly. “You missed the show.” I point to the handful of people still filming me. “But those guys got it all. Make sure you pay them well.”
Chloe and I climb into the car and lock the doors. I lift my knees up to my chest and bury my head in my hands. I want to disappear. Chloe turns the car around and heads back the way we came, back to their house. It’s not safe for me to be outside today.
By the time we walk through Chloe’s front door, my rage has turned into defiance.
“How dare they?” I say as we sit on the daybed by their pool. Chloe is just as furious as I am.
“You should sue them,” they say as they slam their fist on the cushion. “They’re trying to profit off your fame. There’s got to be something you can do. This is defamation. Or slander. Or something. Right?”