“All smiles, we’re on a romantic picnic!” He grins, but even he seems to be finding this ridiculous. He lies down properly, taking the last slice of the apple pie. “Why don’t you put your hair up in a bun or something? My sisters do it all the time.”
I try to sit with my knees bent and legs angled to the side, but it feels like the fabric of the skirt wasn’t made for this. At least I’m in the shade.
“That’s horrifying. It can’t be good for straightened hair.”
William turns to me with both eyebrows raised and pie crumbs around his mouth. “That’s not what your hair naturally looks like?”
I shake my head.
“Huh.” He frowns, sits up, and starts taking off his plaid shirt. I’m about to ask what the hell he’s doing, but I don’t have time to make an uncomfortable joke about his striptease before he hands me the shirt, and says, “Here. You can wrap this around your waist. So you can sit however you want. It’s not the best, but it’d help, wouldn’t it?”
“I—yes. Yes, it will.” And a little late, because I’m still not sure what this is, I add, “Thank you.”
I know that it won’t be super fashionable for the pictures. But at least I can sit. Right now, I’m caring more about the latter.
“Okay.” I pull my hair to the side so it doesn’t bother me as much. “Our order of the day is taking at least one very good selfie so we can post it to our Instagram accounts, and possibly making some Instagram stories, too, so people can see how spontaneous we are.” I waggle my eyebrows at “spontaneous.”
William nods. “That. Or we could just eat and talk for a bit, let those people do their jobs and take their pictures, and then we can take a few selfies, when it’s not too awkward.”
“This is not awkward. I’m not feeling awkward.”
He smirks. I don’t like that smirk.
“I’m not,” I insist.
“You’re not, I get it. You’re perfectly comfortable. Your choice of clothes reflects that rather well.” He winks at me. Who even winks? He must think he’s the lead of a nineties rom-com or something.
He pulls the basket closer and starts going over the contents, putting them on the blanket between us. “I did eat the apple pie, but we also have some strawberries, which I guess is supposed to be sexy?” He makes a funny face. “We also have some nuts, which are definitely not sexy.” He places the little plastic container next to the one with strawberries. “A few sandwiches, too. I assume Ashley prepared these herself, with all her love,” he says, with a hint of sarcasm.
I reach for the container with the sandwiches, and grab one. The label reads turkey sandwich by eddy’s. I flash him the label, and smile. “No doubt. Ashley definitely handpicks all the food and prepares it herself.”
“For all the fake dates,” he agrees. “Can I ask you a question?”
Universally speaking, that phrase never precedes anything good. I clutch his shirt a little closer to my waistline and nod, forgetting that I probably shouldn’t look this tense for the pictures. But if he notices, he doesn’t mention it.
“First time we saw each other, at the awards, before…Your handbag fell. And an inhaler fell out of it. I don’t want to make any assumptions, but you seemed freaked out.”
Oh. Yeah.
That.
I take a deep breath. William’s staring at the picnic basket. I look past him at the trees standing tall around us and the grass so freshly cut that everything smells like it.
Tucking some of my hair behind my ears, I say, “I don’t really have asthma. But whenever I go to big events, I take an inhaler with me. My first time on The Late Show, I couldn’t breathe. I was waiting in the greenroom, and I just couldn’t for the life of me find my breath. It wasn’t asthma. I was nervous. But I remember wishing it was something like asthma, because then it wouldn’t be my fault. Just something that couldn’t be helped. The inhaler is like a security blanket. It’s weird, but I calm down faster when I hold it.” I shrug, my eyes still focused on the grass.
But I catch his reaction, the consideration in his eyes and the way he seems uncomfortable. It’s like he’s fighting a small war with himself on what to say next.
“I’m so sorry—”
I cut him off. “It’s okay. It’s not like my nerves are your fault.” I shrug, hoping my expression makes it come across as no biggie. I add, “The doctor did think I had asthma at first. That’s why I have the inhaler. But my voice coach had us follow up with a specialist, and it turns out I didn’t.”
“Yeah. Was it like an anxiety attack?” he presses.
Was it? I don’t know. I never put a name to it.
“Probably, but it doesn’t matter, because I hardly need it anymore.” Not often. The last time I felt close to losing my breath like that was at the People’s Choice Awards.
William studies me in that way of his, like he’s taking in every inch of me. Finally he asks, “Did you bring it today?”
“I…didn’t.” I feel like I should probably explain that I only get that nervous at events or big performances or…well. I don’t know how to explain why I don’t have it now. “I don’t want anyone to find out about this.” Nobody knows. Not Bobbi, not Ashley, not Brenda or Padma. Definitely not Trent. Only Mom. And now William, I guess.
He gives me a nod, and then there’s that silence between us again, but it isn’t like before. It’s understanding.
He’s quiet and keeps flipping the handle of the basket, unconsciously trying to break it.
“Acting is a big deal for you, isn’t it?” I ask.
He looks up at me, and his whole face lights up. “I love it. Yeah. I do take it seriously.”
“How did you get involved in that?” I grab another sandwich.
“Oh.” William hums. “I was in plenty of school plays. Then one day this old man approached me after a play and I tried to run away because, as you know, children are not supposed to talk to strangers. Turns out he was a scout.”
I almost spit out my food. “No way!”
“Yes way,” he replies, laughing. “I was maybe nine? What even was in Cedrick’s head, to approach a child like that without any parent around? That was bananas.”
I think the fact that he says “bananas” is bananas, but I don’t say that.
Instead I nod along. “Yeah, I was also scouted. From a talent show. But Bobbi was definitely more professional about it and gave her card to Mom before she even looked my way twice.” Realizing I may sound arrogant, I add, “But I’m sure Cedrick is an excellent guy and hasn’t crept on pre-adolescent boys since.”
“Oh no, not that I know of. Now he’s solidly creeping on dogs.”
“What!”
“He actually has a new client who’s a dog. Apparently, it will be in a big movie next year and all. I can imagine how easy it is to get auditions when everybody wants to pet you.” Remorsefully, he adds, “Nobody wants to pet me, Natalie.”
For a moment I actually consider petting him. Not because I’d like to feel his dark curls under my hand, I tell myself, but because it’d be good for the pictures.
“So how’s fame been for you?” he asks, and then stuffs his mouth with two strawberries at once. Definitely not sexy.
I open and close my mouth, searching for the words.
Empowering. Draining. Incredible. Terrible.
“Fame is complicated. But music…music is simple.” I shrug. He smiles. A tilted corner-of-mouth type of smile. His big green eyes are encouraging, and before I know it, I’m talking again. “I feel like music is as important to me as air. I don’t think I can live without it. Wait, is that a total cliché?”
He laughs. “A little cliché. But I get it.”
I nod. “Right. There’s something magical about having a full arena of fans singing your words. I’ve written all my songs, and the moment I
offer one to the crowd, it feels like we’re sharing that epiphany.”
William’s still sitting with his back a little hunched and the basket between his legs, but I swear it’s like the gravity around us changes, pulling us closer together. He doesn’t look away and I don’t, either.
He slowly nods. “That’s special.”
I realize something and groan. “So you’re probably wondering about ‘Together Forever,’ and how stupid I was to write that about Trent and me.”
That steals a laugh from him. “I wasn’t thinking that at all! But do tell if you want to.”
I shrug. “I wrote that song when we first met. He was my first boyfriend. I think I’m entitled to think it was going to be forever, right?” I glance at his shirt over my legs, my hands fidgeting around the edges so I have something to do with myself. “Everyone must be mocking me for that song. Maybe not as much now, since I have a new boyfriend.” I pause, rolling my eyes. He doesn’t laugh this time. “But I did think it’d be forever.”
William sighs. “My therapist says that every step on the way forces us to go forward. I get that it can’t be fun to have all those people prying into your personal life. But I do believe it’s pushing you forward.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You have a therapist?”
He frowns. “You haven’t got one?”
I’m sure I look like a fish, opening and closing my mouth. Great move, Natalie.
“I—no, I don’t. I thought you had to be depressed or something to be in therapy.”
William laughs, so fondly that he actually claps, as if that’s rich. He puts the basket away, and scoots closer until he’s next to me, and looks down at his hands as if guiding my eyes.
“Okay, no, it’s like this.” He points his index fingers forward, and moves them in parallel, without them getting close. “It’s sort of, this is your mental health, right? And then for a number of reasons—maybe childhood trauma or chemical imbalances or current stress or whatever, doesn’t need to be something recent—this happens.” He keeps moving one finger at the same pace in a straight line as before, and the other goes a little off, moving in bizarre shapes. I glance away from his fingers and up to his face with an honest-to-God confused expression. This whole finger thing makes no sense. But he’s still dedicated to his explanation. “So for you to learn how to deal with those moments better, and keep the pace—” He makes both hands move in a straight line again. “Therapy. Everyone on the planet can benefit from it.”
He grins.
“Right,” I say. “Um, okay, I admit that maybe if I’d been in therapy when the whole thing blew up, it wouldn’t have been as hard. Or so I hope.”
He shrugs. “You don’t need to wait for the next crisis to go to therapy. I didn’t.”
I suck my bottom lip in, watching him. He’s so close.
I wonder about the traumas he’s suffered, and what crises he’s averted and which ones he didn’t. But I know I’d be intruding if I asked.
Perhaps in an attempt to win his trust somehow, I blurt out, “I don’t know my dad.”
William raises his eyebrows, but not in a way that’s full of pity. It’s like he wasn’t expecting it, but he doesn’t want to shut me out, either. He gives me a small nod to go on if I want to, and though I don’t usually talk about this, I find myself wanting to dive in.
“He left when my mom was pregnant. She was really young, so that wasn’t great…I mean, I guess. It’s not like I was there to see it unfold.” I shrug, but the way he looks at me, earnest, tells me that he knows my attempt at humor has more to do with my nervous hands than really wanting to be funny. “Mom raised me. Even when she’s busy, it’s…us. A team.”
I can see every shift in his expression.
So much understanding. It makes me feel suspended in time.
William’s eyebrow twitches, and he says, “I can’t pretend I know what that feels like, but…Dad died last year. We were not that close. I was always closer to Mum and my siblings. He was gone a lot, working his office job. But I still miss him.”
I want to reach out and squeeze his hand so bad.
It makes me self-conscious of where my hands lie on my thighs.
“I am so sorry—”
He stops me. “It’s okay. He was already a bit sick. The part that sucks even more is that it left us in a bunch of debt, between the funeral and the loss of income.” He shrugs. “But he was sick, yeah. It gets to a point where you know it’s best to say goodbye, that they’re just…suffering.”
I’ve never had anyone in my family be seriously sick; my grandpa died before I could form any memories of him. Still, I want to show William that I relate, that I understand. How do you show support without knowing how deeply it has affected someone?
Suddenly, his eyes land on me with surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry, you were talking about what happened to you, and I went full blues on you.”
The way he says that makes me laugh, and my face warms up. “No, that’s okay. Thanks for sharing. I wouldn’t have known what to add about my dad leaving, to be honest. It’s just something that happened.”
“Part of your history, huh?” he asks.
“I’d never thought about it that way, but I guess so, yeah.”
We stare at each other for another second.
His eyes search my face for something. I don’t know if he finds it, but suddenly his nostrils flare and he clears his throat. “Should we, um, take some selfies?”
I take my phone out. “Say cheese.”
Mom doesn’t want to watch novelas—too preoccupied with work stuff that she says I can’t help her with—so I’m confined to my bedroom, searching Netflix for something to watch that won’t demand deep emotional investment.
There’s some guilt involved, too. I know I’m supposed to be writing. I even vaguely know the concepts I want to explore in my next songs, but as I stare at my guitar sitting pretty on the other side of the bedroom, I can only groan and turn back to the Netflix home screen.
I’m on the first five minutes of a gardening reality show when my phone beeps.
It’s Brenda. She sends me a picture with a heart-eyes emoji.
It’s one of the pictures that were “leaked” from the picnic yesterday. William and me sticking our tongues out to take a selfie on my phone, his head resting on my shoulder, my other hand high to angle the picture.
It’d been a little awkward, as we pretended we’d done this a thousand times, but seeing the picture, we look perfectly comfortable and happy.
I close the Messages app and go to my Instagram page to see the pictures we posted. He posted the silly one; I posted one of us smiling at the camera. Super ridiculously staged, but we’re so cute. My hair isn’t as sweaty, and my makeup is impeccable, subtle enough that it could maybe seem like I’m not wearing any.
A lot of effort goes into looking effortless.
And William…he looks good, too. Fluffy, curly hair combed back, as he smiles his slightly crooked smile at the camera. His green eyes are killer.
They get brighter when he’s happy.
I go to his page next. The picture of us both sticking our tongues out is his latest post. The caption is a little red heart.
He looks so silly. We both look so silly.
I fall back in bed, holding the phone above me, and go back to some of his other pictures. His stupid socks. His hair that could use a haircut. His love for his family.
I turn around, touching his profile picture for the Instagram story.
On the screen, I see myself rolling my eyes with a smile. He says, “Do it! Please!” and I laugh—not a forced laugh, but a real laugh—before singing the chorus to “God Save the Queen” by the Sex Pistols, shaking my head so my hair goes everywhere.
He cheers. End of video.
“Silly, silly, silly,” I
repeat out loud, as if for good measure.
I suck on my bottom lip as I go through the numbers. His followers have doubled already. I read the comments, and a quick overview tells me that people are enjoying us together.
A match made in PR agency heaven.
But I refuse to feel weird about this.
This was an important business decision. Bobbi texted me that we’re back on top, ironically, with “Together Forever.” I need to write new songs. And I also need to stop thinking about all the things I need to do.
I groan and pull the laptop back on my lap. I try watching three more minutes of the reality show, before I put it on pause and open another tab and search “William Ainsley.”
The whole first page of results is about us together. One of the headlines is Everything You Need to Know About Natalie’s New Boo. I click. It mostly talks about him being a British actor of indie movies, that he’s won awards, that he’s done a lot of volunteer work with children.
I go back to the search page and click through until it’s news only about him.
Finally, I find something that makes me pause. It’s a link to his Romeo and Juliet remake on Amazon Prime.
Mmmm.
Nobody will judge me if nobody knows.
I hit play.
* * *
“Morning, sunshine.”
For a split second, I think William is waking me up.
Mom doesn’t seem to have noticed. She’s too busy pulling open all my curtains so forcefully she might rip them. “Morning?” I say, squinting against the sun, trying to regain some of my dignity.
When she’s done with the curtains, she comes and sits on the end of my bed. She has that look on her face, like I should guess what she’s about to say, but if I try, I’ll get it wrong.
“Vovó’s birthday is today.”
I raise both eyebrows, and my stomach does a little flip thing that isn’t cute.
“Oh. That’s…that’s great.”
Mom sighs, her shoulders falling. “Why is it so hard for you to call and say feliz aniversário? You don’t need to have a fifty-minute conversation. Though she would appreciate that.”
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