by Megan Walker
His tone is light as he says this, but it’s forced; I think he actually wants my opinion on steps he should take.
And I do have one other idea.
“I think you should talk to Kevin about it,” I say. “When you’re ready. Like, really talk to him. Maybe even bring up the music festival idea.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “God, you don’t mess around.”
I feel a twinge of fear. I know I can be intense, and I’ve even been accused of being bossy—particularly by my siblings. But I don’t exactly want “naggy” to be the defining characteristic of myself as a girlfriend. Especially because what he really needs is support and love, both of which I want desperately to give him, even if my version of support and love has occasionally leaned towards the “swift kick in the ass” variety.
“If you’re not ready, that’s okay,” I say quickly. “I don’t want to force anything on you—”
“No, I asked, and I meant it. I just—I’ll try, okay?”
I smile. “I have another suggestion.”
He gives me a baleful look. “I’m going to seriously regret letting you start this mental health honey-do list, aren’t I?”
“It depends on what you think about the idea of getting out of here right now and going home. And being less clothed.”
His smile widens. “I think I could handle that.”
Eighteen
Allison
I wake up the next morning, my body pressed tight up against Shane’s side, feeling warm and safe. My body slides a bit on his satin sheets—which, he told me last night, happen to have a bunny on the tag. I don’t love that my boyfriend has Playboy bedding, even if he did seem abashed about it and offered to change the sheets.
But there’s something else bothering me this morning, some unsettled twinge I can’t quite identify.
I stretch out, and he shifts slightly, but his breathing is still deep. I’m glad he’s getting some sleep, at least. He woke from the nightmares again last night, yelling and sweating. But like before, we held each other, and I felt his racing heartbeat slow against me, his body relaxing. I hate that he has to deal with this, but I’m grateful I can be there for him, to be able to comfort him even a little. To be the person he trusts.
He’s in love with me, and I’m in love with him, and it’s crazy and incredible all at once. But even though it does scare me, being in this so deep, so soon, I don’t think that’s what’s giving me this unsettled feeling.
I want to burrow deeper into him, chase away that feeling with the comfort of just being in his arms, but a glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand shows that it’s only about ten minutes before I’d need to wake up anyway. We’re only days away from the pageant, so these last practices are especially important. I wonder if that’s the real cause of this prickly anxiousness. I always get extra stressed right before the pageant, and this year I feel less prepared for the show than usual. I’ve been . . . distracted. My mind more on Shane than on my job.
I can’t bring myself to regret that—I can’t regret anything between us—but it does mean I’ve got to bring my A-game to the pageant over the next couple days. The girls deserve that; they’re going to be extra stressed too.
I peel myself gently and reluctantly away from him, and he makes a quiet little murmuring sound but still doesn’t wake. I turn off my phone alarm and head for the shower, hoping the warm water will relax me, but it doesn’t. I try mentally running through the tasks of today, which are many, but my brain can’t seem to focus on any of it. Instead it keeps tugging back to the benefit last night.
For some reason, despite all the revelations of last night—not just the being in love part, but the hallucinations of JT, and the deep pain over his parents—my mind keeps tripping over that fight with Anna-Marie, putting me more on edge.
Which is ridiculous. I know he loves me, not her. I meant it when I told him I believed him, and that hasn’t suddenly changed overnight—especially after making love like we did, knowing how deep he’s in this right along with me. So why can’t I let that go?
We had planned on spending the night at his place, even before we went to the benefit, so thankfully I have a change of clothes for today and my makeup. I get ready, waiting until the last possible moment to use the hair dryer, to give him a bit more sleep. But, really, he needs to be getting up soon, too. Maybe I can actually get him to work on time for once.
That teasing thought brings a little smile to my lips, but it’s not long before that unsettled feeling steals it away again, especially as this time it comes with a thought attached.
He’s Shane Beckstrom. You think you’re going to change him?
I blink at myself in the mirror, stunned, pausing in my hair-styling efforts. I click off the dryer so it’s not blaring in my ear.
I love him for who he is. I don’t want to change him—at least not any more than just being part of a good relationship should change someone, making them grow for the better. Like I can already feel myself doing when I’m with him.
But that’s not the same as changing who he is. Right?
And what does that have to do with him and Anna-Marie?
I run a comb through the waves of my hair, the churning anxiety growing stronger, as the connections start to form in my mind. I straighten all my things on the side of the sink so I’m not taking up too much of his space and then head back into the bedroom.
Shane’s awake, sitting at the edge of the bed, the covers thrown back. He’s still naked, which is always an amazing sight, but he’s sitting in this hunched-over way, with his head in his hands. It’s still a bit dark in here—he’s got blackout curtains, and there’s only the wan light of the alarm and the light I left on in the bathroom—but I wonder if he’s got a headache. Or maybe having the hallucinations and trying to get rid of them.
Sadness squeezes at my chest.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Shane looks up at me. “Yeah, of course.” He smiles, but there’s something guarded about it. Wary.
Is he regretting how open he was with me last night? The thought hurts more than it has any right to, especially given that it may not be true.
“Good,” I say, smiling back, but I’m not sure my smile is any more convincing than his. I sit down next to him, also on the edge of the bed. It feels a little stilted, so I lean into him—which is instantly much better.
His body relaxes a bit. “You smell fantastic,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of my head.
“You better believe I do. I used your shampoo and conditioner.” I grin over at him. “Though I had no idea that what you really wanted was for me to smell like you.”
He laughs, and it cuts through that unsettled feeling like a ray of sunshine. “You definitely do not smell like me. It’s all Allison.”
I lean over to kiss him, his lips warm and soft and gentle against mine. “Well, okay, I did use my own body wash. You got me.” I put emphasis on that last part, because the truth is, he does have me—all that he wants of me, which I think is every bit as much as I want of him.
His lips twitch up, but he doesn’t say anything back. His gaze cuts away.
Maybe now’s not the best time to bring up the thoughts taking shape in my unsettled mind, but I know it’ll drive me crazy all day if I don’t. It’ll keep me from being able to focus on the girls and the pageant, like I need to.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” I say.
His blue eyes narrow, but not in an angry way. More like guarded again. “Usually you just ask.”
That’s probably true. I’ve never been big on preamble.
I hold his gaze. “Do you really not feel bad about what you did to Anna-Marie?”
Now he looks a little angry. “No. Why?”
I feel my hackles rise, but force my voice to stay level. “I mean, I get that you were hur
t by her leaving and not staying in touch, and I get that you were pissed. But—”
“You say you get it,” he cuts me off. “But clearly you have a problem with it.”
I do have a problem with it. Because even though he was hurt, even though he was mad, he still used someone he cared about, still told lies about them in the press and let those lies continue for years, and that’s something a person should feel something about. Especially when it’s so obvious, no matter how much denial he’s in, that what he did hurt her, and continues to hurt her.
Someone who could use another person like that, without any remorse . . . A person like that won’t have a problem doing that again in the future.
I don’t believe that’s who Shane really is. But I can’t be the idiot who overlooks something like that. I can’t ignore the possibility he might do that to me someday, or ask me to be complicit in doing it to others—which is not who I am.
But maybe now really isn’t the best time to talk about this. I sigh, frustrated—mostly with myself for not heeding my initial instinct to wait. “Never mind.”
Shane eyes me. “Really? Or are you expecting me to pry it out of you?”
I don’t appreciate the implication that I’m playing stupid mind games, so my reply is sharper than I intend. “You don’t want to talk about it, so I’m not talking about it. Why don’t you just go take a shower so we can get to work on time?”
He rolls his eyes. “Your car is here. You can leave whenever you want.”
Okay, now my frustration is less with myself. “Or you could get ready and get there when you’re supposed to for once.”
“Sure. Fine.” His tone is every bit as pissy as mine, and it’s hard to believe we went from the raw openness of last night to sniping at each other like this. I know it’s at least half my fault, but dammit, I’m still peeved. He pulls on his boxers and starts to head to the bathroom, and I can tell how tense he is, even just from the set of his shoulders. Then he turns, running a hand through his hair. “No, you know what? You want to talk about Anna-Marie? Let’s talk.”
“You think you’re in a good place for that?” I fold my arms. “Because it doesn’t really sound like it.”
Maybe he’s not the only one.
“What the hell do you want from me? To say that I feel bad about what I did? That I’m all wracked with guilt?” His face is flushed, and I can tell mine is too.
“I want you to be honest with me and with yourself,” I say tightly. “I want to know how you really feel about it.”
“Do you? Because I already told you how I feel about it and you keep bringing it back up.”
“I told you we shouldn’t talk about this now,” I snap. “I need to get to work, and—”
“Yeah, now we shouldn’t talk about it, because you don’t want to hear what I’m going to say, right?” His hands are balled into fists again, like when he was yelling at Anna-Marie last night. He’s not yelling now, though his voice is strained. “Because I already told you I’m a dick. I told you that from the beginning, and it’s not my fault if you didn’t believe me.”
I feel cold all over. He did tell me that, but the truth is, I still don’t believe him. I believe he can be a dick, that’s for sure—right now is proof—but I don’t believe that’s who he is, not really. It’s like how I can love him, even if I don’t love this fight.
But I hate the doubt. The possibility that maybe I’m being a naive idiot, after all.
“Fine, Shane.” I can’t think of anything else to say.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you made your point. And I just want to get to work, okay?” I can feel a headache forming, and maybe it’s because I’m about to cry, but I don’t want to do that right now.
We glare at each other a moment longer, then he stomps into the bathroom. A few seconds later, I hear the water running. I sink back onto the bed. Probably I should leave now and see him at rehearsal, when we’ve both had a chance to cool off. I know how difficult it must have been for him, sharing all that last night. The last thing I should be doing is pushing him this morning.
But I can’t pretend that I’m not scared, too. I feel the black satin sheets, cold under my palms. He said he has cotton sheets around somewhere, but he never did get around to changing the bedding. It isn’t really a big deal—I don’t love the sexual Slip ’N Slide feeling of them, but it’s not like satin sheets themselves actually bother me all that much.
Except for this creeping doubt it instills in me. I know Shane has layers, deep ones, and that so much of the image he projected was a protective mask, keeping people out. Keeping himself from being hurt.
I know that, but it doesn’t mean he won’t someday decide he wants all that back. That the mask—and the life that came with it—is preferable to being with me.
I force myself to take deep breaths. Even if I know we’ll talk later, and it’ll hopefully go better, I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye—as much for me as for him. As I wait for him, I dig my phone out of my purse, sifting through the deluge of messages from pageant coaches, and a particularly frantic string of texts from Heather—whose talent is elaborate face painting and who regularly runs marathons for multiple sclerosis—about how she sneezed four times this morning and believes she is the bitch who is going to get sick. I make a note to myself to bring her some tea, which I will tell her is a Mendez family secret to preventing colds, and hope the placebo effect works on her. She must be prone to suggestion, given that she’s decided she’s sick based on not-dead Cher’s beyond-the-grave appearance.
I hear the water shut off just as I finish taking the note. I draw another deep breath and am about to shove my phone back in my purse when a text dings. It’s Nix.
Did this really happen?
I frown, especially as another one comes through right after.
Are you guys okay?
I open the message and see the link she’s posted, and my heart skips a few beats at seeing the article title:
Beckstrom’s Dramatic Breakdown at Benefit
Oh no.
My palms feel sweaty on the phone as I read through the article, my heart sinking deeper with each word.
I figured the scene in the hotel would be reported somewhere, Shane’s panic attack attributed to being high or just the behavior of a “bad boy rock star,” but this is much worse. Because this article doesn’t just talk about the glasses breaking or Shane fleeing the hotel ballroom
No, this article talks about everything.
A “source” goes into great detail about the confrontation with Anna-Marie in the gardens and about how “Beckstrom’s new girlfriend” (the article, of course, makes sure to include my name and, weirdly, age) was upset, demanding to know if he was still in love with his “equally emotional” ex. This source continues to lay out our conversation, about how Shane “claimed” to be in love with me and yet still felt betrayed by Anna-Marie.
And then, the source—who I want to punch in the face—goes on to tell about Shane’s hallucinations. All the details he told me in confidence, all the things he was so afraid of even me knowing, let alone the rest of the world . . .
“Clearly,” the article’s skeezy source opines, “Beckstrom has a lot of problems, both in his health and personal life, and they’re causing all his recent erratic behavior. I hope for his sake, and for his fans’, that he can pull himself together.”
I want to throw the phone against the wall, but I manage not to. Barely.
How could this have happened?
Even as I ask the question, I know the answer. It happened because we were at a public event, and hedges aren’t exactly sound-proof, and any passing waiter or attendee toking up on the other side could easily have heard all of it. It happened because people are assholes who can’t mind their own business. I feel weirdly violated, knowing that this
intensely personal conversation we had—this conversation where Shane and I first told each other we loved each other—is splashed all over the internet. Even more, I’m furious on Shane’s behalf and heartbroken for him.
He was so open and vulnerable, letting me in on things he’s been so desperate to hide, and now . . .
The tears are stinging my eyes by the time Shane opens the door from the bathroom, but I blink them away. The steam from the bathroom trails out, and he eyes me warily as he pulls on a pair of jeans.
“I thought you didn’t want to be late,” he says in a flat voice.
I swallow, my throat painfully tight. “I got a message from Nix,” I say. I hold out my phone, and he takes it.
I watch his face carefully as he reads it, but his expression doesn’t change. It stays flat and stony, which is worse.
He hands the phone back to me. “Yeah, okay.”
“Yeah, okay?” I can’t believe he’s not reacting at all, and it cuts me in a way I’m not anticipating. “Some asshole just put all that out there, and that’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?” There’s not even anger in his voice anymore. It’s just cold, and it hurts.
Tears burn behind my eyes. “I don’t know. Something. Aren’t you upset about this? I am. All this personal stuff about you and me, and the stuff about JT—”
“Whatever.” He pulls a shirt over his head. “It was going to get out eventually anyway.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Look, Allison,” his blue eyes hard as flint. “This is just how it is. You want to be with me? You’re going to have to deal with shit like this. If you can’t handle it, you might as well leave now.”
The lack of emotion in his voice is like a slap. It’s not like I haven’t been around rock stars for the last several years. I know about things leaking to the press, and true privacy being a laughable concept.
I know this, and yet I’m upset anyway, and I think I have a fucking right to be. And, more to the point, I think he does too.
