So here we are, at Cash Rivers’s annual spring bash, because the networking opportunities for her will be incredible tonight. I’ll get to introduce Aspen to some of my favorite Hollywood stars and producers, which could put her on the path to writing music for high-profile projects. Getting pictures of her rubbing elbows with execs from various music labels should help her negotiate better terms for her first studio album when it’s clear that she’s in demand, or at least get buzz going if she decides to stay indie.
And I have indigestion.
I’ve done this dance before, throwing my weight behind someone to help their career take off.
This is different, I remind myself.
First, it’s intentional instead of accidental. Next, I had my team run a background check to make sure she’s the real deal. When they were satisfied, I friended her under a fake profile on TikTok and gushed about her to test out her reactions to a random nobody loving her music, and I found her to be lovely and charming and humble. I arranged acompletely by chancemeeting where I confirmed she’s the same in person as she seemed online.
And the final factor in my decision to take her under my wing, teach her everything I know, and help her launch her career into the stratosphere?
There’s no chance that I’ll fall in love with her.
But unfortunately, everyone’s focus is less on the fact that I’ve brought Aspen with me, and more on the fact that Geofferson is also here with his fiancée.
It’s been almost a year since we split up. Almost a year since we’ve been seen in the same place.
Almost a year since I was labeled the ice queen, blamed in the tabloids for our breakup, and completely lost my interest in men in general.
You could say dating lost its appeal.
And now here we are, with the whispers swirling all around me and that self-doubt and embarrassment and shame that I didn’t see what was right in front of my eyes the whole time welling up all over again and threatening to make my sensitive stomach cause a major scene.
“Ignore him,” Aspen whispers beside me.
“That’s a lot easier to do when everyone else is ignoring the elephant in the room,” I murmur, trying desperately to evade all the curious glances and the way my stomach is gurgling like it needs a bathroom more than it needs to be at this party. “Also, I’m about to change my mind. I can’t make you famous if you’re going to have to deal with all of this crap too.”
“I have an amazing therapist and an unhealthy amount ofI don’t give a shit what unimportant people think of mein my personality. It comes with the kind of rejection I’ve had all of my life, but that you didn’t have until Geofferson. Who didn’t deserve you, by the way.”
I catch sight of Geofferson’s blond head across the wide-open living room in this Malibu mansion, hear his obnoxious fake laugh that he only does when he’s working on impressing someone more important than he is, and I flinch.
He shouldn’t be here.
You’re so high-maintenance, Waverly. You’re so picky about what you eat, you spend more time on your wardrobe every day than most people spend in an entire week, you never have time for me, and now that my career is taking off, there’s not time for us to have an actual relationship.
I washigh maintenancebecause I have stomach issues, the world expects eight costume changes at every concert, and my career is as demanding as it is rewarding.
Meanwhile, his career was taking off after I introduced him to all the right people in all the right places to set everything in motion tomakehis career take off.
Is he that great of an actor?
He’s decent, but he’ll never win any awards.
And his band on the side?
See again, decent, but it’ll never win any awards.
Not that he’s not good, or that he doesn’t have fans that connect with his style and his kind of talent. But the number of people who’ve quietly told me he never would’ve gone anywhere, and definitely not with the speed that everything exploded for him without my endorsement, makes me feel totally used.
I have no idea if any of them are being honest, or if they’re telling me what they think I want to hear.
Either way, what I did for Geofferson is giving me not only indigestion, but also the threat of an incredibly embarrassing situation if that gurgling in my stomach moves to my intestines.
And here I am, doing the exact same thing for Aspen tonight.
I tell my digestive system to simmer down and nudge Aspen toward the pool deck outside. Air sounds heavenly.
“Have you met Cash yet?” I ask.
