When It's Real

by Erin Watt

  I watch his arm as he points, his muscles flexing. I guess I’d be proud of my arms, too, if I had “guns” like his. They really are impressive.

  Oak catches me looking and gives me a knowing wink. “Every piece of equipment in here is state-of-the-art.”

  So I was staring. Sue me. “Why are you so...”

  “What? Good-looking?”

  “No, built. Like, why do you have muscles? Is it because you like looking that way or for the image or what?”

  He tucks his hands into the tops of his pockets. “Playing tours is hard work. You gotta be fit. And yeah, looking like this sells records. Not gonna lie. Plus, the ladies love it.”

  It’s a good thing he doesn’t wink again, because I would’ve hit him, but he’s not wrong. He is lovely to look at.

  “Why are you so eager to work with Donovan King?” I ask when we reach the hall again.

  “You’re full of questions today, aren’t you?”

  I shrug. “You seem full of answers.”

  He stops and leans against the wall. I take up a position opposite him. “King’s a genius. He can pull music out of you that you didn’t even know existed. I’ve been trying to make a new record for two years. I’ve been through four different producers. I’ve collaborated with a dozen different songwriters. I’ve invited in all kinds of artists to jam with me. Pop stars, rock bands, reggae, rap. I even did a session with an acapella group. Every time I’ve cued up one of the recordings, they’ve all sounded exactly like my previous three albums. I don’t need to record a new album. I’ll just mix up the previous three and shit that out.” He drags a frustrated hand through his hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t think my fans want that. At the very least, I can’t go on tour and sing this same crap over and over. The idea of going on a multicity tour all over the world in a replay makes me want to drown myself in the ocean.” He gives his hair one last scrub, tips his head and looks at me.

  “When you were at the club singing, every person in there thought you sang to them. It doesn’t matter what your sound is. People are always going to want to hear you.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “I’m never nice to you.” We both snicker. “It’s the truth. I wish I was half as passionate about something in my life as you are about your music.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “What about your art?”

  I wave a dismissive hand. “That’s just a hobby. I’m not interested in being an artist.” I pause. “I’m going to get my teaching degree.”

  “But if you’re not passionate about that, why do it?”

  “My parents were teachers,” I explain, trying to articulate something out loud that’s not entirely clear in my head. “My father was a middle school science teacher and my mom taught fourth grade.”

  “So before the kids become little shits.”

  “Basically. They were—We were happy.”

  “Hmmm.” He slowly nods. His face shows that he understands without me having to say another word. How my dreams of the future are tied with my loss of the past.

  But teaching makes sense to me, or at least it used to make sense. I mean, I have to pick something. I can’t exactly go my entire life without any direction. I’ll need a career, and following in my parents’ footsteps seems like the logical thing to do.

  Right?

  Troubled by my uncertain thoughts, I hastily change the subject. “Were you a little shit?” I ask him.

  “Absolutely, but I’ve been privately tutored since I cut my first album. No high school hijinks for me.” He sounds wistful. “If teaching is what you want to do, then that’s awesome. You’d make a great teacher.”

  “I would?”

  “Of course. But...”

  “But what?” I ask warily.

  Oak goes thoughtful for a moment. “You said your dad was spontaneous, right?”

  “Right.” I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

  “I’d bet you my entire music catalog that he’d want you to do something you loved.”

  I hesitate. “I...don’t know what that is.”

  Oak doesn’t even blink at my uncertainty. “Then you look until you find it. You don’t settle until you find it.” He pushes away from the wall. “You’d be good doing anything.” As he ambles down the hall, he says over his shoulder, “But you should do something you love.”

  Easy for him to say.

  Inside this last studio are a number of musicians. Oak introduces me around. There’s Luke, who I met before, along with Rocco, Oak’s drummer, and Mallik, his keyboardist. There are two other guitarists who look faintly familiar. I try to hold my shock in when they’re introduced as Con and Dalton from Saints and Sinners, one of the hottest bands of the moment. I watched them on MTV last year.

  “My girl, Vaughn.”

  I can’t keep the smile from my face. “Nice to meet you.”

  There are a number of smirks around, but I don’t care. Much.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Eat?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a Coke.”

  “On it.” He drags an upholstered chair next to a stool. “Sit here. I’ll be back in a second.”

  I settle into the chair, feeling like I don’t belong. That sensation is intensified when Luke leans over.

  “So you’re still around.” He smiles, and it isn’t a nice one. “They paying you a lot?”

  I beat back a blush. “I don’t think anyone needs to be paid to date Oakley.”

  “Yeah? Because I’m pretty sure no chick would choose to celebrate Valentine’s Day at the studio unless she was banking some green for it.”

  “We’re going out for dinner later,” I lie.

  “Uh-huh. Where?”

  “I don’t know yet. Oak said it’s a surprise.” The lies flow out smoothly, but there’s anger welling up in my stomach. What’s this guy’s problem? I almost shout out that Oakley got me a Valentine’s Day present, so ha! But I swallow the words at the last second because it was an awesome, private moment and I don’t want Luke to ruin it.

  “You gonna put out after dinner?” Luke asks with a smirk. “’Cause I notice you’re not real handsy with him, are you now?”

  “Luke,” Rocco growls. “Shut up.”

  “What? I’m just asking questions.” He waves his hands. “I’m curious. Curious George.”

  He’s a monkey, all right. Trying to stir up trouble. I stare at my shoes.

  “All I’m saying is that we’ve seen fangirls. Slept with them. We know what they’re like. And they can’t get enough, particularly of Oak.”

  I don’t like being touched. The idea of all those random girls running their hands over him turns my stomach.

  “Maybe that’s the whole reason Oak is with her,” Rocco says. “You,” he corrects, “because she’s not all over him.”

  “Maybe.” Luke’s tone is heavy with skepticism. The other three remain completely silent.

  Oakley returns, which shuts Luke up. When Oak hands me the soda, I ignore it and grip his wrist to pull him down low enough to give him a kiss on the cheek. His eyes widen in surprise, probably because it’s the first time I’ve ever reached out to him.

  He sits on the armchair, his leg rubbing against mine, his arm draped across the back of the chair. Then he leans close and whispers in my ear, “There aren’t any cameras here.”

  It looks like he’s giving me a kiss or murmuring something naughty to me. Everyone but Luke pretends not to watch us.

  Annoyed with Luke’s visible skepticism, I turn to Oakley and kiss him straight on the mouth. At first, he’s too surprised to kiss me back. But he recovers in short order, digging his hand into my hair and angling his head just right. His tongue slides through my parted lips, flicking over mine in the hotte
st, wettest caress I’ve ever experienced. I clench the cold can of Coke between my fingers to keep from grabbing him in return. And I forget about the audience, the contract, the very pretend nature of this whole thing. I forget it all until someone bangs a cymbal, bringing me back to earth.

  When I pull back, Oak’s lips look red and swollen. His eyes are twin flames of brilliant green. I could get lost in them.

  There’s a long, drawn-out silence before Luke releases a low chuckle. “Well, okay then,” he drawls. “Maybe y’all aren’t faking.”

  26

  HER

  @VeryVaughn Best day I had in a long time. Thx for sharing it w me

  @OakleyFord It was amazing

  @VeryVaughn Good thing I can have V-day whenever I want

  @OakleyFord

  @1doodlebug1 Did u see the insta messages???

  @OakleyFord_stanNo1 I’m shipping this so hard.

  Was in the studio until four a.m. Gotta be back here at nine. Kill me. But I wrote this song and need your opinion.

  I stare at my phone, alternating between reluctance and curiosity. My finger hovers over the audio attachment that Oakley included in his text. I want so badly to click on it, but I’m kind of scared to hear his voice. In the week since Valentine’s Day, he’s sent me half a dozen songs, and every time I listened to one, his raspy voice had me melting into a puddle on the floor.

  I’m having trouble with the whole pretend thing again. Even though Oak and I haven’t kissed since the day at the studio, I think about it all the time. No, I obsess about it. When we went on a public date to the aquarium a few days ago, I spent the entire time staring at his mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss him without anyone watching us. No cameras, no smirks from his bandmates. Kissing him just for me.

  And last night I tossed and turned for hours, because he sent me some pictures from the magazine shoot he did earlier that day and he looked so gorgeous in them that my eyes nearly popped out of the sockets.

  I think I might be crushing on Oakley Ford...and it freaks me out.

  My phone pings again.

  That bad? Or so good you’re listening to it on repeat? Pro tip—another word musicians like is “mesmerizing.”

  I give in and play the song, because whatever my confused feelings are, he doesn’t deserve to be left hanging. Then I find myself gaping at my phone, because everything Oak is saying in this song is exactly how I feel. Confused, disoriented, wondering why I even got up from bed this morning. He’s the voice of my head.

  I prefer the night

  The dark, the shadows

  The corners and the shallows

  Where no one knows you

  Where we all pretend

  The mask is all we see

  All we see

  Until the end.

  I play the song again.

  Vaughn, you’re killing me. I’m literally dying here. There’s blood on the floor. The crime scene techs aren’t gonna be able to figure this one out.

  It’s good, I text back.

  Good? Is that the only word in your vocabulary? I already suggested two alternatives. Shiver-inducing or mesmerizing. U could also use awesome, bodacious, crackalicious, devastating, entertaining, fantastic, great...

  I’m impressed by your vocab. Do you have a thesaurus?

  I’m a songwriter. Words are my weapon. Give me something here.

  Oak is something else. At his most vulnerable, he’s the strongest. When I was fifteen, his music made me happy, but I don’t think he spoke to me in the way that his lyrics do in this song. He’s opening up, showing people what he really feels.

  And all he’s asking from me is whether I like the song. I can’t hold that back from him.

  The song was amazing.

  Yeah?

  Yeah.

  Shivers?

  I smile at the screen.

  I’ll need an in-person performance first before I can confirm any shivering.

  Done. Done. Done. And...oh crap. King is here. I gotta run. But we’re meeting later today and I’m singing this to u.

  Now that sends shivers down my spine that have little to do with Oak’s music and everything to do with Oak. I play the song again and listen to him tell me that he’s lived a short time but it feels too long, how nobody can see through the mask he shows to the world. And how, despite everything he’s seen and done, he’s still lonely. The vision of his future is a cold, shapeless fog.

  And isn’t that how I feel? In my family, lost without my parents, wondering what my next step in life is?

  But unlike him, I’ve never laid myself out there like that—confessing my wrongs, pleading for forgiveness, admitting my ignorance. I’ve never taken off my mask and made myself this vulnerable in front of someone else. Not even W. Or maybe especially not W.

  Paisley bursts into my room, jolting me from my thoughts. She’s dressed for work, and I’m surprised she’s still home. The twins already left for school.

  “Have you seen this?” she asks grimly, holding out her phone.

  “Seen what?”

  Her cheeks are bright red, and I can see that she’s struggling to...to what? Keep her anger in check?

  “Just read it.”

  I catch the phone she tosses me. When I look at the screen, I instantly feel all the color drain from my face.

  The ex’s response to Oakley Ford’s apology: “Enjoy my sloppy seconds!”

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper, sick to my stomach. “This...can’t be real.”

  It can’t be. W would never say something like that, and especially not to a reporter. He signed an NDA that forbids him from...crap, from saying anything about my fake relationship with Oak. As far as I can recall, the agreement didn’t say he couldn’t talk about Oak in general.

  But this awful comment... It’s not even about Oak. It’s about me. I’m the sloppy seconds. How could he do this?

  “Paisley.”

  She eyes me in concern. “What is it?”

  “Can you give me a minute? I need to call W.” I’m amazed by how calm I sound.

  “Sure. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

  She closes the door quietly but I’m not paying any attention. This is a mistake, I decide. Something a blogger made up to gather hits. W and I might be over, but he’d never call me a slut to the national media.

  “What part of ‘I’m done with you’ didn’t you understand?” he snaps into the phone without even a hello.

  I gasp into the phone. Did he really just say that?

  “Don’t worry,” I snap back, fighting to contain my anger. “This won’t take long.”

  “You’ve got five seconds before I hang up.”

  Sickness swirls in my belly. How on earth did it come to this? W used to love me. How could he speak to me so cruelly and viciously? Did our relationship mean nothing to him?

  “Did you talk to the press this morning?” I demand, and a part of me prays he’ll deny it. Or, in the very least, that whatever he said was taken out of context.

  W is silent for a beat. Then he bursts out with, “Yeah, I did! What the hell else was I supposed to do? I’ve had reporters hanging around the dorm for a week now. Today a guy showed up outside my psych lecture hall asking me to comment on that jackass’s apology. I’m supposed to say nothing?”

  I stand up and clench the phone tight in my fist. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do!”

  “Tough shit. He can say stuff about me and I can’t say anything back? That apology was a joke—he didn’t mean it. He was just trying to look good to the reporters. You said so yourself. It’s all about his image. What about mine?”

  “What about mine?” I screech. “You called me sloppy seconds! You pretty much told the en
tire country I was a slut! How could you do that?”

  There’s another pause. W clears his throat. “I didn’t call you a slut. But...I’m sorry I said what I did, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  I swallow a lump of pain. This is the difference between W and Oak. When he publicly apologized for trash-talking W, Oak meant it. He was open and honest about his mistake, even if it meant making himself vulnerable.

  Whereas W won’t even tell me the truth when we’re alone. He did mean to hurt me. He meant to hurt me more than he meant to hurt Oakley, otherwise his comment wouldn’t have been about what a whore I am. It would have been something like Oakley Ford’s music sucks and he doesn’t know how anyone would want to date a washed-up pop star.

  “Whatever, W,” I mumble. “I guess the two years we were together didn’t mean anything to you.”

  “Are you kidding me right now?” he shouts in my ear. “I’m not the one who threw our relationship away. You did that. You’re the one who took a job that hurt us. You’re the one who made out with that asshole. You’re the one who lied to me about giving the agency my tape. You, Vaughn!”

  A wave of exhaustion crashes over me. I can’t do this anymore. Not again.

  But W isn’t done twisting the knife deeper. “We’re not going out anymore. I don’t owe you shit, and I can talk to whoever I want and say whatever I want about you.” Heavy breathing echoes on the line. “Stop calling me. I don’t want to see your name on my phone anymore. Actually, I’m deleting your number, how about that?”

  My bottom lip starts trembling. No. I refuse to cry over him again.

  “By the way, I saw those Instagram pictures of you and your has-been boyfriend—sweet and cozy and boring, huh, V? Made me even happier that I dumped your boring ass.” He laughs harshly. “Oh, and in case you were wondering, yes, I did get laid on Valentine’s Day. And I enjoyed every goddamn second of it.”

  With that final stab of the knife, my ex-boyfriend hangs up on me.

  27

  HIM

  1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 her ex is a loser

  OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 yeah but did it sound like she was cheating on him? He’s cute.