Anyway, the joy of finding out that I am gainfully employed is short lived. I’m in the student lounge working on some drum charts, when I notice that the TV in the background is tuned into MusicTube, NY. The VJ announces the start of a live Q and A session with the cast of Idol Worship. I try to immerse myself completely in my sheet music, but every last bit of concentration I possess drains out of me when the guy working the sandwich station ups the volume.
Kendall’s slight, solemn voice bombards my ears. My eyes take it upon themselves to wander up to the screen. There she is, golden hair all jagged and sharp-edged down to her elbows, baby blues alight with shimmer, lips plump with pastel pink balm—and none of it does a damn thing to conceal her listlessness. There’s no life left in her, whatsoever. She’s nothing more than a marionette performing at the command of an invisible puppeteer.
“Is that Kendall Bettencourt?” A girl at the table next to mine points the back end of her pencil at the TV.
“Yeah.”
“Is she high or something? I thought she was supposed to be the poster child for beauty.”
“Ask her,” the other girl gestures to me. “Yo, Payton, your girl is looking beat. Must be missing all that lesbian sex she wants us all to think she’s never had.”
“Go to hell.” I grab my notebook and bag from the table and haul ass out through the exit into the courtyard. By the time I take a seat on the low retainer wall, I’m crying—wondering if the pain will ever go away or if it’ll always feel like I swallowed a stick of lit dynamite every time I see Kendall’s face on TV or in a magazine.
Man, these last three weeks have been the longest of my life. I miss the days when I didn’t have to fight to get out of bed in the morning. I decide right then and there to skip the rest of my classes for the week and spend Thursday in bed with the curtains drawn across the windows to help me forget that the sun exists. I know it’s melodramatic, but again, I don’t care. Being conscious only means that I play that night on repeat in my head: the sparsely lit alley, Kendall kissing me as if it were the end of the world. I wish that it actually had been the end of the world. I haven’t just lost the person I love, I’ve lost my best friend.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kendall
My plane is twenty minutes away from LAX. After forcing myself to smile for three weeks while giving bogus answers to intimate questions about my fake relationship with Gunner, the prospect of being home is uplifting. Until I remember that Payton won’t be there when I get in, then I throw my sunglasses over my eyes and cry as quietly as possible. I’ve gotten so good at concealing my blubbering that no one seems to notice anymore.
Lawrence is in the seat next to mine. He knows I’m crying, but doesn’t say anything to comfort me. Instead, he hands me a cocktail napkin. “I arranged for Gunner to pick you up at the baggage claim. Dry your eyes before you get off this plane and for God’s sake, act like you’re happy to see him.”
I snivel out a meek “okay” and do as I’m told. I doubt I’ll have to act happy to see Gunner. I’ll probably be genuinely happy to see him. It’ll be nice to be in the presence of someone who isn’t either an interviewer prodding me for information, or cast mates who pity me for being such a remarkable tool.
The plane touches ground. I’m on my feet the second it rolls to a full stop. Lawrence catches me by the arm before I can take a step forward. “Is there something else I should do?” I ask in all seriousness. I’ll do whatever you want. I just have to get off this giant steel bird.
He shakes his head. “It didn’t have to be this way. I told you that from the get-go. I hate seeing you so unhappy.”
Oh, it didn’t have to be this way? No shit! I made it this way. My mom sure thought it was a great idea though! That was the second hint that I had made the wrong decision, bested only by the first hint, which, naturally, was Payton walking out on me. “Lawrence, you said it yourself—I am universally adored and looked up to. Don’t I need to be exactly that in order to be a successful actor? People admire me so much that they want to be me. I’m America’s Sweetheart… not because I have to be, but because I choose to be. Obviously, I’ve made my decision, now I have to live with the consequences.” I move away from him and scamper down the aisle toward the exit.
As promised, Gunner is waiting for me at the baggage claim. He smiles at me as I approach from the gangway. I’m so sincerely happy to see him that I run at full speed into his arms. He lifts me into the air, twirls us both around, and then sets me back on my feet. “Welcome home,” he says. He nods over his shoulder at a small crowd of people with cameras in hand. He leans in close to my ear. “Media alert. I’m sorry. They followed me here from my damn house!”
Right. I know what they’re after, a photo that will sell for big money. If that’s what they want, I’ll give it to them. Screw it. Who cares anymore? “Kiss me,” I mouth to him. “And not like you’d kiss your mother.”
The directive shocks him. He doesn’t have to verbalize it—it’s written all over his face. Despite a moment of hesitancy, he does it—takes me in his arms, bends me backward into a dip, and plants his lips on mine. It is so reminiscent of the kiss with Payton that got me into this whole mess that I have to battle against having a breakdown. My single saving grace is how different his lips are from hers. His lips are a little rougher, a little dryer, and my heart doesn’t come close to skipping a beat when they meet mine. I close my eyes and kiss him back. Fake it for the cameras. I see the bright, achromatic flashes through my closed eyelids. I hear the shutters click in quick succession. Then it’s over. He stands me upright and releases me. I smile and ask, “Honey, can you grab my bags?”
He nods. “Let’s get you out of here.”
❄ ❄ ❄
Since arriving home from the press tour a week ago, I have very deliberately been making sure my schedule is packed with public appearances so that I won’t have to spend any significant amount of my waking hours at home. This apartment is haunted by her essence. Yesterday, I realized the sheets still held her scent; her aroma vigilantly invaded my dreams, disturbing my attempts at peaceable sleep. I ripped them off the bed, sent them out for cleaning.
With every passing day it becomes more and more apparent this place will never be the same without her around. It’s too quiet, too empty, and too dead. It’s amazing how after only three months of living with her, she managed to make this house a home.
Christ! There are seven billion people in this world; how many are lucky enough to find love with their best friend? And to think that maybe I could have been one of them! I think I could have built a very happy life with Payton—had children with her, grown old with her. But I’ve messed that all up. I am so spineless I may as well be a jellyfish.
“Hello? Ms. Bettencourt? Mr. Roderick is here for you,” a voice from the front desk disturbs my pity party.
No! I forgot about lunch with Gunner! I buzz down to the lobby to let them know I’m on my way, then race out the door.
The elevator’s mirrored interior obliges me to come face to face with my reflection after sidestepping it for days. The girl staring back at me from the other side of the looking glass comes across as naturally high-end—with her posh clothes, expensive makeup and chic hair style. It’s almost effortless to overlook the fact that she sold her soul to save her status.
The doors spring open when the lift reaches the lobby. Gunner receives me with a standoffish smile. “We need to talk.”
❄ ❄ ❄
Our waitress sets a plate of salad down in front of me. I thank her and proceed to push the greens around with my fork.
“She’s pretty,” Gunner nods at the waitress as she walks away.
“I guess.”
“You didn’t even look at her.”
“So?” I shrug.
“So, you’re a lesbian. You should act like one.”
The fork drops from my hand, trills shrilly against my plate. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. It’s killi
ng you, pushing away the person you love so you can pretend to be something you’re not. It isn’t thrilling me either.”
I take a quick glance around. The closest occupied table isn’t very far from ours. I don’t doubt the couple seated there could eavesdrop if they cared to. “Must we discuss this here?”
“Does it matter where we discuss this? In a restaurant, in your penthouse or in the car, the conversation will be the same. This has to end. I should’ve put a stop to it after everything that went down at the Visibility Awards.”
I lean across the table and lower my voice to a near whisper. “Don’t act like you’re doing this for me. We both know you went along with it to begin with because it was good for your reputation to be seen with me.”
“Sure. I knew it would benefit both of us if the world thought we were dating. But it’s not benefitting either of us anymore. I hate how it’s nagging at my conscience that I’ve taken any part in this smoke screen, and you’ve been marginally this side of suicidal since Payton moved out. For the record, Payton’s been miserable, too. She looks like she only just survived an exorcism.”
My ears perk up like a curious dog. “You’ve seen her?”
“Last night,” he confirms. “She was with Lauren at the West Hollywood Arts Gala. I’m actually glad you stood me up to stay in and sleep. It was nice to have the chance to hang out with her. She would’ve taken off in the opposite direction if she’d seen you.”
“Wait. She didn’t look good?”
“She looked great. On the outside, anyway—all dolled up. Her eyes gave her away though. The kind of pain she’s feeling leaves scars. In all honesty, I think if she could choose between breathing and seeing you, she’d choose seeing you.”
I throw my napkin on the table. “Was it absolutely necessary for you to tell me that? Do you think hearing that kind of shit makes this any less insufferable for me?”
“Well, it’s all on you, darlin’. You’re doing this of your own free will. I don’t see anyone holding a gun up to your head, making you choose between being loved superficially by the masses or deeply by Payton. Who even knows if you’d have to make a choice? Hell, I’m a small town boy from the High Plains, and I was raised not to care whether a person is straight or gay.”
“You’re 100 percent right about one thing; loving her should have trumped my fear of being rejected by people I don’t know from a hole in the wall, but it didn’t—clearly. So now instead of taking a break, I’m pretty sure we’re just plain over.”
“Seeing as how you’ve been totally down in the mouth since, I think it’s safe to say you know you screwed up. Luckily, there’s a real easy fix to this predicament. Come out, be with Payton—to hell with theoretical adversity.”
“There’s an easy fix,” I mock him. “What alternate reality do you live in? I’m so deep in the closet I can’t see the light of day. Everything that has happened over the last month… It’s all just nails in the coffin. This is my life from now on.”
“No use trying to talk sense into you, is there?” he asks loudly. “That woman loves you so much she’s willing to sacrifice her own happiness to protect you, to help you hoodwink heaven and earth. Good Lord, people spend their whole lives wishing to find that kind of love. You have it at your fingertips, and you’re pissing it away because you’re too scared of what others might think to reach out and grab it. If you ask me, it’s not worth it.”
“I know you mean well, but I really didn’t ask you.”
“All right, Honey.” He fishes a wad of cash from his pocket and tosses it onto the table without counting it. “I’d say we’re about done here.”
“Yeah.” I stand up. He follows.
As we’re leaving, he takes me by the hand the way a parent would take a tantrum-throwing child. “Gotta save face,” he mutters under his breath.
❄ ❄ ❄
The instant Gunner drops me off, I start calling up everyone I know who resides in the greater Los Angeles Area—well, almost everyone—and invite them over for a rager party. My second call is to Jason’s Wine & Spirits for what I’m sure is the single largest order they have ever received. I’d put money on it that I’ve damn near cleared their shelves. That is easily my favorite thing about living in LA: liquor stores that make deliveries and delivery guys who are more than happy to double as personal bartenders once their shifts are over.
By the time the sun goes down there are roughly three hundred people staggering around my apartment, half of whom are naked and crammed into the pool within two hours of arriving. Mark Carter is upstairs spinning sick tunes on Payton’s multi-thousand dollar equipment. He plays his signature remix of Giuseppe Ottaviani’s “Lost for Words,” and everyone starts hollering like they’re in a club. I watch people break out party favors in the form of tiny plastic zip-baggies full of white crystalline powder. Nose candy definitely isn’t my thing, but far be it from me to deny anyone else their fun.
So very many beautiful people, countless Hollywood movers and shakers, some totally average yet exceptionally cool human beings I don’t remember ever having met before—all in my penthouse because I invited them to come over and get inebriated for absolutely no reason other than I was feeling incredibly lonesome.
I stand in the center of the living room, taking it all in. These people don’t actually give a shit about me. They’re just here for the free booze. Whatever. I could use some alcohol myself.
“I need Tequila! Right now!” I scream over the music. Almost as soon as I shout it I am holding plastic shot glasses in each of my hands—I don’t even have to take a single stride toward the improvised bar near the ranch slider doors.
I down both shots and close my eyes. When I open them again, everything around me has gone from moving in real-time to slow motion. I have surpassed maximum awesome, so I pull my hair up into a ponytail, squeeze my way into the crowd of sweaty, swaying carousers, throw my hands into the air, and dance my ass off.
❄ ❄ ❄
I wake up, head splitting, to the sound of empty glass bottles clanking against each other. The last thing I remember is the cops showing up to break up a fight between Spencer St. Germaine and a paparazzo who snuck his way into the gathering. Why the hell is my bed shaking? Holy shit, it’s an earthquake!
I’m not fully coherent, but I know enough to get my ass to a doorway or risk being crushed by stuff falling off the walls. I sit up quickly to find Lawrence rocking my footboard.
“And the princess awakens!” He helps himself to a seat on my bed. “I was starting to think you were dead.”
“Not dead, only asleep. And by asleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!”
“Thank you, Mel Gibson—that was very nice.”
“You’re quite welcome. Be sure to tell everyone you know that I can spout Shakespeare through a fucking monster hangover, and with my eyes half open, no less. Now, why are you here?”
“You haven’t answered your phone in two days,” he says calmly.
“Two days? And it took you this long to check on me? My, how you’ve changed since my spirit died. It’s nice, isn’t it? Knowing that I’ll capitulate to whatever demands you make of me without mouthing off.”
“I came over to make sure you’d be on your A-game for the Elite Awards tomorrow evening. If I had known you disappeared because you were in a drug-induced coma, I would have been here sooner. This is out of character for you, sweetheart. You’ve always been too motivated, too ‘together’ to fit the hard-partying, self-medicating Hollywood starlet prototype.”
He’s right, of course. That isn’t me. And it’s not who I want to become either. I just needed to be a lighter shade of blue for one fucking minute. “I swear to you I didn’t do any drugs. But I did drink a lot. I must have been roofied.”
“One spiked drink—that is how it starts. Before you know it, getting drunk isn’t enough. You start messing around with the hard stuff
and then you’re caught in a tailspin. I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count on two hands.” He sighs. “Kendall, I’ve been in this business for thirty years and I have never worried about any of my clients as much as I’m worrying about you right now.”
He should be worried. If my existence is going to be this shitty from now on, I think I’d rather opt-out. Everything sucks, and it is always going to suck, no matter how many awards I win, or how many millions of dollars I make, or how many people scream my name and tell me they ‘love’ me at my movie premiers. “I have all the money I’d ever need, but it can’t buy me anything that makes life worth living, can it? All this recognition from my peers, the adoration of millions of strangers—it means a lot to me, but not as much as Payton does. I can’t believe I’m doing this to her. I can’t believe I’m doing this to myself. I mean, honestly! I love her more than I ever thought I was capable of loving anyone. Maybe I can survive without her, but I can’t live without her.”
“Then you know what you need to do?” He slaps his knees. “Put her above everything else, above your fear, above whatever judgments anyone may pass. You’re the first person to tell someone to go to hell when you need to, so go on—be the Kendall Bettencourt I know and flip a great big middle finger at any haters who slither out of the woodwork. Be you, be in love, be happy. I was wrong to insinuate that you ever should’ve done otherwise.”
“Even if I try the ‘being myself’ slant, it’s too late for me to be in love and happy. Payton won’t talk to me. She doesn’t even take my calls anymore. I’m persona non grata, not that I blame her for that. I wouldn’t want to talk to me either, if I were her.”
The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) Page 23