Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  You scoot a little closer to Crispin and take his hand. He’s worked so hard to turn his life around, and you know he’s done it for you as well as for himself.

  He strokes your fingers. “You know, you’re all I thought about while I was in there. All I wanted to do was to get out to be with you again. You’re the reason I got through it, Honey. And for the first time in a long time I’m excited about life now, and what the future holds.” He pauses and smiles, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I want that future to be with you.”

  You feel a blush rise to your face as he leans in to kiss you, long and deep. “I love you, Honey.”

  You smile into his gorgeous eyes. “I love you, too.”

  All at once, Crispin springs from the booth and drops to one knee. You glance around to see whether anyone is watching, but blessedly everyone seems to be in their own little worlds.

  “Honey Noble, will you marry me?”

  You are caught totally off-guard and don’t know what to say.

  “Are you serious?”

  “More serious than I have ever been about anything in my life.” Suddenly everything around you jumps into acute focus. The bubbles slowly rising from the bottom of your champagne flute and popping gently as they reach the surface. The waxy vanilla and slightly sulfurous scent of the fat candle burning in the center of the table. The amplified beating of your heart, so loud you can hear the whoosh of blood pounding in your ears.

  You know that in this moment your life is about to change. You do love Crispin, but your relationship with this sober version of Crispin is still new. Still, you’ve gone through so much together and through it all Crispin has proven himself over and over to be the person you hoped he would be.

  Should you go with your head and give it more time, or go with your heart and say “yes”?

  To say no to Crispin, turn to page 172.

  To say yes to Crispin, keep reading.

  From page 219 (and continued from above) . . .

  A complete and sudden clarity enters your mind as you focus on Crispin, still on bended knee and gazing hopefully up at you.

  “Yes,” you tell him, “yes, yes, yes!”

  He jumps to his feet, pulls you to him, and kisses you for a long time, his hand on the nape of your neck.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says between kisses. “I don’t have a ring or anything—it just came over me. I can’t spend another minute not knowing you are mine. Forever.” He quickly slides his wallet from his pocket and places a neat stack of several hundred dollar bills on the table. “Come on.”

  “Wait, don’t you want to celebrate?” you ask, not sure why he’s in such a hurry to leave.

  “We can celebrate after,” he answers. “I want to marry you now.”

  “What? Tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” he takes both of your hands gently in his. “Here in Vegas. Tonight.”

  “But what about having our friends there? Our families?”

  “We can do it all again with everyone. I promise. But let’s do this just for us. There’s so little we get that’s just ours. What do you say?”

  “You mean not tell anyone?” You’re mostly concerned about Sasha and Freddie, who would certainly be hurt if they found out.

  “Not a soul,” Crispin assures you.

  “Okay.” You can’t believe you’re saying it, but for once in your life you are going to go follow your heart and see where it leads. “This is totally crazy, but okay.”

  Less than a half hour later, you are standing in front of a clerk signing your marriage license.

  “You made it just in time,” the elderly clerk tells you as you sign your name a little sloppily. “We were getting ready to close.”

  “Good timing, then, isn’t it?” Crispin snaps a selfie with the newly minted license. “For the album.”

  “Congratulations, kids,” the clerk says. “I wish you a lifetime of love and happiness.”

  “Thank you!” You beam, grateful that she clearly has no idea who either of you are.

  You take a taxi to a tiny white chapel just off the strip. YOLO Weddings seems appropriate. A beaming couple dressed in cut-offs, too lost in each other to even notice you, exits the chapel just as you enter.

  A tall man in a white suit greets you. Just beyond him, brightly colored stained-glass windows line the walls of the tiny chapel. Three rows of empty wooden pews flank each side of a scarlet-carpeted aisle.

  “Y’all here to tie the knot?” asks the man.

  “That we are,” answers Crispin, proudly holding up the marriage license.

  “Splendid,” says the man, barely glancing at the license. “Got all your ducks in a row.”

  A tiny woman in a long, lacy dress comes out of nowhere. A cloud of white hair floats around her head. “I’m Betty.” Her bright blue eyes sparkle from a nest of crow’s feet, “I’ll be your witness.” She produces an enormous, ancient-looking camera and aims it at you. “Smile!” she commands, and the camera flashes, momentarily blinding you. “We’ll print these out before you leave,” she promises. “Now, do you need rings or did you bring your own?”

  “I’m afraid all we have with us is ourselves and our license,” Crispin tells her.

  “Well then, let’s get you fixed up.”

  She leads you a jewelry case. There, behind the glass, sits an assortment of rings ranging from tastefully simple to simply gaudy.

  Crispin points to an elegant band.

  “Platinum,” Betty says. “You have excellent taste.” She slides the ring from the case and tries it on Crispin’s finger. “It’s a little big, but you can get it sized later. Important thing is to have it for the ceremony.” She sets the ring on the counter with a clink. “What about you, honey?”

  You glance up at her to see whether her face registers recognition, but you guess she’s just using the term of endearment since she doesn’t seem to know who you are.

  “Um”—you peruse the rows of rings—“What about that one?” You point to a slim band encrusted with what look like tiny diamonds. Crispin nods his approval.

  “That’s a beautiful choice.” Betty removes the ring from the case. She slips in onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

  Vertigo suddenly washes over you as you gaze down at your hand. You take a stumbling step backward and Crispin grabs your elbow to steady you.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  The vertigo is gone as quickly as it came on. Crispin’s hand on your arm is a sure and steady force.

  “Fine,” you tell him. “Just too much champagne, I guess.”

  Crispin presses his forehead to yours and looks you in the eyes. “You are my soul mate, Honey. Never doubt how much I love you.”

  You smile up at him as Betty shoves a fragrant bouquet of roses and baby’s breath into your hands. “This way,” she says, and leads you to the front of the little chapel.

  The service is a blur. After, you’ll clearly remember only a few things: holding the bouquet at just the right height to hide your bare midriff; the use of your legal name, Do you, Henrietta, take this man, Crispin, to be your lawfully wedded husband: sliding the too-loose ring onto Crispin’s finger: and those two little words: “I do.” You have no memory of your return trip to the hotel or saying goodnight to Crispin.

  Your next clear memory is the feeling of intense guilt as you slide the slim wedding band into the inside pocket of your travel bag and the odd feeling that everything has changed, and at the same time that nothing is different at all.

  * * *

  Eighteen months later, you are back home in Hollywood noodling on the piano in an attempt to find inspiration for your next single. The label wants “edgy pop” but all you seem to be able to produce are moody ballads. It’s not that you are sad exactly—you just don’t know how to feel.

  At first, your shared secret brought you and Crispin closer together. He came home to you at the end of every day, no matter how late he worked, slid into your bed whispering,
“Hello, Mrs. Hershey,” into your ear. Something about the sound of his voice made you melt effortlessly, and you enjoyed making love to your husband, your clandestine marriage adding an extra thrill to your time together. You wore your wedding bands only when you were alone, and began a nightly routine that you hoped would never end. The feel of his ring against your bare back sent shivers up your spine every time. Somehow the feeling of security, of solidity, made sex with Crispin seem like something more. You never tired of hearing him call you his wife, telling you how much he loved you over and over as he thrust into you.

  After, you lay for hours, arms wrapped around each other, making plans to move in together and then for a real wedding with all of your friends and family present.

  But that dream ended suddenly and much too soon the first time Crispin got called away to New York to promote his new single. He returned from that first trip distant, apologizing for being too tired to make love. After the next trip a few weeks later, he returned to his own condo.

  “It’s only temporary, baby,” he still tells you, although it’s been close to a month.

  When he is in town, Crispin is flaky and aloof, pleading long hours at the studio. You can’t help but wonder whether he’s come to regret the impulsive Vegas wedding—or whether something more concerning is going on. You know you need to talk, to find out what is really going on, but part of you doesn’t want to hear the answer. Plus, every time you try to have a real conversation, Crispin dodges the subject or makes you feel crazy or paranoid for worrying.

  “It’s just work,” he tells you. “You know how it is. As soon as I get this single finished, I’ll be all yours.”

  You want to believe him, but every echoing walk across the expanse of black-and-white tile through the cavernous empty rooms makes you feel more alone. So far Crispin hasn’t moved so much as a toothbrush into your house.

  Even Sasha has been MIA, in the midst of a new fling. He’s probably using his new relationship as an excuse to give you space, still thinking he’ll come home to find Crispin there. You want so much to tell him your secret, but you made a promise to Crispin, and you worry that Sasha would never forgive you.

  Work is your solace, and you spend as many hours as you can at the piano or in the studio, writing and recording. The hours you don’t spend on music you devote to your clothing line. You know you’re just being an ostrich, hiding your head in the sand in order to avoid what’s right in front of you, but right now you’re not ready to face whatever is really going on.

  You manage to ignore your suspicions until they surface rudely in front of you in the form of a glossy tabloid headline reading, IS CRISPIN HEADED BACK TO REHAB? INSIDE THE SINGER’S STRUGGLES. An ugly photo of Crispin looking like he’s recovering from a bender, his bloodshot eyes ringed with black shadows, fills the magazine’s cover.

  Every fiber of your being wants to toss the tabloid into the trash. Why did you ever subscribe to WE Weekly in the first place? But in your experience where there’s smoke there’s fire, and you know it’s time to face the truth. You page through the slim issue until you find the story.

  Crispin Hershey seems to be off again—off of his on-again-off-again romance with Honey Noble and off the wagon, the article begins. Photographed leaving hotspot, Axe, in the wee hours of the night, Hershey stumbled into a waiting car.

  “He reeked of alcohol and couldn’t even stand up straight,” a source tells WE exclusively. “It’s really sad. He just got sober.”

  Hershey himself seemed ready to celebrate during his night at Axe, reportedly ordering bottle after bottle of Cristal and canoodling with former flame, Trixie Taylor, in a private booth. A blurry photo of what might be Crispin, his head inclined toward a leggy blond who could be Trixie, accompanies the article. A sidebar of photos of Crispin (Crispin with Alien Encounter, his defunct boy band; Crispin smiling after leaving rehab almost two years ago; and several photos of you and Crispin) fills the right side of the page, adding a little substance to the slim article which ends with the sentence, Reps for Hershey declined to comment.

  You bet they did. You close the magazine and set it gently down on the counter then walk slowly back to the piano. Running your fingers aimlessly across the keyboard, mindlessly assembling unrelated segments of melody, you allow your subconscious to digest what you’ve just read. When the sun begins to dip below the horizon, you rise from the piano bench to face reality; your suspicions over these past months have to be correct.

  Your manager, Freddie, is by your side in an instant, supplying you with the direct line for the attorney he used during his divorce. The attorney arranges to see you the next day. Quietly and confidentially, he draws up the divorce papers. Your hand trembles slightly as you pick up the pen to sign, but the shaking subsides as you put pen to paper and reduce your marriage to a memory.

  Three days later, Crispin appears in the foyer unannounced. He looks as though he hasn’t slept. His hair sticks up at odd angles and he runs one hand through it constantly as he looks up at you accusingly, a hefty manila envelope in his other hand.

  “Honey,” he begins, “what is this all about?”

  You sigh, more exhausted than you can ever remember feeling. “Crispin, I can’t do this.”

  He looks up at you, an expression of genuine confusion on his beautiful features. “Do what exactly?” he asks.

  “You know what I mean, Crispin. This isn’t working. It hasn’t worked since the beginning. I can’t pretend anymore.”

  “You know what I’ve been dealing with, Honey.” His eyes are desperate, pleading. “My schedule’s been insane.”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation,” you tell him. “I get it. Believe me, of all people, I get it. But you and I both know this was never a good idea. And now the press is spreading all of those stories about you. I didn’t want to believe them for the longest time, I still don’t want to. But the more you’ve been absent the more I don’t know what to believe.”

  Crispin’s face reddens and his eyes widen alarmingly. “Those are lies, Honey! You know they are! How can you even believe what you read in those shitty magazines? You should believe me!”

  You back up a step. “What about the photos?” you ask quietly.

  “Those are shite! None of it’s true! Are you telling me you never had a tabloid run a photo of you and tie it to some scandalous fabrication?”

  “Crispin, if you’ve ever been honest with me, I need you to be honest now. Was that you in that bar, with Trixie?”

  Crispin is quiet for a moment too long. You feel the weight of the truth hanging between you, creating a chasm you know no words will bridge.

  “I mean, just the fact that you would allow those photos to be taken . . .”

  Suddenly Crispin explodes. “You know what? You are entirely correct. I don’t owe you a fucking explanation! You are not my probation officer!” He takes the thick envelope in both hands and attempts to rip it in half, throwing it on the foyer floor when the papers prove too thick to tear. “And I’m not signing that!”

  He turns to leave and pauses by the door. For a moment you have a fleeting sense of hope that he is about to turn around and somehow make everything all right. But instead, he slams his fist into the foyer wall, a final act of violence that seems to serve as an affirmation that you’ve made the right decision. Chunks of plaster fall to the ground and dust floats in the air as Crispin slams the door.

  You stand there, stunned, gazing at the gaping hole in the wall, which oddly feels like a perfect metaphor for the hole in your heart.

  * * *

  Ten years later, you’re starting to feel your age. It takes longer to recover from the long nights performing and you find yourself spending more time on the massage table trying to ease your sore muscles and in the dermatologist’s office preventing the tiny lines just starting to appear at the edges of your eyes. Still, there’s no place you’d rather be than on the stage, basking in the adulation of your audience.

  The Crisp
in disaster, as you fondly refer to that time in your life, took a temporary toll on your public image. You can still taste the alkaline fear and anger that rose like bile to the back of your tongue when the photos from the chapel went public. Your memories of that time are a collage of your own, fragmented recollections mixed with glossy tabloid images and sound bites: Crispin telling WE Weekly that the wedding was nothing more than an impulse decision made during a wild Vegas night; telling Pizzazz that the success of his single and the comeback that followed was too much for you to handle, and ultimately led to your undoing as a couple. Trixie telling everyone who would listen that she and Crispin forged an unbreakable bond during rehab and were never really apart, that they discovered each other again during their second stint in rehab, that of course she forgave him right away when she realized his hasty wedding was a sham. It was at least a little solace that Crispin and Trixie’s relationship went up in flames only weeks later.

  One day in a rare moment of boredom, you turn on the TV and flip through channels trying to find something moderately interesting to watch when you come across Celebrity Relapse. A familiar voice with an unmistakable accent makes you drop the remote mid-flip. Riveted, you watch as Crispin checks into Malibu Manor, the renowned recovery center of the rich and famous.