“I love you, you goofball,” I whisper to him.
He yowls a slow, soft, lazy,it’s like I’m making this noise because some force in the universe is making me and I can’t find the energy to fight what the universe wants me to donoise.
And I smile.
Just a few hours ago, I had a complete both-ends stomach revolt and total career meltdown on stage after a stranger announced to the world that he was my sperm donor.
I have zero doubt that’s all anyone’s talking about right now, and when my team gets done with their tasks, the gossips and the tabloids will have even more tea.
They won’t stop talking about me for weeks.
And for the first time in my life, I’m aware that the outside world is fully focused on me having what they’ll call a psychotic episode or a mental snap, some of them reporting it with glee, andI don’t care.
Not only do I not care, I’msmiling.
What can theyactuallydo to hurt me?
In all the years of the ugly reporting, I’ve never once had a young fan ask me if I really secretly have a sex room in my pool house. They never ask me if I stabbed Geofferson’s mother with a chopstick at dinner or if we broke up because I didn’t like the way he manscaped.
They don’t give two fucks about what the tabloids say about me.
They want me to hold their hands and look them in the eye and tell them that they’re good people worthy of love and that they can make their life into anything they want it to be, and that I believe in them.
Andthatis what matters.
Not what strangers on the internet think about me, or the people who take delight in thinking that I must be an awful person if I’m a woman with a successful public career.
So let them say what they’ll say.
I’m over it.
I’m over living my life for what other people say about me, and I’m ready to live my life for what will bringmejoy.
And what brings me joy isn’t what I expected or evenwantedright now.
That doesn’t mean I’m not going for it.
I sling Hashtag’s bag over my shoulder and pick him up, cradling him like a baby while he sings a song to whatever imaginary cat angels are circling his head.
“You are such a beautiful, hilarious, perfect kitty,” I croon to him.
He sings back to me.
We’re descending the curved staircase when I hear it.
Banging.
Someone’s banging on my door front.
How?
There are walls and security and more security and— “Oh my god.”
Either Cooper has an identical twin, or he’s banging on my door.
I never open my door when someone randomly knocks on it, but then, no one ever randomly knocks on it. Security is always pre-screening, and the one time someone climbed a fence undetected and got halfway to the front door, they were tackled and hauled away and I didn’t find out about it until three days later, because I was on tour and Aunt Zinnia hid it from me.
ButCooper is at my door.
