You want a quote for your show. Here’s one–”
He leans into the microphone, anger burning in his green eyes.
“Fuck you. Fuck you and your criminal invasion of people’s lives. Fuck you for making a mockery of someone’s mental health and history of addiction. And fuck you for ruining the one real thing I had in this life. Fuck you for chasing away the only person I’ve ever loved.”
Jesse starts to walk away, but the interviewer, calculated as ever, says, “So this guy just walks away from you and lets you take all the pressure for what you both were clearly part of, doesn’t that piss you off? Shouldn’t he take the heat just as much as you?”
Chest heaving, Jesse steps forward and upends the table between him and the talk show host. The mic stand clatters and papers fly everywhere. The host flinches back, but Jesse does nothing more than give him a cold look and storms out of the room.
Shit.
“When was this? When did it happen?” I scroll up to find more information. The story broke earlier today, but the actual incident happened early Friday morning.
Still dripping wet from the shower, I pull on the easiest clothes I can and leave the locker room in search of Coach. I explain to him that I was just informed of a family emergency, and I needa few days off. Coach, clearly seeing my panic, tells me to be back in time to fly out for the Atlanta game. I nod, and leave the stadium, finding an uber to take me to the airport. On the way there, I call Mr. Holland and Jesse repeatedly. Neither of them answers.
Just as I make it to the airport, I get a call from an unfamiliar number that has the same area code as Jesse’s number. I answer it straightaway.
“Jesse?” I ask hopefully.
“No. It’s Naz.”
“Is he okay?”
“Not really, man.”
“What can I do? I’ve been trying to call him, but he won’t answer.”
“He’s been trying to fix it so he’d be worthy of you or some shit. Though, to be honest, you fucked up, too, man.”
“I know I did. Let me make it better. Please. Naz, tell me where he is.”
TWENTY-FIVE
JESSE
I’m pulled out of a restless sleep by the incessant ringing of the doorbell. It’s a chiming, high-pitched tune that bounces off the walls and makes my brain feel like it’s vibrating. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the vibrations. Now that I’m awake, I notice my stringy hair dangling in my face, the way the sock on my left foot has come off my heel, and the weeks’ worth of scratchy stubble on my face and crotch. My teeth feel like they’re wearing little sweaters. The sheet is damp with sweat and creased at the small of my back.
Every little feeling is compounded and adds to my discomfort.
Cory’s on the landing. I know that. He checked in with me when he took over for Tad, who had first watch this morning. They’ve been trading shifts until we can get full-time security now that the paparazzi have figured out where my mom lives.
Whoever’s at the door was approved to come up, so it’s got to be one of the boys, or Blake, or my mom. Naz has a key. Mom has a key. If it’s someone who doesn’t, not my problem. I don’t want to open it. I don’t want to see their faces. I don’t have the energy to talk about any of it anymore.
I am bone tired in a way that’s not just a lack of proper sleep. It’s a hollow, under-the-ribs exhaustion, a heavy pressure on my sternum. The last week has been a treadmill of approved interviews, of careful phrasing and pre-cleared questions. I hoped we could move past the deep dive into my personal life by acknowledging my struggles with mental health and addiction. Maybe if people could see my face and hear my voice, they’d remember that I’m a real person who has experienced a deep violation.
Then I went onKeep It Realbecause PR thought that reaching Zach Lawson’s audience was worth the risk. He signed the agreements and the list of approved topics like everyone else. Unlike everyone else, he did not stick to the list. It was barely five minutes before he went off it. I waited for Blake to pull me out of it, but I couldn’t see him behind the glass walls of the recording booth. Zach dug in hard in the most disrespectful way possible, bound and determined to pull the worst out of me. I knew I was being baited. And I still let it happen. I got up to leave. I did. I was walking out, but then that bastard poked at my greatest weakness. He questioned my relationship with Luc. He questioned Luc’s devotion to me if he wasn’t willing to stand in the fire with me. He poked and poked at that bruise until I felt myself unravel, and I snapped.
I won’t lie and say I didn’t get a small amount of pleasure out of seeing that troll cower. Part of me wishes I had hit him, so the assault charges he’s trying to file would have been worth it.
I regret losing control, though. Not because of Zach Lawson–fuck that guy–but because the entire purpose of the press tour was to pull the focus away from the scandal and towards healing. I wanted to quiet things, not add gasoline.
I can’t help but picture Luc out there somewhere, hearing the same headlines and looped footage of my name being dragged through the mud and being asked on repeat if he’s my mystery man like my life is some kind of game show. I’ve been hanging by a thread, holding on to the mere idea that I might be able to make things better for Luc so he can stay out of the public eye.
Mission failed. I just made it worse.
So now I’ve run home to Mommy with my tail between my legs. I’ll probably rot here in this bed, too tired to even get up to pee until it hurts too bad to hold it. My throat is raw. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t showered. Despite not leaving this bed since I arrived, which was… What day is it? I crack an eyelid and see that it’s dark outside. So it’s probably Sunday night? Or is it Monday night? It’s been a few days. All I’ve done is sleep, but I haven’t actually gotten any actual rest.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” I yell when the ringing graduates to frantic banging on the door.
