“Why? Jealous?”
“Uh, yeah. I’d leap with that. How is she?” he asks.
I have to bunch my fist like I’m squeezing an invisible stress ball to avoid wrapping it around Cam’s neck. Mental note: petition Rina for veto power on group chat additions. I can’t control who she hires, but this human embodiment of a participation trophy needs to stay approximately thirteen zip codes away from me.
“How did this happen?” Forrest says. “Rina doesn’t like celebrity clientele. Too much risk for gossip.”
“Charlie wasn’t a job,” I explain. “She was a…” What exactly was that? Wrong place, wrong time? Or exactly where I needed to be with exactly the right person? How do you categorize a head-on collision that leaves no wreckage, just endless unanswered questions? “I was at the wrong hotel. Autocorrect ofall things. We met, and we…talked. She sang outside on the patio which maybe is what invited the cameras.”
Cam pries my phone from Saylor’s death grip and examines the image. “That doesn’t look like talking.”
“It’s complicated,” I huff out.
“Like you guys were talking in your underwear?”
“I’m fully dressed, and she’s wearing clothes. A pajama shirt and…” Well, I’m not going to say tight little pink spandex that I wanted to peel off her like a banana out loud. “Shorts.”
“It’ll pass. It always does. Impossible to make you out in this photo, mate. You’ll be fine,” Say offers, firm in his resolve.
“I wasn’t worried about me,” I admit. “I can’t imagine she’s taking this well.”
“Have you talked to her?” Hawk asks.
I shake my head. “After we saw the cameras going off, she snuck me out of the service elevator and I basically fled the scene. She was terrified. I didn’t want to stress her out anymore. I did exactly what she needed. I disappeared. I don’t know how to get a hold of her. I’m sure she’s not checking her social media at the moment. I doubt she’s still at the hotel. I mean I could swing by, maybe?”
“Don’t you think you two being seen together would make things far worse?”
I nod solemnly. “Fair.”
Hawk pats me on the back, all chummy and supportive. “Her people have people. They will handle it. That’s what they do. There’s an entire army of protection around Charlie Riley. She’ll be fine. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“I know.” But they didn’t meet the girl I did. So broken, hopeless, and very much alone. What good is an army if they can’t stop her from drowning in her own head? Who’s treating her like a person, and who is treating her like a product? Are those paper hearts her mom left going to be enough? I can’t helpbut worry because for better or worse, we had a moment. An exchange of vulnerability that somehow tethers us to each other and has left me with all these damn questions.
“All right, beer o’clock.” Cam slams the locker after collecting his stuff. The welt is angrier than ever and I know he’s going to screech like a baby bird when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
“I’m going to take a rain check,” I say, holding out my hand until Cam returns my phone. I pocket my phone carefully like it’s a bomb that’ll erupt at any moment. “Black Cat’s probably planning my murder.”
“You still haven’t named that thing?” Hawk asks.
“Black Catishis name.”
“That’s a description, not a name. A pet should have a real name,” Saylor adds.
“He’s not my pet. We’re cohabiting, not bonding. Any day the call of the wild is going to whisk him right back on the streets of Brooklyn.” But not even I believe that. Black Cat is getting a little thick, like a few new-relationship-happy pounds, which makes me think this drifter thinks we’re in some sort of commitment situation. He’s wrong. I don’t do that anymore.
“Didn’t you buy him a heated blanket?” Say asks. “I remember because you used my Amazon Prime account.”
I glower at Saylor for calling me on my bullshit. “It’s February in the Northeast. I’m unattached, I’m not a monster.”
We say our goodbyes in the parking lot—Forrest and Saylor reluctantly agreeing to one beer with youngblood over here.
I climb into the back of my budget Uber that arrives right on time. A tiny Corolla that can barely contain me. I have to bend my legs like a wilted spider to fit in the back seat. Once I’m somewhat situated, I go back to my own internet sleuthing, pulling down on the screen, hoping for new articles related to my “Charlie Riley” search. To my surprise, a new one posted barelyfive minutes ago. I lunge to the CelebNow article, hungry for the details.
Headline:Charlie Riley Cancels Boston Show: “Personal Reasons” Cited
The first few lines of the article speculate that the entire tour is canceled and Charlie is dragging out the inevitable for attention. My chest tightens. Again, that’s not true. She told me she wanted to finish the damn thing, to show up for her fans, to reignite her passion for performing. This wasn’t part of the plan.Iwasn’t part of the plan. And now? She’s worse off for knowing me.
I should’ve gotten her number. Should’ve thought past the moment. But everything happened so fast—the boyfriend bomb, the fake-relationship explanation, the awkward goodbye, the elevator ride where I convinced myself it was cleaner this way. Ships in the night. A collision that was never meant to last.
