by Erin Watt
The rest of lunch flies by. I love Oakley’s mom. She isn’t the most maternal woman, but it’s obvious she’s proud of her son, and she doesn’t stop talking about his records and awards. She even shows me pictures of him on her phone. Her home screen is a candid shot of Oakley lying on a beach chair. He’s not smiling, but he looks happy. He also looks young—sixteen, maybe.
“That was taken at my place in Malibu,” she says when she sees me staring at the screen. “A few years ago.” She pauses. “He hasn’t been there in a while. Not since Roadside Manners came out.”
Another Katrina Ford movie I haven’t seen. I want so badly to give her a big hug, but even if I thought I could do it without embarrassing us both, I don’t get the chance. My phone starts vibrating in my purse, buzzing again and again with every incoming text message.
“Oh, sorry. Do you mind?” I awkwardly gesture to my purse.
Katrina waves a careless hand. “Go ahead, sweetie.”
I pull out my phone and check the screen, frowning when I find a dozen messages from W. I glance hastily at Katrina, but she’s on her own phone, typing away with lacquered nails, so I surreptitiously start reading W’s texts.
We need to talk.
Srsly don’t ignore this.
Call me.
This is not ok w me. If u care, ur going to call me and explain WTF is going on. Sick of hearing abt u from peeps here. Sick of being the one getting crapped on.
My stomach drops. I meant to call him earlier and explain everything, but I got distracted by Claudia and then Oakley and now Katrina. And while I understand what’s driving him—he saw the pictures of me kissing Oakley and he’s pissed—W knows he’s not allowed to be texting me like this.
I say as much, typing a furious response.
We shouldn’t be texting.
Hopefully if anyone ever steals my phone and sees what I wrote, they’ll think I mean we shouldn’t be texting because we broke up, and not because a nondisclosure agreement is forcing us not to.
My message doesn’t get the desired response. Instead of backing off, W just calls me.
I press Ignore so forcefully that Katrina looks up in concern. “Everything okay?” she asks.
I take a deep breath. “Yes. No. It’s just...my ex—” I trip over the word “—boyfriend keeps texting me. I guess he’s still not over the breakup,” I say lamely.
She gives a knowing smile. “And I’d bet who you’re dating now isn’t helping him get any closure.”
“No, it’s not helping at all.” My phone rings six more times before I finally power it off, but the sinking feeling in my heart doesn’t go away.
I need to diffuse this W bomb before it explodes in all of our faces.
20
HER
Katrina insists on driving me home. I take her up on it because, yeah, private transportation beats public any day for a hundred different reasons, even though I complained about it to Oakley once. Private cars means no one sitting next to you smelling like day-old gym socks, or having to stop every other second to let off a hundred people before your destination.
“You’ll have to help me plan Oakley’s birthday this spring,” Kat says.
I’m a bit startled that she thinks Oakley and I will be together in the spring. I mean, per my contract, we will, but I wonder what he said to convince his mother that our relationship was going to last that long. “Ah, sure.”
“What do you think he’d like to do?”
Record with King. “We should do a retro birthday and do a bunch of little kid games like pin the tail on the donkey and a piñata with lots of candy,” I joke. Oakley would probably hate that.
Her eyes widen. “Oh, that’s perfect. Let’s do that.”
“No! I was just kidding,” I protest, but Katrina’s already on the phone to someone telling them that they need to look into booking the party room at the Montage. “Really, Katrina. I was totally kidding. I think Oakley would like—” I cast around for something suitably nineteen years old but then realize that Oakley is no ordinary nineteen-year-old, soon to be twenty. He probably wants strippers and girls jumping out of cakes. That thought makes me frown angrily. I hope he’s not entertaining other girls when he’s supposed to be my boyfriend.
The Escalade pulls to a stop in front of my curb, and Katrina’s driver rounds the front to my side. I heave a sigh and climb out. “Skate park. He’d like to go to a skate park,” I suggest, because the thought of stripper cakes is gross, but I don’t think she hears me.
“Katrina! Vaughn!”
There’s a photographer on the street, leaning out of his car window. Did he follow us? Jeez, that’s creepy.
Katrina doesn’t even react to his shouts. It’s like he doesn’t exist to her.
“I’ll call you, darling.” She blows me a couple of kisses that are captured by the photographer, while I jog to the front door.
Great. I’m going to have to warn Oakley about this, although...it might be kinda hilarious to see his face when he walks into his twentieth birthday party and sees a bunch of us wearing party hats and holding paper donkey tails.
Maybe I won’t tell him. Maybe I’ll keep it a secret and then laugh my butt off. In fact, if I share the idea with Claudia, she’ll probably end up dying with glee over the wholesome nature of the plan.
A grin spreads across my face as I picture Oakley in a blindfold staggering around with a broomstick while whacking at a papier mâché pony. Katrina would probably fill the piñata with gold coins or hundies, but it’d still be hilarious. And it would serve him right for being such a jerk to me last night.
Speaking of jerks... I power my phone on and call W as I head upstairs to my bedroom. He picks up on the first ring, which tells me he was waiting for me to call him back.
“Why won’t you answer any of my texts?” he demands.
“Because we’re not supposed to be texting. I could get in trouble if it comes out that we’re in contact. I told you that before.”
“Is that in your contract?” he mocks. “Do you have specific terms in there like how many times he gets to stick his tongue down your throat or is that a freebie you threw in because you get to hang out with Oakley Ford now?”
My pulse speeds up in panic. “It’s not like that.”
“Either your thing with Ford is a publicity stunt or you’re cheating on me,” he says bluntly.
“You know what this is.” It’s not the greatest answer, but I can’t say any more because I’m afraid Jim will appear with his hammer.
“Uh-huh, sure. It’s all fake, right?” He curses angrily. “Well, it doesn’t look fake. You’re smiling in those pictures! And in the one where he’s licking you like you’re an ice cream cone, you’re squeezing his arms. And what about those Tweets?” W recites a few of the Tweets Oakley and I exchanged after the ice cream date. “Those don’t sound like just friends to me, V!”
“It’s nothing,” I insist.
“Do you know how this looks at school? Guys look at me like I’m some dumb schmuck. Girls think I’m a big fat loser. Last night I was at some party and my roommates are all getting some. There are dimes everywhere, but me? I’m standing in the corner, holding my dick in my own hand because my girlfriend, who should’ve been making out with me, is kissing some jerk in front of the camera!”
I can practically see him frothing at this point. And what can I say? He’s right. If the tables were turned, I’d be superupset every time I saw a picture of W with his fake girlfriend. I’d have a very hard time believing it wasn’t real. When I look at those pictures, they don’t look like I’m hating life or hating Oakley. I look...happy and excited.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, too.”
“About what?” But I know even before h
e says the words. I know because of the guilty note in his voice that’s mixed with a sort of triumph.
Rather than respond, he goes quiet again. Then he swears. “Look, I’m coming over tonight. We’ll talk about it then, okay?”
I don’t want to talk about it. I... Oh God, I don’t want to know. And yet I still find myself saying, “Talk to me now.”
W remains stubborn. “No. I want to see you. My last class ends at six. I’ll head over right after and be at your place around eight.”
It’s only three! He’s going to make me wait five hours to hear whatever terrifying thing he has to say? Who does that?
“Please just tell me now,” I plead.
“I’ll be over later,” is all he says.
Then he hangs up.
* * *
I spend the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening worrying about W’s visit. Paisley gets home from work to find me curled up on my bed watching a slideshow on my laptop. Pictures of me and W from high school flash across the screen. The ones that used to make me smile don’t inspire the same response tonight, no matter how hard I focus on all those good memories.
“You okay?” my sister asks with a frown.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Is W mad about the kiss?” she guesses.
I nod miserably. Paisley comes over and sits down on the bed. Her hand smooths over my hair. “This is harder than you thought it was going to be, isn’t it?”
An image of W and me at the beach pops up. His arm is wrapped around my waist and he’s looking so happy. I don’t think I’m ever going to see that smile directed toward me again.
“I think he hooked up with someone else at a party last night.” I slap the laptop shut. “He’s coming over to tell me something because he’s ‘sorry, too.’”
Paisley’s mouth thins out. I’m not sure if she’s upset at me inviting W over or him hurting me. Probably a mixture of both. “Unless he’s involved in some make-believe relationship, too, that is so not cool.”
“But is it fair of me to be angry with him?” I counter, torn between my own guilt and my anger. “Because I did kiss Oakley last night.”
Or rather, he kissed me.
“This is your job. It’s like you’re an actress and you’re playing a part.”
“But W doesn’t know that.”
Paisley’s hand stops on the top of my head. “I know you. I know you tried to explain as much as you could without breaking the NDA, and W’s smart enough to put two and two together. If he cheated on you, it’s not your fault.” She sighs. “Now, I’m not going to call Claudia and tell her you’re breaking the rules, because I love you and this is difficult, but you can’t invite him over again without Claudia’s permission. There aren’t cameras camped outside—yet.”
I clench my hands together. I hate this, even though I know Paisley is right. The other times W has come over, Claudia made sure to arrange some PR event for Oakley so that the cameras would be drawn to him and not to me.
“You going to be okay?” Paisley asks.
“Sure.” I climb off the bed, because sitting in my room moping isn’t going to accomplish anything. “I’m going to make a cake. Have a preference? Red Velvet? Molten Lava?”
A smile appears on my sister’s face as she considers the options. “How about your milk cake?”
“Tres leches? I can do that.”
Baking the cake gives my brain something to think about other than W, Oakley and the complicated mess my life has become. On the bright side, at least I’m not worrying about how I have no vision for the future. On the not-bright side, the anxiety in my stomach might give me ulcers before the age of twenty.
When my boyfriend finally shows up, it’s eight thirty and my nerves are high. Neither of us speaks as we walk into my bedroom and shut the door. We just stand there for a moment, eyeing each other.
W looks the way he always looks. Jeans, a rugby shirt, sneakers and a backward baseball cap. But his crooked grin is missing, and his eyes contain a bit of a chill.
After a few seconds he throws himself on my bed, which he knows I hate. I like things tidy and he’s messing them up, but I feel guilty about so many things that I don’t have the nerve to tell him to get off my bed and sit in the chair like a normal human.
Irritably, I pull out my desk chair. “Will you please get your shoes off my comforter?”
“Oh, so Oakley Ford can French you, but I can’t have my tennis shoes on your bed?”
I guess we’re getting right into it. Awesome.
I sigh softly. “Look,” I begin, “I know how hard this has been on you. It’s been hard on me, too.”
He snorts.
My eyes darken. “W.”
“Sorry.” He sounds sheepish, albeit grudgingly.
“It’s been hard on me, too,” I repeat. “I don’t particularly enjoy doing what I’m doing even if I’m with Oakley Ford.” Just the sound of Oakley’s name makes W frown. “And I know it looks like we’re having so much fun together. I know it looks real. But it’s not.”
“What about the pictures at the club?” he mutters. “His mouth on yours looked pretty real, Vaughn.”
“I know. But I told you there would be some harmless kissing.”
“Harmless?” he echoes, raking both hands though his hair. “Do you know how much it sucks seeing my girlfriend kissing some other dude? Some other famous dude? Do you even care how it affects me?”
“Of course I care.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me, because he just keeps going. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this. It’s only been a month and I can’t imagine having to deal with it for eleven more.”
“I know,” I say miserably. “But this is us, W. We’re stronger together than apart, remember?”
The hardness in his features slowly loosens. “Do you really not like him?”
I draw my legs up and sit cross-legged on the chair. “I do like him.” When W’s eyes narrow, I hold up my hand. “As a friend.”
A friend? When did that happen?
“He’s not what I thought he was. I mean, yeah, he’s spoiled sometimes and kind of a jackass other times. But he’s talented and hardworking and...lonely.”
W scoffs. “Lonely? Yeah, right.”
“It’s true, or at least I think it is. His life is tough. Just spending time with him and being in his world, you’d be amazed how little privacy he has. He doesn’t even know if his friends are friends with him because they like him or because they want something from him. It’s very isolating.” I let out a tired breath. “I feel sorry for him sometimes.”
Sorry for him? Is that all you feel?
Argh. I really wish I could shut out that voice.
W falls silent. For a long time. As in, almost a full minute goes by.
“W?” I say hesitantly.
He slowly meets my eyes. “I didn’t want to do it, but it happened.”
My heart stops. “W...” It’s almost a warning, because...because I can’t hear this. If he says it out loud, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to come back from this.
“At the party last night...” He trails off.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I blurt out.
“No, I do. There was this girl there. I had a little too much to drink.”
My palms are so damp I have to wipe them on my knees. “I don’t need to hear this,” I mumble.
He barrels forward. “All night, guys were giving me these side glances. And she was there. She had barely anything on. I swear, I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for those pictures. I could see his tongue. It was in your mouth.” He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.
My eyes start to sting. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you th
ink of me at all when you’re posing for that trash and putting it out there for all our friends to see? Because last night, when this girl was all over me, I kept thinking about you and how I wished you were the one dancing with me. I wanted you to be the one I was kissing, not this chick.”
“Oh, W, no.” The tears slip out and slide down my cheeks. It was one thing to suspect W hooking up on me, but hearing it confirmed is more painful than I imagined. “Why?”
He reaches forward to squeeze my cold, clammy hands. “I didn’t want to. I swear, I wouldn’t have kissed her at all if it hadn’t been for those pictures. He had his hands in your hair. The two of you were making out and I looked like a chump. It made me angry.” I try to pull away, but his grip is too strong. “And I realized something the other night.”
I clench my teeth. “A moment of epiphany when you were kissing some stranger?”
“Exactly.” He doesn’t register my sarcasm. “If we’re going to make this work for us, we need to have a stronger connection than the one we already have.”
“But I love you.” Those words have never sounded more pathetic.
“You say that, but there’s still something you’re holding back.” He reaches out and wipes away a few of my tears with his thumb. “We need to take it to the next level. I’ve been real patient. Some guys would’ve pressured you, but I never did. Prom night, remember? I stopped when you asked me to stop.”
After a lot of bitching and moaning and telling me that we were the only ones stopping, but yes, you stopped. I pull my bruised fingers from his and rub my forehead. He wants me to be grateful that he stopped and that...that pisses me off.
And that he’s using my kissing Oakley as an excuse to cheat on me; that makes me even angrier. But I have my own issues. I can’t deny that when I was in the car with Oakley after the ice cream date, I felt things I’d only ever felt when I was with W.
“Why is everyone we know having sex but us?” He shoots to his feet to loom over my chair. “My roommates all got laid the other night. With girls they didn’t even know. These chicks at college aren’t uptight like you are. And they definitely aren’t making out with other guys and telling me no at the same time. I could’ve slept with that girl last night but I didn’t.”