Well, actually, that’s a lie.
Things are coming. Lines and lyrics and even a couple of melodies, but none of them are what I need. Instead of hopeless love and sweet crushes or even saucy, heated innuendos, everything sounds… annoyed.
Angry.
Frustrated.
And even more unfortunately, I know the exact reason.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Leo and that irritated look he gave me when he saw me walk out of my house.
I feel the heat emanating off his body, the fury rolling off him in waves when he stands, towering over me.
My emotions went from excited to see a familiar face to annoyed that, while I came here to escape the pressure and expectations, here was yet another person telling me how to act. And it was honestly disappointing that Leo seemed so miserable that I was here.
I haven’t thought about Leo Sinclaire this much in years, a very careful decision I made forever ago, not long after I met him.
But today, I let my mind drift back there for the first time in a long time, to eight years ago
Because there was a moment, a brief glimpse in time, when I thought Leo Sinclair and I could be something.
I met Leo asjust Willa, nearly eight years ago, when I was barely twenty. It was a bit after my second album came out, and that morning, Jackie was trying to convince me into participating in what would end up being my very first fake relationship.
The first of many.
“At the very least, go to this meeting,” Jackie said that morning, her voice low and a bit irritated. “Go in with an open mind. I think they have a really great plan and that you could really benefit from it.”
Theplanshe was talking about was a fake relationship with Riggins Greene to build public interest in a whirlwind romance and, by extension, in my third album. It seemed that Riggins had a drinking problem and was headed to rehab, but the label was desperate to keep that out of the media. His publicist was suggesting a fake relationship with a sweet, wholesome child star-turned-pop star to balance it out. My second album had done substantially worse than my first, and Jackie was sure that creating interest in a relationship, and then writing an album around it, would be the key to the stardom we were after.
I wasn’t fully on board, still a hopeless romantic at heart who wanted to write songs about myreallife, including love. I’d told her this before, but she was pushing harder than ever. “Jackie—” I started, but she cut me off before I could give her my normal argument.
“One meeting. If you say no, then that’s it—I won’t bug you about it again.” With a sigh, I nodded, then agreed verbally.
“Fine… One meeting, but no promises. I’m serious, Jackie, don’t get your hopes up.”
“Of course. Of course!” she said, and I smiled to myself, shaking my head at her clear excitement. “Okay, the meeting’s at one, and I’ll be at your place in an hour and a half?” I agreed, she said goodbye, and hung up.
Knowing I had a long day ahead, I decided, more than ever, that I needed my Monday morning sweet treat. Back then, every Monday before my day really got started, I would sneak to the little coffee shop down the street for a coffee and a cookie. I slipped down there that morning in a baseball hat, my hair in a low ponytail at the back of my head, no makeup, and an oversized sweatshirt and sweats. Back then, before I wasWilla StoneTM, in the hustle and bustle of the city, I could slip in and out of places unnoticed. I didn’t have near the level of media intrigue, and I surely didn’t have a bodyguard following me around.
It was late fall and unexpectedly freezing—I remember that most of all, because when I stepped outside, I thought I should have worn a jacket, but since it was just a few blocks, I figured I’d be fine. I got my drink, an iced concoction that the place was best known for, despite the cool temperature, as well as a chocolate chip cookie, and turned to head towards the door. That’s when a man ran into me, not paying attention to what he was doing. He had dark glasses on and a sweatshirt of his own, and despite hisirritated look, the second he realized he’d effectively drenched me in cold coffee, he stopped, his face going aghast.
“Fuck, I am so sorry,” he said, sliding his glasses to his head. His eyes were sky blue. I remember thinking that’s what my contacts were supposed to give me. “I didn’t see you there.” I lifted my eyebrows in challenge, and he gave me a sheepish smile before confessing. “I was out last night celebrating, and I might be a bit hungover. I wasn’t paying attention in my quest for caffeine.” I give him a small smile and a nod.
“Totally understandable,” I lied, because I had never been hungover, so itwasn’tunderstandable to me. “No worries at all.”
Finally snapping out of my daze, I tossed my now-empty cup in the trash and moved to grab napkins. He did the same, moving to sop up the coffee on the ground as I got what I could off my sweatshirt, pulling it away from me so it wouldn’t sit against my tank top and soak it, too.
“Shit, you’re drenched,” he said, eyes moving over the light colored sweatshirt now covered in a brown stain. I shivered, then decided the sweatshirt needed to go—it was doing more harm than good. I tugged it off over my head, then draped it over my arm. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s fine, really. I don’t live far from here,” I said with a smile. “I won’t be in the cold for long.”
“You walked here?” he asks, looking confused, brows furrowing.
“Uh,” I start, biting my lip, because every safety conversation I’d ever had told me disclosing that would be a terrible idea, even though everyone walked there. But right now, I wasjust Willa. But he shook his head quickly.
“Not in a weird way, I just…you can’t walk home in your wet sweatshirt, and it’s freezing outside.” I looked down at my balled-up sweatshirt and smiled, giving him a small wave of my hand.
“I’ll be fine, seriously.” He shook his head and sighed, rubbing a hand at his temple, and I wondered if the headache was his hangover or mine.
