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The camp siren goes off for the third time in as many days. “Sorry, Mom, I have to go.” I end the call to report to the hospital. We’ll probably be on lockdown again all night, my life is likely at risk, and I’m so depressed after the call from my mother that I barely even care.

47

DREW

For the next two weeks, I do what I have to do.

I get through the interviews and get my dress fitted for the premiere and go to the studio, putting in the motions of bringing the demos to life. My performance is so lackluster that Davis finally explodes and tells me to take a few days off and pull my shit together.

I don’t feel sad. I simply feel numb. LA is still sunlit and busy and I feel like a ghost as I float over its streets. I have no purpose anymore. Ben is still on me about the forensic accountant and I can’t commit to that either. I don’t know how my life can be so empty yet feel unbearably heavy at the same time.

Someone has uploaded a video of me performing my new song that last night in Oahu, having finally realized who I was. The comments are equally divided between That’s way better than Naked and Tell her to stick with what she knows. It hurts to watch. There was so much love in my eyes as I sang to Josh. I had so much faith in him, and it’s never coming back.

The only bright spot, the only bearable moment, is when I visit Tali and the baby each day. They’re at their house in Hollywood Hills, as—to Tali’s chagrin—Hayes is temporarily refusing to leave LA.

“Just in case Audrey needs, you know, emergency brain surgery at UCLA,” Tali explains with a laugh, pulling the baby to her shoulder and burping her like an old pro. “He’s insane.”

“It’s sweet, though,” I tell her, watching as she offers a pinky to Audrey, who grasps it. That’s the thing with mothers, I’m finding—they can’t seem to stop seeking contact, even when the child no longer needs it. Even when, as in my mother’s case, they sometimes do more harm than good.

Tali looks up at me and sees something on my face. “Have you spoken to Josh?”

I swallow. “I told you. I blocked his calls. The whole thing was pointless. It was just going to drag on forever.”

She gives me a sad smile. “Not everything that drags on forever necessarily hurts forever, though,” she says.

I swallow in polite disagreement. In her life, things work out okay. In mine, even the good things go to hell, eventually.

* * *

On the day of the premiere, I reluctantly rise and prepare for a day I could hardly be less interested in. Getting ready for something like this is a lot like getting ready for a wedding, if that wedding was taking place at three PM and involved millions of people discussing your weight, pores and love life afterward. An entire day wasted in hair and makeup, then a red carpet, then a movie I don’t want to watch followed by a party I don’t want to attend. A thousand women would kill to trade places with me and there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s also nothing wrong with the fact that I’d kill to trade places with a woman staying home. I’m tired of pretending to be excited and grateful all the time.

I’m in a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel because my cottage wasn’t large enough for all the people it will take to make me presentable. By nine in the morning the facialist is there, complaining about broken capillaries and blackheads I can’t even see. And then the rest of the crew moves in—manicurist, hairdresser, makeup artist, stylist.

Stephanie and Davis are in rooms nearby with friends and family, who pop in sporadically to gawk. The atmosphere is celebratory. There is cheering and laughter and champagne corks popping and the entire time I feel sick, wound so tight that even smiling is a struggle. There’s a huge spread on the table and I’m too nauseous to eat.

“Don’t be nervous, hon,” says the hairstylist. “You’re going to look beautiful. That guy you were dating is going to explode when he sees you with Luke Powell.”

I want to laugh and cry at the same time. By that guy you were dating he means Six, not his brother, which is who actually concerns me. How long will it take for the news to make its way to Somalia? How long do I have before Josh sees pictures of me on the arm of another man, thinking I’ve moved on? How long ‘til he starts dating the pretty nurse, if he isn’t already? Not long. The speed of light, really. There are thousands of gossip sites, thousands of places those pictures will post. It just takes one staff member there checking TMZ before Josh knows too. Sabine probably has an alert set, waiting for this moment to swoop in.

I’d have set one, too, so I can’t really blame her.

Good, I think. Let me ruin everything. It was going to be ruined eventually anyway. But my stomach continues to churn.

My hair is blown out, meticulously straightened, and then re-curled. When I check my phone afterward, I see two missed calls from an unknown number that begins with the Somali country code. Is it Josh, calling from a different number because I blocked his?

It’s 1:30 in the morning there. Why would he be calling me so late? I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. I blew off all his claims about the dangers of that camp, but the terrible possibility that he was right makes me feel like I’ve taken a hit to the chest. I can’t listen to the voicemail fast enough.

For a moment, the line is silent, as if someone didn’t know it was recording. And then I hear his voice and my world stops. “Hey.” It’s a whisper. He pauses. “Hey, I know—”

The line goes dead, leaving open every possibility. Why did he just hang up like that? Did something go wrong, or did he just decide that whatever he was going to say was pointless?

I call the number back, but there’s no answer. He doesn’t answer his cell either. My hands press to my stomach. Maybe he just wanted to talk, then changed his mind and went to bed. Or maybe something terrible has happened. He was evacuated last summer. I guess things do go wrong there.

“You need a drink,” says the makeup artist. “It’s not like you to be so nervous.”

I shake my head, forcing a smile. “No, I’m fine.” If I have even one hair less self-control than I have at the moment, I will cause a scene that will make falling off the stage in Amsterdam look like child’s play.

I continue to be painted and sprayed and fussed over, fighting myself the entire time not to call Beth. Yes, she’d be the first person contacted if something bad happened, but the last thing she needs is to be needlessly alarmed by me. And how would I explain the fact that the wrong son called me in the middle of the night?