“And, honestly, you shouldn’t feel bad about being his muse.”
That gets my attention. It’s that word again. “Muse.” I whip my head around to face her.
“What do you mean?”
Madison gives me a sphinxlike smile.
“That’s why you guys got back together, right?” She waves a hand in Jake’s direction. “I mean, let’s face it, he’s basically a one-hit wonder. You inspired the song that catapulted him to stardom. Why else would he come find you when he got back to New York?”
The air whooshes from my lungs as my brain turns over her words. There’s no way Jake would ever do something like that. Our relationship isn’t just fodder for his music career. Still, I can’t ignore the lump rising in my throat. An uninvited thought shoves itself forward.It’s not like you never thought about this before. After all,he did show up to my apartment right before he started recording his second album. And he’s been inspired to write again since he’s been back. Did he have an ulterior motive for ringing my doorbell that night?
Madison tilts her head, regarding me with faux sympathy.
“Oh my god, sweetie. You can’t really be that naïve, can you? It’s just what artists like Jake and I do. Half the men I date are for material. It keeps the well fresh.”
She pauses, holding my gaze, and the cold smile she gives me sends a shiver down my spine.
“Woman to woman, I hope you realize this thing between you guys isn’t going to last. Celebrities never stay with the people they dated before they were famous. It just doesn’t work. And I’d hate to see you get your heart broken because you’re too blinded by infatuation to see reality.”
Before I can respond, the assistant returns, her hands trembling slightly as she hands Madison a piping white mug. Madison accepts it without even looking at her, then extends it toward me.
“Here, why don’t you take this? You’re looking a little pale.”
Wordlessly, I accept the mug as Madison rests a hand on my shoulder. “I hope you don’t take it too hard when he moves on to someone in his own league. But just think: you’ll have a great story to tell your grandchildren.” With that, she spins on her red-soled heels and heads toward the stage doors, leaving me standing there, heart hammering, my fingers burning beneath the white porcelain.
JAKE IS SO BUSYwith rehearsals that I barely see him for the next two days. When my doorbell rings on Saturday afternoon, I can hardly contain my excitement to see him as I yank open the door. But instead of Jake standing on the other side, I’m greeted by a uniformed courier, who looks slightly alarmed by my enthusiasm for his arrival.
He glances down at the electronic pad in his hand. “Alexa Berman?”
When I nod, the courier wheels an enormous black box tied with ivory ribbon into the center of the living room. Before I can ask any further questions, he thrusts the tablet forward, gesturing for me to sign. I’ve barely finished scrawling my signature before he drags the squeaking dolly back out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.
The word “Prada” is written in silver letters on the right side of the box, and my first thought is that there must be some sort of mistake. Curious, I check the card on the side of the box and spot my name. Somehow, it seems this really is for me. Tugging the envelope loose, I open it up. The message inside says, “Wear me tonight.”
Apprehensively, I tug one end of the ribbon to unravel the oversized bow and slide it off the box. I lift off the top and carefully remove a layer of tissue paper to reveal a shimmering, V-necked emerald dress with cascading ruffles and a pair of gold heeled sandals. Gingerly, I lift it up and hold it against myself. It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful dress I have ever seen.
Grabbing my phone, I shoot Jake a text.
Hi! Where are you? And also, this dress???
Jake responds a few minutes later.
Glad you like it. Stuck in rehearsals the rest of the day but I can’t wait to see you in it tonight.
A flutter of excitement ripples through my chest as I look at the dress again. It’s a bit much for a concert, but it sure as hell beats the black jumpsuit Ali helped me choose from the clearance rack at Bloomingdale’s last week. I snap a quick picture and text itto both Ali and Chloe. Chloe writes back first, which makes sense since her phone is in her hand 90 percent of the time.
Love it! Make sure you have a strapless bra;-) And remember the poses I taught you.
When Ali responds twenty minutes later with a series of gifs ranging from Lauren Conrad mouthing “Whoa!” to Jonah Hill holding his cheeks and screaming, I can’t help but laugh. Maybe I’m overthinking things; maybe all my worries have been for nothing. I’m so excited as I slip into my bedroom to get dressed that I almost let myself believe it.
THE ROAR OF THEcrowd is deafening as the stage lights go up to reveal Jake’s dimpled grin. Even from a distance, it’s impossible not to feel his electrifying magnetism. When the drummer slams down his sticks, Jake throws back his head, showcasing his square jawline and breaking straight into “Dorothy.” Watching him perform never gets old; it’s incredible to observe his particular brand of magic, the way the air around him pulses with excitement as he absorbs the crowd’s energy. By the time he finishes the first song with a deep bow and a blown kiss, a sheen of sweat dampening the chestnut hairs around his forehead, he’s got the audience in the palm of his hand.
He takes a sip from a water bottle, then leans into the mic.
“How y’all doing tonight?” They scream in response. “I’m going to have a friend join me for my next song. You may have heard of her. Please welcome to the stage, Madison St. James!”
The crowd goes wilder than ever when Madison sashays her way out from the wings. She’s wearing a long white gown adorned with pale pink rosettes, long hair hanging halfway down her back. As much as I hate to admit it, she looks breathtaking.
The girl seated next to me in the front row, who can’t be a day older than sixteen, screams as she holds up her cell phone to film the performance.
