Unfaded

by Julie Johnson

  The last notes trail off.

  Our fingers go still.

  Our voices go quiet.

  A world away, I hear the audience screaming. I hear Eileen speaking. But we’re lost in each other, leaning in like two magnets. In his eyes, I see the life we never got to live. A little blue box in a bedside table. In my heart, I feel the sorrow of a million sleepless nights in my cold, empty bed.

  He’s right here — so close, I could reach out and touch him. And somehow, still a whole galaxy away.

  We’re over.

  We’re over.

  We’re over.

  Tears spring to my eyes, unbidden. Seeing them, Ryder’s face contorts into a mask of pain. He takes a step in my direction, an automatic reflex to seeing me hurt. Because even though things are still a mess between us — frozen and stilted and sharp-edged with loss — his first urge is to comfort me.

  Right now, just in this moment…

  I’m feeling off-balance enough to let him.

  When Eileen appears abruptly in the space between us, breaking our eye contact, reality comes crashing down with the force of a sledgehammer.

  “That was divine! Absolutely amazing!” She’s beaming so bright, it’s practically blinding. “God, that song has me reaching for the tissues every time I hear these two sing it. How ‘bout you guys?”

  The deafening applause is answer enough.

  The cameras pan closer. I force a happy smile, pushing thoughts of Ryder out of my head.

  Remember how it burned, last time you got too close.

  “Well, folks, I’m afraid we’ve got to say goodbye! Ryder and Felicity, it’s been absolutely wonderful having you here with us. Best of luck on your tour and please — don’t be strangers!”

  “Thanks for having us, Eileen. It was so much fun.”

  The lie is heavy on my tongue… but not quite as heavy as my heart as we turn and leave the stage lights behind.

  Francesca is waiting in the wings. She launches into analysis-mode before we can take so much as a steadying breath, describing our performance with hawkish attention to detail.

  “Felicity, you need to work on your eye contact with the crowd.” She starts walking down a narrow hall, and we trail mutely in her wake. “Ryder, don’t cut off the host’s line of questioning next time — if they feel belittled or disrespected, they’ll stop inviting you for segments.”

  Neither of us says a word, but that doesn’t deter her from listing her many criticisms. I do my best to tune her out as we turn left, heading toward a side exit. Glancing around for my guitar, I see a mammoth man dressed in all black carrying it a few paces behind us. The case looks like a fragile toy in his hands as he follows us down the hall. My eyes widen a shade when two additional hulks with shaved heads close ranks on either side. They cut rather intimidating figures with their muscular arms, macho expressions, and matching translucent security comms in their ears. It’s easy to imagine they’ve just stepped off the set of the CIA thriller being filmed one lot over.

  “Don’t mind them.” Francesca’s tone is perfunctory. “Merely your new security detail. They’ll be with you from this point on, for the remainder of the tour.”

  “Do they have names?” I ask, brows lifting as my head swings between the men.

  Three grunts volley back in quick succession.

  “Smith.”

  “York.”

  “Linden.”

  Ryder snorts under his breath. “Does the A-Team know about you three?”

  “Ignore him,” I say weakly, trying out a smile. “I’m Felicity.”

  The security guards stare at me blankly. Three mountains with empty eyes.

  Okay, then.

  My confusion over their sudden appearance evaporates as soon as we step through the exit. A wave of paparazzi surges forward the second they catch sight of us, almost rabid as they fire questions and snap photographs. I lift a hand to shield my eyes from the bombardment of flashes.

  Felicity! Miss Wilde, look this way!

  What’s it like to be back together?

  Ryder! Over here!

  Do you have a comment about your time apart?

  Is Wildwood making another album?

  Mr. Woods, are you still on the wagon?

  They swarm like flies on honey, fueled by desperation after our long media hiatus. Ryder steps closer to me, shielding my body with his. I can feel his breaths stirring the hair at my neck, his chest brushing against my spine with each step — it’s nearly enough to make me forget about the screaming mob of press.

  I keep my focus on the back of Francesca’s auburn head as we shove our way down the steps and across the sidewalk. Smith, York, and Linden do their best to keep the reporters back, holding a stiff perimeter of space around us as we slide into the waiting SUV, where yet another security hunk is sitting behind the wheel.

  “Stevens,” he grunts, when I ask his name.

  His compadres have disappeared into a matching SUV that trails us like a shadow as we peel out of the lot, away from the mob. I sit back against my seat with a rattled sigh. Francesca warned me the press were hungry for the Wildwood story, but I never imagined it would be this much of a circus. There must’ve been a hundred of them snapping pictures of us. Maybe more.

  From the front seat, Francesca shoots me an I-told-you-so look before pulling out her phone and checking her email. In the bucket seat beside mine, Ryder stares out his tinted window, seemingly lost in thought. His jaw is clenched tight, the vein in his jugular pounding rhythmically. I want to reach out to him, to take his hand in mine and thank him for being my protector — from the paparazzi, from Eileen’s probing questions. But memories of the expression on his face when we sang together stop me in my tracks.

  Sheer, unadulterated longing… and something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on that made my heart lurch inside my chest.

  It was just… a moment, I try to convince myself. Don’t make it more than that. Don’t forget that in four months, you’ll be gone and he’ll be a stranger again.

  We drive back to Route 66 in total, unrelenting quiet. Francesca leaves the two of us at the bank of elevators. When we’re finally alone, enclosed in the small ascending box, I wait for him to shatter the silence. But Ryder doesn’t say a single word to me. Not even a goodbye when he departs onto the seventh floor, stalking down the hall without once glancing back.

  Alone, I stare up at the ceiling, blinking back tears and cursing the conflicted heart beating rapidly inside my chest.

  Time shifts into fast-forward as our weeks before the tour dwindle to days, then hours. Our rehearsals have moved upstairs from the soundproofed ground-level rooms to the auditorium on the third floor, where we can get a better handle on the acoustics of a real stage and sort out any remaining kinks in our performance. It was only last night, on the eve of our debut, that Francesca — who’s been monitoring our progress with meticulous notes since our very first rehearsal — finally declared us ready to play for actual audiences, instead of the Route 66 employees she routinely harangues into listening.

  Just in time, too. Six hours from now, we’ll be at the Rose Bowl, playing for ninety-thousand people.

  Ninety. Fudging. Thousand.

  The number is far too large to wrap my head around. When I agreed to do this tour, I figured we’d spend most nights playing to a half-stacked house — that they’d have to bring in fake walls to block off the unfilled sections of our stadiums.

  If only.

  The day our Eileen Show interview aired, our fans crashed the Route 66 website in a mad rush to buy tickets. The tour now is sold out in almost every city, from Tucson to Tampa. Lincoln, who’s been tracking the surging re-sale prices with glee, informed us last night that premium seats are currently going for four, five, even six times their initial value.

  In a word: insanity.

  Between press appearances and nonstop rehearsals, there hasn’t been much down time to do anything but crash into my bed each nig
ht, too tired even to dream. I know things are only going to get busier, with the tour officially underway, but at least the interviews are over.

  Since we appeared on The Eileen Show, Ryder and I have done three more daytime television sit-downs — following the same script almost to the word. In front of the adoring audiences, he’s his old self: undeniably charming and endlessly confidant. But each time we return to Route 66, he seems just a bit more distant.

  There’s a wall between us that wasn’t there before, graffitied with the words JUST FRIENDS in permanent spray-paint. The only time I see a spark of life in those mismatched eyes is when they’re burning into mine while we sing together. It flames out into darkness the moment our fingers leave the strings and the lyrics taper off beneath the rattle of applause.

  Last night, he barely spoke to me at all when we wrapped up our final rehearsal, agreeing to meet at the venue this afternoon. I had to bite my lip to keep from asking if he wanted to ride over together.

  This is what you wanted, I tell myself so many times, it loses all meaning.

  An hour before we’re set to show up for soundcheck, I’m pacing treads in my carpet, too nervous to stay still. My packed suitcase sits by the door, ready to be whisked onto the tour bus by one of Francesca’s minions after tonight’s show. I glance around at the penthouse I’ve called home for the past three weeks, already dreading the loss of my private refuge.

  Starting tonight, there’ll be no place to escape to if I need to pull myself together. Personal space on a cramped sleeper coach is pretty much nonexistent.

  The knock at my door makes my feet falter and my mind blank.

  I’m not expecting anyone.

  I walk to it, heart in my throat. Full of hope, against all logic, as my hands close on the knob and I pull open the panel…

  “Eeeeeek!” With a roar of delight, Carly careens across the threshold. Her suitcase clatters to the floor as she practically tackles me in a hug. Her arms are so tight I can’t breathe.

  “You came,” I manage to wheeze, hardly believing it. “You actually came.”

  “Of course I came, you idiot! Isn’t that why you sent me that plane ticket and asked me to tag along on this tour of yours?”

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t think you’d actually drop everything to come.”

  “Think again! You needed a lifeline, and I wasn’t about to turn down a free trip… or a chance to see my best friend again.” She releases her crushing hold, but only so she can glare at me properly. “You know, a head’s up about you coming back from the dead would’ve been nice. Last I heard, you were still hiding out on Cape Cod like some tragic heroine in a Bronte novel, wailing at the wind and moaning at the moors and heaving your bosom at the ill-crossed stars.”

  I scowl. “I was not moaning! There was no wailing! And I most certainly was not doing anything with my bosom that could be described as heaving!”

  She shoots me a dubious look.

  “For the record, the Cape doesn’t even have moors.” My chin jerks haughtily as I walk into the kitchen area and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “And even if I have turned into some lame, lovelorn Cathy knockoff — can you blame me? You know what happened.”

  “Actually, I only know what you’ve told me in your letters — which is very little,” she says, following me over. “If you’d get a cellphone, like a normal person…”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” I hop up on the countertop, swinging my legs as I sip my water. “And don’t pretend you don’t know exactly why I had to leave.”

  She looks at me long and hard. “I know why you think you had to leave.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  With a sigh, she leans back against the opposite counter and runs her hands through her platinum blonde hair. “You got scared. You ran. I get it — Hell, I probably would’ve reacted identically, if I were in your position.”

  “I sense a but coming.”

  “No buts. Just a friend pointing out that running away from something and being over it aren’t exactly the same thing.”

  “Meaning…”

  “Meaning you’re not over it.” She pauses. “Not over him.”

  My heart is suddenly pounding. “Of course I’m over him. It’s been two years. He’s not the same person I fell in love with. I’m not the girl he used to know. We’re friends. Nothing more.”

  “I saw the Eileen interview. I saw you sing together.”

  “So?”

  “People who look at each other the way you two do while making music… let’s just say, it’s apparent they want to be making something else together. Naked. All night long.”

  “Carly!” I set down my water bottle with a bang. “It’s called acting.”

  “It’s called passion,” she corrects lowly. “It’s called longing. As a certified Bronte heroine, I’d think you’d recognize it when it fell into your lap.”

  I cling stubbornly to my silence.

  “Felicity. It’s me, here — not a reporter, not your manager, not one of your fans or bandmates or crazy relatives. Me.” Her head tilts. “If you can’t be honest with your best friend about what you’re going through… who the hell can you be honest with?”

  “Okay! Okay.” Groaning, I drop my face into my hands. “You’re right. You’re right and I’m… I’m miserable. Is that what you want to hear?”

  “No. That’s the opposite of what I want for you.”

  “God, this is such a mess!”

  “What is?”

  “Everything! This tour. Seeing him. My whole life.” I shake my head. “I knew coming back here was going to be hell, but it’s so much harder than I ever could’ve imagined, Carly.”

  “I know, honey.”

  I blow out a frustrated breath. “So, you saw the interview, huh? How bad was it? I’ve been avoiding television screens. The press have been relentless, these past few days.”

  “It wasn’t bad, honestly. In fact it was better than— Never mind.”

  My brows lift. “Better than what?”

  “You probably don’t want to hear this.”

  “Just spit it out, Carly.” My heart starts to pound. “Did they dig into my past? Did they find out about…”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Her eyes flash with sympathy. “Everything has actually been really positive. The public adores you.”

  “There’s that looming but again…”

  She rolls her eyes. “But… there’s been some online backlash about you and Ryder not being together anymore.”

  “What kind of backlash?”

  “People seem to think you broke his heart and drove him to drugs, two years ago.” She winces, preparing for my reaction.

  “They what?” I exclaim, outraged. “That’s the exact opposite of what happened! If anyone’s heart got broken, it was mine!”

  “Well, in the court of public opinion, there are some differing views on that topic.”

  “I thought you said they loved me!”

  “Yeah… well… not as much as they love you with him.”

  I laugh, but the sound holds no joy. “I’m never going to escape him, am I?”

  “Afraid not. Your love story is a point of fascination for the whole country.”

  “Our love story? There is no love story. Not anymore.”

  “Not according to recent Twitter trends.” She grins. “I’d say #Wildwood is more popular than ever.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Because, now you two are tortured.”

  “The only thing that’s tortured is the turn this conversation just took,” I grumble. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Could you be any deeper in denial? Damn, I got here just in time…”

  “I’m not in denial!”

  “Uh huh. You really want to know why people are so invested in you and Ryder?”

  “You’re going to tell me regardless, aren’t you?”

  She acts as if she hasn’t heard me. “
What makes Carrie and Mr. Big so great? Or Logan and Veronica? Chuck and Blair? Violet and Beck? Derek and Meredith? Hell, even Ross and Rachel?”

  “Um… they’re all fictional?”

  “No. They’re tortured.” She heaves another sigh. “There’s nothing the masses love more than a couple that can’t be together, for whatever reason. It’s human nature — we root for the things that won’t happen. Agonize over the one-in-a-million chances. Cross our fingers and wish, against all odds, that the two people least likely to fall in love and work things out will do just that.”

  “Just because Ryder and I share a complicated romantic history doesn’t mean we’re destined to wind up together.”

  “That may be how you see it, but it’s not going to change how the public sees it. The truth is, no one wants to watch the simple love stories play out; no one cares about the ones that come easy.” Her eyes light with the passion of a devoted fan watching her favorite soap opera. “We want the struggle. The hardship. The burning glances and simmering sexual tension. The explosive potential of something that, in all likelihood, will never happen… because, on the off chance that it does…” She can’t entirely hide her grin. “It brings the roof down.”

  “This is my life, not some scripted sitcom,” I point out. “I’m a real person. So is he. With real problems and issues.”

  “Like it or not, you’re a celebrity — to the majority of the world, you might as well be a fictional character. The Felicity Wilde the media portrays is the only one most people will ever get to see. They’re writing the script without you.” She pauses. “But you already know all that. You’ve done this before.”

  My eyes press closed. “I guess I was hoping things would be different this time around.”

  “Honey — with you and Ryder, things will never be different. The world loved you when you were eighteen, a viral sensation head-over-heels in the epitome of puppy love. Now that you’re separated by seemingly insurmountable obstacles… They adore you all the more.”

  “Seemingly insurmountable?”

  “Caught that, did you?” She laughs. “Tell me honestly — why are you up here alone, instead of fixing things with a man who clearly still thinks the sun rises and sets on your command?”