Fame Adjacent

by Sarah Skilton

  “Could you show me a room and I’ll text her some pics?” I prompted, marching toward the elevator. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  He raced to catch up with me.

  “Mark.”

  I held back a laugh. Yes, he was.

  “We’d be happy to show you a room—” he began.

  “How about the penthouse?” In for a penny, in for a pound.

  As I passed Thom I brusquely snapped my fingers at him. His brow furrowed but he stood, trying to look like he wasn’t cradling his sore elbow.

  “My assistant,” I explained to the desk clerk.

  The three of us entered the elevator.

  “The penthouse is currently booked, but we can give you a tour of the conference rooms, swimming pool, spa, gym, and—”

  “A suite’s fine. I’d like to get settled first, and then I’ll have a look around.”

  I babbled intermittently as we rode the elevator, as though if I stopped talking for even a second the ruse would unfold and reveal itself. When the doors opened on the third floor and Mark exited, I stayed right where I was.

  “She prefers a view.”

  Surprised, he sheepishly pivoted and hit the button for floor eight.

  I nodded sharply.

  Thom turned away to hide his expression.

  We arrived at the room on the eighth floor, and Mark used his universal keycard to let us in.

  “I thought Melody was doing a Vegas residency,” he said. “My neighbor’s wife and daughter saw her last month. Said it cost an arm and a leg.”

  I regarded him coolly. “Her performances are legendary.”

  “Is the residency ending?”

  “Yes, it’s wrapping up soon,” I lied. “But she hasn’t announced the stadium tour yet, so if it leaks to the press, we’ll know where to look.”

  He seemed alarmed. “I should have my manager oversee this. You said you spoke with her last week?”

  I obviously didn’t like the sound of that. The fewer people we interacted with the better. I did my best to brush it off.

  “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you need to do.”

  “Why don’t you look around, and I’ll send down for your room keys and a key to the tenth-floor lounge.”

  He stepped into the hallway, propped the door open with his foot, and made a call.

  I pretended to do whatever it was an advance team member might do, like coast my palm along the bed’s thick, soft comforter, open the blinds to see the view, turn the faucets on and off in the cavernous bathroom, pick up the landline, and check out the mini fridge.

  It was the most expensive hotel room I’d been in since dating J. J., and I was determined to give it to Thom. It was the least I could do after partially causing his car to break down.

  The desk clerk shot me a smile while waiting for his boss to pick up. I smiled back, but not too wide. I was trying to look carefree with a side of expectant impatience.

  It was do-or-die time.

  Abruptly, he turned his back to us and spoke in low tones I couldn’t make out.

  Thom gripped my hand.

  “There’s no way this is going to work. We’re going to get arrested,” he whispered.

  “Worst-case scenario, I’ll pretend I mixed it up with a different hotel,” I assured him, equally quiet. “They can’t arrest us for being confused.”

  Having a backup plan seemed to calm him. “The Hilton Garden in East Harrisburg,” Thom said. “We can pretend we—” Then he paled. “What if it’s not there anymore?”

  I squeezed his hand. “No, that’s good. That’s perfect.”

  After what felt like an hour, the clerk faced us again, looking pleased. “I couldn’t get ahold of her—she’s in a meeting—but her assistant signed off on it, so, on behalf of the entire staff, thank you for choosing the Hilton. We’d like to send up complimentary room service, too. How’s one of everything? That way you can give a full report to Melody.”

  I forced down my giddiness. “Sure. Thanks for your help, Mark. Ring us if the luggage miraculously comes early?”

  After he left and I closed the door, Thom and I were silent, mutually petrified that if we whooped it up too soon, the whole thing would crash down around us.

  Eventually, he broke into a grin. “You Remington Steeled them.”

  “God Bless America for suckling at the teat of fame.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. We high-fived with his good arm, and he moved to the center of the room and slowly spun in a circle.

  “This place kicks ass. And you got us room service! You’re amazing.”

  “Aww, shucks. That’s the Tylenol talkin’. Cool if I take a shower? Or did you want first dibs?”

  “By all means. Go for it.”

  I undressed inside the bathroom and took the time to appreciate the intricately folded towels, handcrafted soaps, and mini bottles of rose-infused shampoo. Once the water heated up, I stepped inside the shower. I was light-headed from hunger, but with room service on the way, I’d be able to hold out fine. The steam opened the pores on my face, cleansing me and soothing me after the stress and activities of the day. There was a sweetness to the air, a sweetness to my situation right then, no matter how bizarre it all was.

  I unwrapped a complimentary razor and shaved my underarms, legs, and bikini line. I told myself it was because I wanted to feel attractive and confident for the anniversary tomorrow, and I might not have time to prep later.

  But it was also to show Thom another side of me. A softer side. (Literally.)

  Then I remembered what he’d said at the skate park. How as a kid he couldn’t resist showing off for a “pretty girl.” He’d thought I was pretty, before ever seeing me with makeup or a nice outfit or shaved legs.

  I savored every second of the shower, lathering my hair, closing my eyes, and allowing more happy laughter to bubble forth. We’d gotten away with it!

  I toweled off, re-dressed, and entered the main room.

  “All yours, Thom.” I squeezed out my wet hair and piled it into a bun.

  “Think I’ll soak my arm in the tub.” Thom moved into the bathroom and called back, “Any instructions I should know about?” Before I could answer, his voice rose even higher. “Seriously?”

  “What’s up?” I joined him in the bathroom, where he held up a bag.

  “They have Epsom salts. Are you freaking kidding me? Just sitting around for whoever needs them. I owe you.”

  I left to give him privacy, and a second later the bath jets fired up with a loud whoosh.

  I allowed myself another measure of pride. I’d done this for him. Silly old Holly Danner, taking care of her man.

  A man, I corrected myself. Not belonging to me.

  Half an hour later, refreshed, and wearing different clothes, Thom found me slumped deep in the armchair, zoned out in front of a game show on TV and biting one of my nails. I couldn’t help noticing the close shave he’d given himself after his bath. He was disarmingly handsome. I bet he smelled fantastic, too. He toweled off his hair, then balled up the towel and threw it back into the bathroom. I wanted to run my hands through the damp strands, lightly scratch his scalp with my nails.

  Breathe him in.

  Kiss him into next week.

  My gaze fell to his fresh shave again. What would he do if I reached out and tested its smoothness with my fingertips, or caressed it with the back of my knuckles? His skin was slightly pink and looked achingly soft.

  We stared at each other for a charged beat.

  Anything could have happened.

  “That’s twice today you’ve given me exactly what I needed,” Thom said. “Thank you.”

  His smile was genuine as he bridged the distance between us to give me a hug.

  My entire body relaxed into his. For a moment, every burden I’d been carrying was lifted as though I’d been transported to the beginning of the year, before I knew about the anniversary, back when my biggest issues were turning in freelance articles on
time and planning movie marathons with Lainey.

  I was right; he smelled amazing. I inhaled the subtle vanilla spice of his neck and wondered how his warm, damp skin would taste.

  “Tell me, Holly Danner. What is it that you need?” he murmured into my ear.

  A knock at the door cut through the sensual fog.

  Room service.

  I silently cursed the timing, but we were both starving—in more ways than one—and man cannot live on Original Flavor Tato Skins alone. Thom thanked the delivery person (was it my imagination, or did he sound a bit sarcastic?) and used his good arm to steer the overflowing tray into the room.

  The TV suddenly went loud with voices; the game show had finished, and the next program had started, an entertainment news show.

  The lead story was me.

  13

  My first kiss with J. J. was supposed to be during Spin the Bottle. It was a double-shoot day, and we’d broken for lunch while a fresh audience took their seats and the warm-up comedian excited them with trivia games and candy flung into the crowd. Brody wanted to liven things up backstage, so he chugged a bottle of Coke and sacrificed it to the game.

  When it was J. J.’s turn and the bottle landed on me, he refused to participate. He took off before he’d kissed me or anyone else. Tears instantly filled my eyes; eventually I felt Kelly’s hand on my back. We’d have to redo my makeup before we filmed the second half of the show.

  Now I’d been deemed unkissable in front of every important person in my life. J. J. was my best friend, the person I hung out with 24/7 and who lived with me six months out of the year, but maybe he never thought about me like that. Maybe he didn’t see me that way, or want to be with me. I’d been fantasizing that we’d get married when we were eighteen. (At the time, it seemed like the ideal age for marriage; it didn’t occur to me we wouldn’t be able to legally clink champagne glasses at our own reception.)

  But when I caught up with him in the darkened corridor of the soundstage, he was as tearful as I was. He told me he wanted our first kiss to be “just for us,” not anyone else, not anyone watching.

  And then he cupped my face gently with his palms, stared deeply into my eyes, and kissed me.

  Even our first kiss, which should’ve been playful, easy, and fun, had been tinged with pain. At the time, I loved that about it. About us. That we were fraught.

  Five years later, the ballad “Just 4 Us” debuted. It was OffBeat’s least successful single, peaking at 99 on the top 100 before disappearing forever. I was happy it tanked because that kept it more private, the way it was meant to be.

  (Also, it wasn’t a very good song.)

  14

  The ShowBiz Tonight hosts, one male and one female, weighed in on the topic du jour, which meant reliving the clip from last night’s Jerry Levine Show wherein J. J. gushed, “She was my first girlfriend. My first kiss. My first love.”

  The male host’s hair was at least six inches high. The female looked as though she’d been configured in a lab. Pert nose, heart-shaped face, blond hair so white it glowed, a tiny cleft chin. In a nod to the season, they both wore Easter-egg-pastel outfits: a pink-and-lavender-striped tie for him, a Peep-yellow blazer and matching skirt for her. Her skin was a deep golden tan, making her teeth compete with her hair for “most blinding.”

  I had to fixate on their appearances in order to process the fact that complete strangers were talking about me.

  At least with Reddit, where users were anonymous, I could control the conversation by ignoring questions I didn’t like. This chatter couldn’t be stopped.

  Tall-Hair Man attempted to set the scene. A shot of OffBeat’s final album cover—the guys all held different-colored balloons that matched their respective hoodies—accompanied his voice-over as the camera zoomed in on J. J.’s face. “For those who don’t remember, J. J. was ‘the quiet one,’ ‘the thoughtful one,’ ‘the shy one.’”

  “The stoned Christian one,” Thom added.

  I shot him a faux-stern look, but inside I was cracking up. Inside, I was pleased to be watching it with him, someone who knew the truth.

  “Famously single,” the blindingly blond female cohost added, “always yearning to find that special girl. Brody was with Melody, of course, and then her bandmate Tara…”

  “Quite the controversy at the time.”

  “It sure was! Alan was the playboy who had a new girl on his arm each week, and Bryan married and fathered six children once the band broke up. But J. J. was the hopeless romantic. Although currently linked to Jenae Billings, who choreographs the Break It Down movies, he was rarely photographed during OffBeat’s multiplatinum tour some eight years ago. He wasn’t a partier and avoided most social scenes. Now we know why! He did have someone. A childhood sweetheart.”

  A news ticker popped up next to a still photo from my high school yearbook. As though it were newsworthy. “The Cute One’s Cute One?” read the text.

  “Who keeps giving them yearbooks?” I cried.

  “And it sounds like he’s still pining for her,” Tall-Hair Man said slimily. “Twenty-five years is a long time to be on and off with someone.”

  “It sure is,” his counterpart replied.

  “How come there’s never truly a ‘bad boy’?” Thom wondered. It felt like he was deliberately interrupting the hosts. “‘The ex-con.’ ‘The car thief.’”

  “Are you questioning the bona fides of Donnie Wahlberg?”

  “Ever since Paul McCartney, aren’t they all ‘the cute one’? There’s never been a boy band with ugly boys. Never.”

  “And there’s never been a female solo artist who wasn’t glammed up.”

  “True.”

  We focused back on the TV.

  “Her castmates are all household names, but how has Holly Danner been spending her time since the show’s cancellation twenty years ago?”

  “Masturbation,” I shouted at the screen.

  Apparently, ShowBiz Tonight’s crack research team had managed to dredge up information on my life.

  “Looks like she was…” Tall-Hair Man consulted his notes. “…er, almost in Fowl Play, and then became a low-level copywriter whose work has appeared in a variety of national and local publications.”

  “Nice,” nodded his cohost, clearly lying. “Good for her.” The expression on her face betrayed her true feelings: Why are we talking about this woman?

  “Barely human, she roams from town to town, eking out an existence that would destroy most people,” Thom intoned.

  “I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers,” I added in my best Streetcar drawl.

  “Should we turn it off?” Thom said.

  “The question on everyone’s mind is: Will she be at the anniversary tomorrow, and will there be a romantic reunion between her and J. J.? He seemed to be sending her a message on The Jerry Levine Show last night,” the blond woman said, looking slightly intrigued by the possibility. Pretending to, at least. “Let’s check in with social media and see what people are saying.”

  “Must we?” I moaned.

  “A poll on Twitter wants to know, ‘What should J. J. and Holly’s couple-name be?’”

  A graphic popped up. Twelve percent had voted for “Hay-hay”…

  “‘Hay-hay’?” I repeated. “Like the chicken in Moana?”

  …with 88 percent for “Jolly.”

  “Look: ‘Jolly,’” Thom said tonelessly. “Nickname achievement unlocked, I guess.”

  He swallowed and studied his arm, gently flexing it and avoiding my gaze. The spark from our near-kiss had gone out. I wanted to make him smile again but I also felt an undeniable satisfaction from the TV program, from the public finally giving me something. You exist, they said. I always did, I reminded myself. But now millions of people knew it. Did it make me more real somehow? Or was it all pointless bullshit? Even now my own words, my entire side of the story, were nowhere to be found. Words were my refuge, my only source of power, and I hadn’t gotten a single one i
n.

  If the public had been invested in us as a couple years ago, would J. J. and I have stayed together? Succumbed to lovey-dovey pretenses, no matter what had gone on behind the scenes?

  The memory of our last fight still made my stomach clench, as though deflecting a punch.

  I tuned back in to hear the woman say, “Calls to her reps went unanswered as of airtime.”

  “That’s because I don’t have any. Fools!” I cackled, and glanced at Thom for his reaction. He remained closed off, eyes averted.

  “We caught up with Ethan Mallard an hour ago to see if he had the inside scoop.”

  Cut to: Ethan sauntering through Logan Airport in Boston, in skinny jeans and an ironic “grandpa”-type cardigan that fell to his knees. He was annoyed at being pursued. “Yeah, I don’t know if she’s coming. We haven’t spoken in years.”

  Gee, Ethan, you think my chances of attending might have gone up if you’d INVITED ME? It’s okay, it’s okay. The truth will come out tomorrow.

  “The event is sold out, but I hear scalpers on StubHub still have a few left in the five-figure price range.”

  “It’s a hot ticket, all right.”

  “All proceeds will go to GirlsWrite, a mentorship program for middle school and high school girls who have a passion for writing.”

  A feminist Ethan Mallard meme generated in my head: Hey girl. I may be immersing myself in Betty Friedan and bell hooks, but I still make time to help underserved young women learn to write.

  “I’ve reached my threshold,” I announced.

  Thom instantly killed the TV. “Was it weird seeing yourself talked about like that?”

  He always knew what to say.

  Damn. I’m going to miss that.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “It doesn’t seem real.”

  Was that how it had been for the others all these years? Not quite real? How did anyone live that way? Years of mean-spirited speculation, delivered with a Joker’s grin by strangers feigning “concern.” Constant scrutiny and unsolicited opinions on your every waking movement, starting at age sixteen. Before the internet it was, I imagine, slightly easier to handle. But most of them hit it big in the late ’90s, at the exact moment the internet rose up to devour us all. The trajectories of the two phenomena were intertwined.