I clear my throat, unsure what this feeling is.
For more than half my life, I’ve been focused on one singular goal. To become a successful musician. It’s all I’ve wanted. All I’ve worked for. I wanted to play my own music, not words and melodies others wrote for me. I wanted to win awards. To make enough “fuck you” money so I’d never have to do anyone else’sbidding. I wanted enough success, so my brother and my dad could never deny that I’d made the right decision about leaving. I wanted to play stadiums whenever it suited me.
I did all that. On this last tour, I should have been on top of the world.
Instead, just as I reached the pinnacle of my success, all I could feel was stretched—wound tense and tight. I would have thought that high up, it would be like soaring. But everything was flat. Not even music brought me joy.
All I could think was, is this the way it’s supposed to feel? I’ve been climbing this mountain for so many years. Is this the view from the top, where everything familiar is so far away, with the air so thin that I can’t breathe, with the climb so steep, there’s no one else?
But now, sitting here playing my guitar, the view is clear, my favorite shade of blue in the sea and sky.
And I’m no longer alone. The girl standing before me makes me feel like no one else.
I can’t name it. It’s a little like what I felt skydiving for the first time. Just before I fell.
It’s sun-bright and exhilarating. It’s dizzying.
And everything I’d been so certain about starts to crumble.
CHAPTER 33
Daisy
(TEN YEARS AGO)
Dear Diary,
It’s all a mess.
The biggest tabloid ran a photo of Chase James carrying an unknown girl out of a club. It was me, of course, passed out drunk and covered in vomit.
Chase tried to keep the story from me, but I’m a teenage girl with a laptop and a phone. Of course I saw it.
That was humiliating enough, but at least the photo didn’t capture my face. So, Chase thought that might be the end of it. But the fans and the gossip sites started, and the mystery of my identity became the biggest story in Hollywood.
And then I did the worst thing I could. I read the comments. Chase said the one rule of being a celebrity is to never read the comments. They’ll eviscerate you. Steal your peace, destroy your self-esteem. And I’m not even close tobeing a celebrity with a good dose of confidence. For too many days, I feel like I’m an empty shell. Brittle. One fall away from crumbling completely.
So I have no defense for the vitriol and the trolls. They call me slut, whore, gold digger, druggie, loser, and way, way worse. They circle every imperfection on my body, hair, clothes, skin.
I’ve become a girl obsessed. I read every story. Every social media site. Every fan blog and tabloid. And every last comment. I haven’t come out of my room for two days. All I do is cry. Chase, Ryder, and even Sebastian try, but they don’t know how to help or what to do with me. Hell, I don’t know what to do with myself.
I’ve been through hard times, but this is the one I can’t bounce back from. Maybe it’s just my teenage brain making everything extra dramatic. My thoughts turn black, and I feel like it’s all hopeless. Who could ever love someone like me?
All I want is to sleep, but when I close my eyes, thick anxiety descends. I want to forget it all. Maybe not forever. But for a very long time.
The guest room I’m staying in has a gorgeous glass medicine cabinet. Some girl left her things behind. I love the jars of expensive skin care lining the shelves.
And in the very back, there’s a bottle of sleeping pills.
(NOW)
Ryder holds Archie’s leash, and with his free hand, grabs mine as we walk. His grip is firm.
He looks down and gives me a lopsided smile, the one I love so much. He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm.
I blush and almost stumble.
And all I can wonder is if he made that move for the cameras—or for me.
