And I hate that it isn’t a possibility anymore. Hate that this is my new body, my new life, forever, and I can’t change it.
Can’tfixit, because there’sno cure.
I inhale a sharp breath and release it quickly before finding my dark, hollowed-out eyes in the mirror looking back at me. "Oh well," I say to myself, swiping the alcohol wipe across the opposite side of my stomach, two inches away from my belly button. Peeling back the protective layer that keeps the injection hidden and safe, I pluck off the lid and pierce the needle into my flesh without a second thought, like it’s the most casual and natural thing I could ever do.
I got sick of dwelling on it. I hate that I get in my head and feel sorry for myself.
I mean, I still refuse to tell anybody about it. It’s my burden to bear, not theirs. But I won’t curse myself internally for the things I cannot change, and instead, I’ll focus on the things I can.
Like this marriage I somehow agreed to.
To, quite possibly, the hottest man alive.
That soft brown skin. Those sapphire eyes—and the way they twinkle with mischief when he looks at me.
Which, if I’m being honest, is averyrecent development. But hey, it’s a step up from him acting like I’m just a giant pain in his ass.
Just…everything is so overwhelming.
And yet, if you’d asked me what I thought about him after the gala, I would’ve told you that maybe Josie and Orlando were right. Maybe we can make it work.
But if you’d told me he and I would be married in less than a month, I would’ve laughed in your face.
Since I found out about this wedding two weeks ago, I haven’t had the guts to pre-warn my parents.
Not that I’ve had time to call them up for a regular chat where I casually blurt out that their youngest daughter is tying the knot to a man she barely knows.
A mantheydon’t know.
Shit. Shit.Shit.
Time to face my responsibilities while I have a free minute.
The phone rings twice before mom's voice rings through the speaker, my phone placed face up on the vanity in my temporary en-suite. "Olive? Honey, what’s going on? It’s early. Is everything okay?" Mom's voice is tired, but loaded with panic. I only have myself to blame.
"Mom, sorry I didn’t realize the time," I admit to her truthfully. "Everything is fine. I just…I need to tell you something, and I need you not to be mad. Can you promise you won’t be mad?" What am I? A teenager in high school, terrifiedof telling my parents I accidentally fell pregnant by my best friend’s boyfriend?
"Olive. Whatever you’ve done, I’m sure we can figure it out. It’s going to be okay. Do you need to come home? Hank, wake up."
"No, don’t wake up Dad. You need to tell him once I’m off the phone." I can’t bear the thought of hearing her tell my dad that his youngest daughter is about to walk down the aisle, and he won’t be there to take her hand on the journey. I don’t need to be present to hear the silence that crushes him through the phone.
I never wanted to get married, ever. I just never felt like it was in the cards for me. But it doesn’t mean my dad wont be disappointed in me, and I hate hurting him. Hate knowing that I’ve probably let them both down.
"You know the articles floating around about me and Avery Jones?" I ask, careful not to stutter, keeping my voice calm so she doesn’t worry about me.
"I know they’re not true, honey. You don’t need to explain that to me." She’s so reassuring, so genuine, it only makes me feel worse. "Thank goodness for that, though. I’ve read up about him and I don’t think I’d be happy knowing you and him were…you know."
"It’s not that. The label—my agent, Josie—they need for us to get married." I blurt it out, very to the point. Even if I didn’t need to be doing this, I know Avery isn’t the person the press has made him out to be. So, I explain to her the why of it all before she can tell me how bad of an idea it is. I tell her that he needs to clean up his image and ‘settle down’. That I’m being told I need to do something to make me seem less boring. Make me seem like someone who doesn’t necessarily follow the rules, or my record deal is over, and I can kiss this tour goodbye.
Nobody wants an almost thirty-year-old pop star. They want someone young and fresh with an impressionable mind.Someone they can take advantage of. And I guess, in a way, that’s exactly what they’re doing to me.
It just goes to show how desperate I am to have this be my life.
Touring the world, singing songs that people can relate to.
Mom lets me talk, never once interrupting, waiting until she knows I’m done before she finally voices her question.
"And this is what you want? To marry this man who is known for his temper?"
