by Quinn Nolan
“You did what?” Things are bad enough without her egging them on.
She brushes off my concern. “I’m establishing myself as your badass best friend early. I don’t want to give them the chance to assign me a personality, you know?”
“Establishing yourself?” I shake my head. “No, this is gonna blow over, right? Tell me it’s gonna blow over.” The room tilts before me and I press my hands over my eyes. This can’t be real. This isn’t my life.
Reagan’s small hands grip my shoulders. “I hate to break it to you, hon, but Ever Anders is kind of a big deal.” She sighs. “They already know who you are.”
My legs give way beneath me and Reagan does her best to slow my descent, but I still make a solid thump when my rear hits the floor. It takes a few second before I can form words. “Show me.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s the best—”
“Show me.” My voice is stronger this time and, after a beat, Reagan relents. She pulls her phone from her purse and taps on the screen a few times before holding it out to me.
Ever Anders off the market? Who is Ashlyn Mackenzie? The headline is alongside a couple pictures of me walking from the house to my apartment. I kept my head down and tried to put my hand in front of my face as much as possible, but it doesn’t matter: They know my name. I scroll to the end of the article—which is thankfully rather short—and see a link to another article at the bottom. My hands were shaking so much when I got to the garage door that I dropped my keys. Someone snapped a picture when I bent down to get them, and beneath the image is another headline: Ashlyn Mackenzie: Too chubby to date a rock star?
I shove the phone back at Reagan, my stomach queasy. If my name’s out there, what are the chances that Graham doesn’t already know? I clutch my middle, afraid I might throw up. He doesn’t deserve this. As far as he knew, as of two days ago, he was my boyfriend. And now my name and picture are everywhere, along with the fact that I cheated on him with a rock star.
I cheated on him. The realization hits me like a sucker punch and I can’t draw breath. I’m a cheater.
“I have to get out of here.”
Reagan’s eyes widen and she blinks. “Um, okay. Where?” She rocks back on her heels. “I mean, are you sure that’s the greatest idea? They might follow you.”
“I know. That’s why you’re here. I’m gonna hide in your back seat and you’re gonna drive me to Graham’s place.” The words stick on their way out, but I force them anyway. Will it be uncomfortable? I’m sure it will be. In fact, it’s entirely possible Graham will yell at me—if he even lets me in. But I have to try to apologize, to make him understand it wasn’t my intention to hurt him. I owe him that.
Reagan stands, a grin stretching across her face. “I’m your getaway driver? Game on. This is so awesome.”
“Awesome” isn’t quite the word I’d use to describe any of this, but I don’t bother arguing the point.
In less than five minutes, I’m laid out flat in the back seat of Reagan’s yellow Cavalier, hidden beneath an extra bed sheet from my apartment. Reagan tries to convince me my best bet would be to hide in the trunk and actually looks put out when I shoot down the idea.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears as the garage door roars open and Reagan pulls out. I gave her the remote out of my car, so she doesn’t have to stop to close it behind her.
The driver’s side window is down and air makes my sheet flutter. I pull it more snugly around me as she pulls out onto Jefferson. “Peace out, bitches!” she yells, and though I can’t see her, I’m confident she’s flipping them off again.
Once out of range of the photographers, she rolls the window back up and reaches back to tap me. “There’s just one thing I’ve gotta know.”
I uncover my face and steel myself for her question. Will she ask how I could lie to her and Teresa? How I could betray Graham? Who I am and what I’ve done with the girl she’s known for the better part of a decade?
“How good was he? Off-the-charts phenomenal, I’m guessing.”
I cover my head again with the sheet.
***
The parking lot behind Graham’s apartment appears devoid of photographers, but I make Reagan circle the building twice before I get out, just to be sure. I don’t want to drag Graham into this any further than he’s already involved. It’s my mess.
I leave Reagan in her car and walk to the door to his unit. After a moment’s hesitation, I press on his buzzer.
A short eternity creeps past. “Yeah?”
“Graham? It’s—it’s Ashlyn. Can I come up?”
There’s a long pause. Then the door hums and clicks and I pull it open. I ascend the threadbare stairs to the second floor and knock on his door. He opens it before I can drop my hand to my side. His expression is inscrutable as he steps back, allowing me entrance. Does he know why I’m here? Is this his angry face? Or his hurt expression? For all the talking he does about himself, I realize now I don’t actually know him very well.
I cross into his apartment. It looks the same as it did the other day when he stopped by on our way to the beach to pick up a towel and his swim trunks: An acoustic guitar rests in a stand in front of the World’s Ugliest Futon—the pattern on the fabric is straight out of the 80s, with purple, green, and gold stripes and geometric shapes. A music stand sits cockeyed to the side of the futon, covered in sheets of scribbled-out lyrics and chords. Against the far wall, beside the small flat-screen TV hooked to several gaming consoles, is an amp with an electric guitar leaned against it, still in its case. How can the room look the same when so much has changed?
“Let’s sit,” I suggest, moving to the futon and perching on the edge. On the floor near my feet is Graham’s laptop, the screen not quite closed. From the glow reflecting off the keys, I can tell it hasn’t been long since he was on it. Has he seen the pictures?
He says nothing as he settles on the futon. He doesn’t position himself at the farthest point away from me, but he doesn’t sit as close as he may have yesterday, either. His eyes don’t leave my face.
I gulp. On the way over, I ran over countless scenarios in my head about what I would say and how he might react. But now, with him in front of me, none of them come.
After a long moment, Graham breaks the silence. “I think I know why you’re here.”
Warmth floods my whole body. “You think you know?” Is it possible he doesn’t know? Maybe he hasn’t been on the internet today—or maybe he was doing e-mail or booking a gig, not checking music or social media sites.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I figured something was up when you didn’t text me all day yesterday. Look, Ashlyn, I’m not stupid. It’s that Everett guy, isn’t it? He was there yesterday and that’s why you couldn’t hang out.”
I blow out a breath. So close to the truth, and yet still so far. “Yeah, it’s about Everett.”
He slumps forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs and hanging his head. “I knew from the night at my show that he was in the picture, but I told myself that we might still have a chance.” He shakes his head. “I really thought we could have something, you know? Like, I thought you could be the one.”
My breath hitches. He what? Is he being serious right now? We’ve been dating for less than two weeks—did he really jump from not recognizing me to thinking we might have a serious future that quickly? My mouth hangs open, but I can’t close it.
“I just... I can’t believe it’s over with us. It feels like we were just getting started.” He releases a heavy sigh.
I should say something, I know I should, but I can’t think of anything to say. He sounds so...sad. Not angry, just sad. I should count this as a win—he’s hurt, sure, but it could be so much worse. Maybe he can be spared the pain of knowing that not only am I choosing Everett, I’ve already chosen him—and the rest of the world already knows.
I’m about to speak—to tell him I’m sorry, to thank him for understanding—when his ring tone
sounds. He bolts up so quickly I jump back, startled. Wordlessly, he strides toward his bedroom. Seconds after he disappears into the room, the ring tone halts mid-chorus. The low murmur of his voice carries, even if his words don’t.
I rub my forehead. I should leave him in peace. I’ll wait until he comes back, say a proper goodbye, and leave. It’s what’s best for both of us.
A sound like a cork being popped and a brief flash catch my attention. My eyes land on his computer, still half open, at my feet. It takes me a second to place the sound. I usually keep my computer muted, but he must not—it sounds like a private message on MyFeedMe. I glance toward Graham’s bedroom. His door is almost completely closed, and he’s still talking, clearly in the middle of something important. The popping sounds again and my stomach drops. What if one of his friends is messaging him about the pictures? I shouldn’t look—after all, this is his private business—but I also feel horrible at the prospect of saying goodbye and having him immediately open his computer to find the truth behind our break up.
Before I can talk myself out of it, his laptop is balanced on my knees and I’m pressing open the screen. The web browser is open to MyFeedMe, and his FeedLine populates quickly. It takes me several seconds to figure out what I’m seeing, and when it finally dawns on me, I swallow back a surge of bile.
It’s all about me.
But that’s not all—everything here is about me in connection with Graham. There are links to pictures of me or of me with Everett, but every link is accompanied by words from his FeedMates.
I’m here for you, Graham.
#TeamGraham
I’m never listening to Toxicity again after what Ever Anders did to you.
That whore isn’t worth your time, Graham. Call me.
You’re way more talented than Ever Anders.
As soon as he goes online, he’ll see all this. I scroll down. It goes on for what seems like forever. My only vague hope is that by the time he sees it, all these messages will be buried so far down that he won’t notice them—but it’s thin at best.
Finally, after scrolling for what seems like forever, I find the place where my pictures first start appearing. I have to do a double-take when I read the accompanying message: Dude, isn’t this your girlfriend?
I squint at the small profile picture of the person who sent the message. It’s the drummer from his band—a guy I’ve never spoken to. How on Earth would that guy recognize me? And why is he calling me Graham’s girlfriend? It’s been less than two days since I accidentally called him my boyfriend, and I find it highly doubtful Graham would tell all his bandmates about us. I didn’t even get around to telling Reagan and Teresa.
But that’s not the most shocking thing about the post. There are a string of replies, and one of them is from Graham. Holy shit. Where’d you get that picture? Tell me it’s a sick joke, you asshole. After a slew of friends respond with links, presumably to different sites where the pictures and articles are, Graham posted again: I’m speechless. How could she do this to me? Followed by one more post: #heartbroken.
My mind reels. He knows—he’s known all day, judging by the timestamps. Either he’s just trying to play it cool in front of me, or something else is going on.
Another message comes through, causing the entire window to flash. A preview appears in the upper right corner of the page and I hover over it to keep it from disappearing. It’s from the drummer. I’ve got three bloggers lined up to interview you. None of them are huge, but they’ve all got a decent following—a couple hundred...
The rest of the text cuts off and it takes all my willpower to keep from clicking on it to read the rest. I want to believe I’m jumping to conclusions, that this could all be completely innocent and strictly band-related, but I have a sinking feeling these interviews have nothing to do with his music and everything to do with him being “#heartbroken.”
From his bedroom, Graham’s voice becomes more distinct. He’s nearing the door.
I can’t stay here. I have to go. Now. I put the computer back where I found it, closing the lid the way it had been, and rush out the door as silently as possible.
Chapter Twenty
Everett
“No,” I say, pacing back and forth in my room. Since this morning, I’ve left it only when absolutely necessary. I even filled the cooler with food and drinks so I wouldn’t have to go back and forth to the kitchen. “It’s not happening.”
From where my phone is propped on the dresser, Somer sighs. Due to the sensitive nature of today’s discussion, he’s foregone his usual stroll during our talk. Seeing him with an unmoving background is unsettling, like I’m watching an animal in a too-small cage. “Everett. If you’ll just look at things logically—just for a moment—I think you’ll see I’m right.”
“Is English your first language, Somer?”
His brow furrows. “Is English... Of course it is. Why?”
“I’m just wondering if I said no in a different language if you’d finally understand it.”
Somer tilts his head to the side, his eyelids drooping. “Oh, Everett. You are so funny, aren’t you,” he says without inflection.
I stop and drop backward onto my bed. I’m not trying to be funny, I’m trying to be heard. Really, I don’t know why I’m putting in the effort. Somer is notorious for only hearing what he wants to hear.
“Look, if this is about the girl, we can work something out. We’ll just wait until the tabloid stories die down—maybe have you seen about town with an up-and-coming starlet or two—and then, if you still want to see this...Ashley, is it?”
“Ashlyn,” I mutter to the ceiling.
“Well, then, we can arrange it. Let things simmer for, let’s say...six weeks? And—”
I bolt upright, my whole body tingling. “No. No way.” I blow out a breath, running my hand through my hair. I need to chill out. Sure, I disagree with Somer, but I’m getting close to a freak out here. “Look, I’ve still got two weeks to write, right? I mean, the label is still giving me that time, right?”
Somer’s lips press into a tight line and I know I’m correct. Before he can come up with a counter argument, I press on.
“So, what’s the harm in me staying? I’m writing good stuff, right? Did you listen to this batch yet?”
His eyebrows hitch upward. “Do you really think I’ve had time to listen to your songs with all of this going on?”
I hold up an apologetic hand. “You’re right—I’m sorry. But this place’s been good for writing. I’ve actually got another song knocking around in my head already.” I can see the indecision playing out across Somer’s features and I press on before he can mount another barrage. “I realize I messed up yesterday, not getting you the songs when I said I would. And the tabloids knowing I’m here—it’s not ideal. But I can still make this work.”
Somer’s resolve is cracking, and I can’t blame him. I’m almost convinced of what I said myself.
“Fine,” he says at last, looking harassed and irritated. “But if you’re staying, it’s on one condition: I’m coming there.”
My shoulders drop. “Seriously?”
He leans in close to the screen, so close that I can only see the center third of his face. “You’ve been there barely two weeks and the paparazzi already found you. Now either you haven’t been as careful as you claim when you’ve gone out or someone tipped them off. Either way, it’s clear you need your first line of defense a little closer to home. And I’ll be able to make sure you’re not too distracted by the—ah—local color to remember all you need to accomplish. There are plenty of rooms in that house, right?”
I groan. The last thing I need around here is Somer rattling around, checking up on me at every turn. If there’s one person I wouldn’t mind sharing this house with, it’s Ashlyn, not my manager. Will she even want to come over if he’s here? Or will him being here just weird her out? “You know, I don’t think having you in my space is really gonna jive with my creative vibe right now
—”
“We’ll discuss it when I get there.” He’s leaned back again and from his angle and posture, I’m pretty sure he’s on the computer, looking up flight information. “I should be there sometime this evening. Around seven?” His eyes flick back to the phone screen. “Do try not to get into any more trouble before I arrive.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Ashlyn
I really, really like waking up next to Everett.
Even though it’s late Sunday morning when I open my eyes and I know I need to get up and get ready for lunch, I don’t get out of bed right away, deciding instead to watch him sleep. Did he do this yesterday when he woke up first? I wonder if I look as beautiful when I sleep as he does.
After leaving Graham’s place yesterday, I called Everett at the lake house and told him I was going to spend the day out. He said he understood and promised the cameras would be gone by the time I got home.
I was scheduled to work the afternoon shift at the brewpub, but Kevin called about an hour before I was supposed to be in and told me to stay home: There were photographers waiting for me there, too. I ended up spending most of the day at Reagan’s place. She called off work so she could plan how to use my fifteen minutes of fame. It fell on deaf ears whenever I reminded her I didn’t want fame.
When I finally went home, barely five minutes passed before Everett appeared at the apartment, like he was waiting for me to arrive. Apparently his manager showed up and brought along one of the guys from the band and the large lake house was starting to feel cramped. So we spent the evening eating junk food and watching Soul Shift, which, when I first put it on, he claimed was for twelve-year-old girls, but after three episodes, I could tell he was hooked. He even got mad when Braden Crowe became convinced Celeste Hart was cheating on him, yelling at the TV that it was obviously a ploy by Braden’s friend.
Maybe it’s because I’ve only known him as Everett, the guy staying at the lake house, and not Ever Anders, international rock star, but it’s hard to reconcile the two images in my mind. Even though I’ve known who he really is, I still can’t see him as anything more than what he is right now: A sweet and gorgeous guy who, for some inexplicable reason, likes me.