Please turn it back on. I wasn’t done looking at the single worst thing that’s ever happened to me,I nearly tell him. But when someone calls my favorite person a bitch, I’m not inclined to be polite.
“As if anything you’ve got going on is more interesting. You’re at a shit bar on a Tuesday night,” I say instead.
It was dumb to come out in the first place, but I needed to be somewhere, anywhere, I’d have a ghost of a chance of not being recognized. Especially tonight.
Our anniversary. Her birthday. Call it what you want.
Because for me, it’s the one night a year I let myself hate Wesley Hart, lead singer turned solo superstar, and long to be Wes Gaflin. I drink cheap shit that burns as it goes down, as if it will incinerate my regrets.
“What the fuck did you just say?” Phone guy swivels on me, puffing his chest. His splotchy beer-bloated cheeks could be cherubic if you squint, like, really hard.
I take a swig of my scotch and shrug. “You heard me. Don’t make me waste my breath on you.”
His friend peers around him and his eyes widen in recognition. A meaty finger points at my chest. “Hey! You’re that singer with the whiny songs and the crop tops.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Want to borrow one?” I get to my feet and face them. “Actually, that might be awkward after I’m done with you.”
I don’t know if I punch him for talking shit about the love of my life or because he’s the closest person to me when I learned she’s engaged.
Realistically, it’s both.
I don’t suggest making your best friend your lawyer unless you have a high tolerance for feeling like an idiot. And, as someone who spent a better part of the early 2010s in a mesh shirt and skinny jeans, I’ve been micro-dosing shame long enough to build up a suitable tolerance.
“You look like shit,” Garrett says as he slips his wallet into the inside pocket of his tailored jacket, probably coming from the entertainment law firm where he’s a senior associate.
He’s practically lived there since graduating from law school. He’s always spewing some damn bullshit about how it’s a more practical career path than music, as if he doesn’t have millions tucked away. If you ask me, I think he just likes being miserable.
Out of the guys, Garrett is the only one who still speaks to me. I get the odd Christmas card from Jared, his wife Alyssa, and his happy All-American family. And Luca? Yeah…I’ve taken enough of a beating tonight without dwelling on how shit went down with us.
“That's too bad. I was going for camera-ready. A smoky black eye look.”
“Shut up, or I’ll leave you here to rot.” And I know he will.
I stretch out and try not to wince as my ribs make a less than desirable noise. “Fine by me.”
He scrunches his nose. “I’m pretty sure someone died on that couch.”
“Then I’ll be the second.” Even with my swelling nose, I pick up the faint sour smell that has already started to cling to my clothes.
Instead of validating my response, he looks down his slender nose at me until I drag myself up.
The bar is empty, except for the bartender, who broke up the fight and locked me in the office. I should be thankful he didn’t call the cops. Kind of wish he did, though, since it would beat out her engagement for the front page.
The roles we’ve been playing for years: America’s pop-rock princess and the charming fuckup you can’t help but watch. Ten years and they never seem to get sick of it.
Garrett nods to the bartender and ushers me out, lifting his suit jacket like a cape to shield us from the flashing lights of camera-wielding paparazzi, and into the back seat of a town car.
“How much did you pay him?” I cock my head back toward the bar and instantly regret it as my head throbs.
“Don’t talk about money. That’s tacky.”
All right, then. No doubt he’ll bill me later.
“You sound ridiculous.”
“I sound like someone with tact.”
“Tact. Is that what you call the stick up your ass these days?”
