“Not much,” I say in response. My dad lets out a low hum, and even over the phone, I can sense his disappointment.
“You know, I’m always here for you, Lex. You can talk to your old man.” His words tug something loose inside me, and I’m suddenly itching to confess everything that’s happened over the past few months. To gush about my too-big feelings for this boy who’s torpedoed my quiet, tidy life, to ask for advice about the paparazzi who are only now starting to dissipate after stalking my building all week. Tears spring to my eyes as the part of me that longs to be his little girl again threatens to escape from where I normallykeep it under lock and key. But nostalgia is quickly replaced by indignation as I remind myself that I wouldn’t have to fill him in on anything if he hadn’t abandoned me in the first place. My heart hardens again.
I can sense his anticipation on the other end of the line and wonder fleetingly if he knows about me and Jake. I’m hardly big news outside of social media gossip, and my dad, like most boomers, only has Facebook, which he seems to use exclusively for sharing memes with friends he hasn’t seen since high school. I decide that if he brings up Jake, I won’t deny it, but I can’t bring myself to tell him outright. My relationship with Jake is precious, and my dad feels undeserving of that information after what he’s put me through, though some part of me aches to tell him all the same. But as the silence drags on and he says nothing, I realize he’s not going to ask.
“I know,” I say finally. “Just another long week at work.”
We make small talk for a few more minutes before hanging up, our mutual disappointment with the conversation palpable. I do my best to swallow it as I slip my phone back inside my bag, because the last thing I need is to show any sign of weakness in front of my coworkers. Rising from the pavement outside the service doors, I release a breath, square my shoulders, and head back into the kitchen.
JAKE’S SCHEDULED TO APPEARonThe Tonight Showthe following week, and since his spot falls on a Monday, I’m able to attend. Though the show doesn’t air until 11:30P.M., filming starts at five, and when I arrive at the studio at four-thirty, the sidewalk outside Rockefeller Plaza is already a mob scene.
Despite Chloe’s warnings, I am in no way prepared for the massive throng of fans who turned out to see Jake. There must be close to a hundred of them, mostly teenage girls, camped out on the sidewalk and toting handwritten signs. Though a few shoot me curiouslooks, like they recognize me but aren’t sure from where, I manage to slip through the doors incognito and head back to Jake’s dressing room.
I gasp when I step through the doorway. The dressing room is tiny, but stunningly decorated, and oozing old-world glamour. The cobalt-blue walls are decorated with eclectic gold frames, and there’s a collection of vintage vinyl sitting beside a record player on the cherrywood desk. Lydia and Vinny are entrenched in the deep blue velvet couches, both predictably glued to their phones. And seated at the makeup table, haloed by the light of the dozen bulbs surrounding the mirror, is Jake.
“Hey, you,” he says, grinning at me when our eyes meet in the mirror. Heat spikes through me, and once again, I wonder how I was able to resist that smile for as long as I did. The makeup artist steps aside and I squeeze through the narrow space to plant a quick kiss on Jake’s cheek. I’m just backing away so the makeup artist can resume when I hear the buzzing of his phone on the table in front of him. We both glance down at the same time to see a name pop up on the screen: Madison St. James.
“Why is Madison texting you?” I ask, cringing at the unintended whine in my voice. Behind me, I feel Vinny stiffen. That got his attention.
“Just wishing me luck today. She did Fallon last week,” he says. He shoots me a quick smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and the conversation ends abruptly as the makeup artist swoops back in place to finish the job. She’s just swept another dusting of powder across Jake’s face when an assistant pokes his head in the door and tells Jake it’s time to head backstage.
Neither Lydia nor Vinny bother to acknowledge me after Jake leaves, so I sit down on the hard-backed makeup chair instead of joining them on the sofa. There’s a monitor on the wall across from us, and I do my best to get comfortable as I settle in to watch the show.
After his opening monologue, Fallon calls out Jake’s name, asking fans to welcome him to the stage. The cheers grow to a volume I haven’t heard since my parents took me to a One Direction concert. Jake emerges from backstage, dressed in a black Gucci suit over a pale blue dress shirt. He looks good. Really good. He flashes a shy, crooked smile as he waves to the audience and shakes Jimmy’s hand.
He also looks more nervous than usual, hands trembling ever so slightly as he unbuttons his suit jacket. Finally, he settles into a seat. For a person who’s effervescent onstage, he seems so much less comfortable in this setting.
But when Fallon asks about his recent trip back home, Jake seems to relax. I can see the happy memories flash across his face as he explains the intricacies of deep frying a turkey.
“Tell me something. How do you avoid getting splashed with all that hot oil?” Fallon asks.
“Very carefully.” Jake smirks. Jimmy throws his head back with laughter. But then he straightens and taps his cue cards on the desk. One look at his expression, and I know what’s coming next.
“Speaking of food,” he says. “Rumor has it that your first single, ‘Blueberry,’ was inspired by a real-life relationship with a chef.”
Jake’s smile dissolves. He clears his throat and stares at his shoes. “I mean… you know…” His voice trails off, and red splotches rise around his collar.
“Well, don’t leave us hanging!” Jimmy leans closer and tucks his fists under his chin. “Are you two still an item? Are you off the market? Inquiring minds want to know.”
Jake’s brow glistens with sweat. His right knee bounces up and down. Panic bubbles in my veins.Shit.This is it. He’s going to tell the world about me, right here on national television. My life as a private citizen is officially over.
Jake looks up at Jimmy. His lips part as if he’s about to say something. And then, he grabs a coffee mug from the desk and buries his face inside it. He tilts his head back in an exaggerated gulp. Theaudience goes wild with laughter. Jimmy just shakes his head. He’s not going to get anything from Jake, and he knows it.
“All right, all right,” he says. “I can take a hint. Let’s talk about your latest album, which hits shelves a week from tomorrow…”
That’s it?I’m frozen in my chair.He’s not even going to acknowledge me?
A million conflicting thoughts race through my mind. On the one hand, I’m grateful Jake’s protecting my privacy. The little bit of attention I’ve already gotten is overwhelming enough, and the last thing I need is for him to add fuel to the fire. On the other hand, I hate that he’s hiding our relationship. I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about him, and the secrecy makes me feel more like a mistress than a girlfriend.
And if I’mreallybeing honest, I wanted to hear him gush, to see his eyes light up when he said my name. I wanted to know that he feels the same way about me, that I’m more than just some girl he wrote a song about.
I stand up abruptly, causing the wooden chair legs to scrape loudly against the floor.
“I’m, um… going to get some air,” I hear myself say. Lydia makes a humming sound in acknowledgment, and I don’t bother looking back at either of them before shoving through the dressing room doors and escaping the building as quickly as possible.
Numbly, I make my way back to my apartment, barely aware of the city around me, and ignoring the continuous buzzing of my cell phone. I’m still sulking when Jake gets home an hour later, face glistening with remnants of his stage makeup.
“There you are. I’ve been calling and calling you. Vinny said you left in the middle of taping, and I was worried you were sick or something.” His voice is tight, and I can feel the tension radiating off his body. I shrug, not bothering to look away from the TV. Idofeel sick to my stomach, but not in the way that Jake means.
