“I’m gonna shower but if you want to chat a little, I’ll be back out in five minutes. I want to hear about how it went.”
I nodded. “Go fast. Otherwise I’m gonna fall asleep.”
While she showered I pulled out my phone, mindlessly playing a game that gave points for spelling words correctly.
I was yawning again when Chelsea came back out, in her sweatpants and oversized shirt, ready for sleep.
“If you wanna go crash, it’s fine, we’ll catch up tomorrow. I was just curious as hell about how Leo Stone is in real life. Is he all shy and cute?”
Chelsea sat next to me on the couch, and I leaned against her shoulder, putting my phone down on the dark wood coffee table.
I sighed. “Where do I even begin? No, he’s not shy at all. Except—he did blush at one point.”
“No way, really? What happened, did you ask him about the stuff that happened at that beach? I kept hearing about that so much back in the day.”
I shook my head. “No. I didn’t really ask him anything interview-ish today. I made him fucking blush when I told him I was gay, though.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”
“Yeah, really. Well, actually, he said ‘thank God you’re straight, the last thing I need is a crush on my biographer.’ In so many words. Then I told him I… wasn’t so straight, and he looked like he was gonna combust.”
Chelsea laughed deeply. “Oh my god, one day into the job and you’ve got him into you already.”
“He’s not into me. There’s no fucking way. He just said the wrong thing and got all nervous and apologetic. Before that, he was kind of trying to be standoffish and hard to deal with.”
“Wow,” she said, eyes wide. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, me either.”
She paused for a moment, before clasping her hands together and leaning back against the couch. “Yeah, whatever, you guys are so obviously gonna do it. Soon, probably.”
I swatted her shoulder with the back of my hand. “No. No, no, no. Last thing I need is to end up in some low-tier tabloid blog for something like that. Look, everyone, Jamie tried to go to L.A. and pursue his screenwriting dreams, and instead all he’s got is a hookup with a strange ex-celebrity.”
I didn’t tell her that in actuality, I’d probably be thrilled to be photographed next to Leo.
She shrugged, yawning. “Whatever you say. When do you see him next?”
“Tomorrow night,” I said. “This time we’re meeting up at a restaurant instead, maybe neutral ground will make it easier to get some interviewing done. Today we just kind of… hung out.”
“Like bros do?” she said, almost laughing at me.
“Yep, just a couple of bros.” I rolled my eyes, then peeled myself off the couch. “I’ve gotta at least try to sleep. Have you even eaten dinner yet? I have no idea how night shifts work.”
She got up. “I ate at like, 11pm. Night shifts suck. I think I’m gonna snack on some pretzels and go to sleep.”
I gave her a little wave before entering my room. “Night, Chels.”
“Night. Sweet dreams.”
I still couldn’t sleep for another hour, lying in bed listening to music that was usually boring enough to lull me. I kept picturing Leo’s face, and it made me feel like there was a low electric current buzzing through me. I was totally fucked. And totally enjoying it.
Five
Leo
Well, the sixth shot of gin had definitely been a mistake last night.
I woke up with one arm inside of an oversized sweatshirt and the other arm sandwiched between two pillows. My phone was still in my clutched hand, and when I turned it on, a Youtube video tutorial of how to repair kayaks was on the screen. I didn’t own a kayak, and in fact had very little interest in them at all. One of my legs was half-numb and I seemed to have wound up naked other than the sweatshirt and my pair of boxers, from which my dick was now half-heartedly falling out in the harsh morning light.
It was a wonder I’d made it to my bed, really, so all in all I considered it a win.
I unearthed myself from the various garments and lumped them all into a pile on the floor, tossing in the bedsheets as well. It was a new day, and I was gonna start it right by doing laundry. Cleanliness is a habit, as my grandma always said, and despite the filth I’d succumbed to yesterday, today was brand new.
Jamie had been his angelic alien self until I kicked him out, telling him I had plans. The astonishing thing was that I really did have plans, until I cancelled them, opting instead to drown myself in sorrow and gin.
But I really did have them—I was supposed to have dinner the previous night with Eric, the one member of 5*Star that I had actually stayed good friends with. He lived in San Diego, so I didn’t see him all that often, but he was in town for a few days to attend the opening of some restaurant. I’d rescheduled with him and he was set to bring lunch over to my place at 1 o’clock this afternoon. So I’d fucked up, but not terribly. I could have my sorrow session one night, and then see one of my only friends the next day.
After a shower, I tossed on a pair of sweatpants and went to look out the window by my front door—I knew who would be there, and I was correct: Mr. Ginger Boots was already lying at my doorstep, expectant. I went to the kitchen and poured some tap water into a dish. I grabbed a treat from my stash that I kept just for him (that little bastard didn't know how good he had it) and returned to the front door to give him his gifts.
After sitting on the stoop and watching him eat and wander off indifferently after the water and food had disappeared, I finally went back in, drank a ton of water, and flopped onto the couch. The same old daytime shit was on TV, and I caught up on my favorite soap opera, The Lakeside, without even an ounce of guilt. It was my private time, alone, and no one had to know how absorbed I'd become in the trials of my soap. My heart soared right into the screen when Michaela finally told Danielle what a bitch she'd been (she really had), and by the time the credits rolled at the end of the episode I was only mildly surprised to find a single tear shedding from my right eye. I should have been disgusted. I wasn't. I'd come to expect such behaviors from myself.
I turned off the TV and slunk down onto the couch. The sun had risen fully and it poured in through the two tall windows in my living room, like it was mocking me for being inside. I glimpsed Mr. Ginger Boots skulking along the back wall of my yard, surely out for more adventure than I'd see that day.
My hangover was finally starting to fade, and I managed to work on a song in the music room for a couple hours. I guess it should be called a piece, not a song, since it involves only sad piano music in a minor key, but who knows. When I played it I didn’t think about anything but the music, and that was a better cure for my rat’s wheel of a brain than anything else.
The shrill ring of my phone cut through the piano and I picked it up, sighing as I checked the caller ID.
“Hey,” I said to Ella, knowing what she was going to say.
“How was he?” she asked, just as I expected, her voice chipper and optimistic.
“I never met him. Actually, I’ve fled the country and I now live on an island in Fiji. It was really great working with you, Ella.”
I could almost feel her rolling her eyes. “Seriously. Am I good, or what? Isn’t Jamie perfect?”
I groaned like a petulant child. “You’re good, you’re great; he’s good, he’s great. I don’t know how he’s gonna stand me, but yeah, he seems perfect for the job.”
“Uh-huh,” Ella said, satisfied. “Well, thank you. I’m glad you at least admit it. When are you meeting him next?”
“Tonight. For dinner. Going to some hipster restaurant in a hipster neighborhood. Which is fine with me.”
“Good. I’m so glad to hear he’s working out. Keep me updated, will you?”
“Fine. I’ll do my best.”
“Talk to you soon, Leo. And take care of yourself.”
“I always do.”
Pretty sur
e she must have rolled her eyes at that too, but luckily we’d hung up before I could hear it.
I looked at the time on my phone and saw that it was almost 1 o’clock. Eric was never late; actually, it was amazing he wasn’t at the house already, 10 minutes early. I quickly went to put on some more respectable clothes and heard him knocking on the front door right as I was zipping up my jeans.
When I opened the front door he was standing there, a huge bag of food in each of his hands. Seeing him was like a breath of fresh air; Eric was like family to me, and every time I saw him we picked up right where we’d left off. Mr. Ginger Boots had slunk toward him outside and started to paw at his leg.
“You get a cat, dude?” Eric said, looking down at him and then grinning at me.
I reached out and grabbed one of the bags from him. “No, but he might as well be mine, for how much he shows up here. God, what did you get? This weighs a ton. Come on in.”
We went to put the bags on the coffee table and I pulled him into a hug.
“It’s been too long,” Eric said, squeezing tight before pulling away.
“Any amount of time is too long,” I said, opening one of the bags. “I’m dying without you here in L.A.”
“I’ve been gone for like, 8 years,” Eric said.
“Yeah. Still not used to it. I can’t make friends with anybody else. Who else am I supposed to bitch to? Who else shares my love of shitty British reality TV?”
Eric laughed. “You need to get out more.”
I nodded and plastered a huge, fake smile on my face. “Yes, I probably do.” Digging through the bags, I discovered soups, stir fried noodles and rice, spring rolls, and things I couldn’t recognize.
“Thai?” I asked.
“Absolutely. San Diego’s got great food, but this is still the best Thai food I’ve had in the country.”
“God, I’m so hungry. Thank you, Eric.”
“Dig in. And tell me how the fuck you’ve been.”
As we devoured the food, I caught him up on everything, which really wasn’t all that much. I told him how the main project of the last few months had been trying to find a biographer, and then explained in detail how yesterday had gone with Jamie.
Eric, bless his heart, just laughed and laughed at the story of me sticking my foot in my mouth and saying stupid things to Jamie.
After crunching through my final spring roll, I sat back on the couch, sighing. “Yeah. Should have known you’d laugh at me making a fool of myself.”
He smiled. “Come on. It’s not that big of a deal. In the grand scheme of things you could have fucked up, that’s very minor. The kid’s probably flattered that you think he’s cute.”
“He shouldn’t even know I think he’s cute. That’s not the kind of relationship we need to have.”
Eric shrugged. “I don’t know, dude, I feel like hooking up with him could only make the biography better. Maybe you should do it. Just don’t piss him off before the book is finished.”
“I can’t believe you’re even saying this right now.” I looked at him wearily.
“Leo. Be real with me. You knew I was gonna tell you to hook up with him. You’re already crushing on him, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“I know you maybe better than anyone, dude. You fall for people, especially ones who pay attention to you, so hard and fast.”
I groaned. “I know. I know I do. But no, I’m not… crushing on him already.”
He gave me a look. “Okay. Well, be sure to call me up when you do develop an all-consuming crush. Because it’ll probably be like, tomorrow.”
“I take back your invitation. You can get out of my house how,” I said plainly, smiling at him.
He was nonchalant, stuffing more noodles in his mouth. “Come on, get over it. I wish I could find some hot young dude who wanted to write about me. I’d take anything I could get right now.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you always take whatever you can get. You’re not with that one girl anymore? Diane? Dianna?”
“Her name was Danielle, and no, that ended a couple months ago. I don’t know, Leo, I’ve almost been tempted to resort to Tinder or something.”
“Don’t do that,” I said, giving him an admonishing look. “It would be on gossip blogs, like, ten minutes after you set up an account. You actually still have a career to preserve.”
He sighed. “I’m already on enough gossip blogs as it is. They’re calling me the ‘Bisexual Cassanova’ now. Like, they can’t think of something better than that? Just because I’m bi and I like sex?”
“You’ll find someone, Eric. Maybe you should go to the beach more often down in San Diego. Aren’t there, like, hot surfer dudes? Go scope them out. Or maybe there will be some woman selling her artwork by the beach and you’ll hit it off.”
“Maybe. But we both know I’ll probably be single forever. It’s a way of life.”
The conversation then turned to a place that it always did, eventually, between us.
“So, have you seen Chandler while you’ve been in L.A.?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not this time. I don’t even know if he’s in town right now, considering he’s filming that huge movie.”
I nodded. “I’m sure you’ll see him at the party.” Chandler always held a huge party at his mansion during the summer, and we attended every year.
“Yeah. You think Adam will show up this time?” Eric asked, talking about the fourth member of the group.
“Nobody knows what Adam does. So, maybe?” I said, shrugging.
Chandler, and Eric and I had all stayed in California since the band had split up. But Adam hadn’t seemed to stay anywhere in particular. He’d always been more of a loner, even at the height of the group’s success, but after the disbandment, he’d totally gone rogue. Every time we heard from him (which was not often), he was in a different state, a different country, with some different job. In the past few years he’d really fallen out of touch with us, but he still sometimes made it to Chandler’s annual party—we just never knew which ones he would attend and which ones he’d be a no-show for.
“You think he’s happy?” Eric asked, finally putting down the food and sitting back on the couch.
“Adam? I really have no idea—does he feel emotions?” I joked.
“He definitely does, you just don’t know when he’s gonna decide to,” Eric said with a laugh. “He’s all about being dark and mysterious.”
“Whereas I’m just cranky and old.”
For the next couple of hours, Eric and I relaxed on the couch, half-watching a zany action flick on TV while talking and catching up the entire time. Eric was doing well in San Diego, other than on the relationship front; he had pursued a career in food ever since 5*Star. He’d been on cooking shows, had a food truck, even briefly owned a bread bakery. Eric was arguably the second-most successful member of the band after Chandler—even though he was not at all super-famous anymore, he had a name for himself in the food world.
And I was genuinely happy for him, which was impressive, because I sometimes worried that genuine feelings weren’t available to me anymore.
After I said goodbye to Eric and watched him drive off down the street, my anxiety grew with every passing minute.
It had been a good, restorative, and relaxing afternoon with Eric—but tonight, I had to face Jamie again.
It was immediately clear that the restaurant was going to be awful for conducting any sort of interview. First of all, it was called Persimmon, and I didn’t particularly like persimmons.
The real commotion started half a block away from the actual storefront: a pipe had burst and a torrent of water was surging down the street. Nearer to the restaurant, a line had formed; apparently Persimmon had just been on some Best of L.A. list, and everyone was trying to get in. I was glad Jamie had taken care of the reservations.
But then as I got closer to the line of people, I realized I recognized the button-up shirt and well-kept hair of som
eone in it: it was Jamie, waiting in line. I did a double take, then walked slowly over to him, pushing my way past moms with strollers, a group of models, and hot young couples.
He smiled wide as soon as he saw me.
“Hi! You made it,” he said, putting his phone away.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I thought you said you made reservations.”
“Oh, yeah… I tried to make them online, but apparently their system was down, and they never got the request. It sucks, but we shouldn’t have to wait longer than an hour.”
I took a deep breath, stepping in closer toward Jamie as a runner barreled down the sidewalk. I wasn’t that angry about the waiting—but the commotion outside was already giving me a headache.
“Oh God,” Jamie said, eyeing me like a hurt puppy. “You’re really mad, aren’t you. We can go somewhere else.”
I shook my head. “I’m not mad. I’m just not a huge fan of crowds. But once we’re inside sitting down, I’ll be ok.”
Jamie sighed and nodded. Clearly he was feeling guilty, and the last thing I wanted was for him to feel personally responsible.
“Did you do something different with your hair? It, uh, looks good,” I said. Truthfully, his hair looked exactly the same—soft, and I kinda wanted to run a hand through it—but I wanted to distract him somehow and make him stop looking so guilty.
It was too easy. The second I said it, his face lit up, and he smoothed over the side of his hair with a hand.
“No, I don’t think so. Well, I used Chelsea’s conditioner, maybe that helped.”
I cocked my head to one side. “Who’s that?”
“Chelsea’s my roommate, she’s been a long time family friend. Maybe you’ll meet her sometime.”
I highly doubted that.
Just then a gothic princess of a hostess started walking down the sidewalk, looking at the line of people and counting off how many were waiting. She stopped when she got to me, doing a double take.
It took everything in me not to audibly groan. I knew what was coming next.
“Wait a minute,” she said, stopping, grabbing my upper arm, and smiling. “Are you… were you in 5*Star?”
Your Fallen Star: Under the Stars Book 1 Page 4