by Shea Olsen
“But you are going to Stanford.”
“What if I went with you on tour instead?” My voice rises. I don’t like the way it sounds, but I don’t care.
“You can’t give up school for me.”
“I wouldn’t be giving it up—I can defer it for a year. People do it all the time.”
His eyes slide away from me. “I can’t let you do that. You’ve worked too hard to get into Stanford.”
“It’s my decision,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. Are we back to this? Why does everyone in my life think they know what’s best for me? “I’m finally making decisions for myself,” I add. “I thought you would understand.”
“I do, but...” His gaze settles on some far-off point across the tarmac, and I feel my frustration hit the breaking point.
“Tate, I love you. I know that’s a loaded statement for you, and I understand why. But I want you to know how I feel, and why I know this is the right choice for me. For us.” I will him to look at me again, to see how serious I am. “I can’t just wait around for you to fit me into your schedule. It’s been hard enough doing that these past few weeks and trying to focus on school. Stanford will still be there next year, and I know what I want.”
“T,” Hank calls from the other side of the car. “It’s time.”
Tate nods and finally his eyes meet mine, so turbulent it’s like we’re back on the balcony on a rainy New York night. He opens his mouth, and for a minute I think he’s going to say everything I want to hear. “I have to go. I have sound check in a few hours and I need to get ready.”
I feel the hard twist of a knot forming in my stomach.
Then he sighs and closes his eyes briefly. Whatever I thought I’d seen is gone by the time he opens them again. “Tonight will be fun,” he tells me. “I promise. I’ll put you on the list to go backstage. At eight o’clock, go to the steel double doors near the south entrance—they’ll let you in.”
“And after?” I ask.
“We’ll go back to my house. We’ll talk. We can figure this out.” He’s saying everything right, but his eyes still look empty. I feel a chill move through me.
He kisses me on the lips, once and then again, lingering this time, and I watch him duck into the back of the SUV. Tate and Hank give me a ride back to the airport parking lot where my car is waiting. I hop out when we pull up next to my car, trying to ignore the sensation that everything is wrong between us. I watch the Escalade pull out of sight, trying to get myself excited for the concert tonight. My rock star boyfriend is bringing me backstage for his big comeback performance. What could be better? Nothing, I tell myself. And then I will my heart to listen.
TWENTY-TWO
THE BEDROOM DOOR CLOSES WITH a click behind me and I tiptoe the length of the hall until I reach the living room. Mia is on the couch, typing on her cell phone. Leo is sitting beside her, playing with a stuffed elephant that rattles every time he shakes it.
“I heard Tate’s back in town,” Mia says, catching me slinking through the kitchen. The media must already know he’s back, and Mia has already read about it on her favorite celebrity gossip sites.
The front doorknob is cool beneath my palm and I squeeze it—my escape.
“Yeah, he is,” I confirm. But I don’t mention that I just saw him, that I was there when he landed back in LA.
“You’re going to see him, aren’t you?” Mia asks, as if she could sense my intention just by looking at me. My black skinny jeans, white blouse, and black heels also don’t help.
I look back at her. “I have to, Mia,” I say, my voice low, my gaze pleading. “Please don’t say anything to Grandma.”
Her lips thin in obvious disapproval. She feels the same about Tate that Carlos does: that he’s hurt me too many times, that it’s a mistake to keep taking him back. But she’s also my sister, and I think she sees how in love with him I am—she knows the feeling all too well. So she nods quickly. “Okay,” she says in a hush. “But you better hurry before—”
She doesn’t get a chance to finish her thought, because Grandma appears in the doorway—she must have heard us talking from her bedroom. “Where are you going?” she demands.
My eyes flinch from Mia to her, feeling a pang at her hard gaze. “Out,” I say. And then I yank the door open all the way and dash into the dark.
I hear Grandma calling after me, but I push into a run, out to the street and to my car. I know she won’t chase after me, but I slam the keys into the ignition and peel away down the street regardless—the adrenaline still pumping through my veins.
My phone rings from my purse on the passenger seat and I fish it out, looking at the screen. It’s her. I hit IGNORE.
She’s probably going to ground me until graduation for this, but it doesn’t matter. After graduation I’m gone anyway. I shove down the sorrow that rises in my throat at how bad our relationship has become. Reaching up, I turn on the radio, hoping the sound will drown out my guilty thoughts.
Traffic is a blur of steady red lights and backed-up cars. I exit the 101, hoping to wind my way through the backstreets, but find I’m only inching slowly closer to the Staples Center. I should have left earlier, should have anticipated this. It’s like I’ve been a step behind all day.
When I finally arrive, a parking attendant waves me into a spot not too far from the front entrance. But the show has already started; I can hear the amplified buzz of music rising out from the stadium, the air vibrating. I run in heels toward the entrance, cursing myself for being so late.
I don’t go to the main entrance, where the lights of the Staples sign make everything look smeared in red and blue. Instead, I run along the outer wall to the side of the rounded structure. I’m nervous, I realize; it feels like something big depends on me seeing Tate perform. Like if I miss the show, something terrible will happen.
The steel double doors, just like Tate described, are illuminated by a bright single light against the gray concrete wall. A red-and-white sign reads EXIT. It seems so unofficial.
I knock twice.
Nothing.
I knock again. Still nothing. A car circles through the parking lot, probably looking for an open spot, its headlights fanning across the doors.
I lean into the door and press my ear against the cool metal. I can’t hear anything on the other side. Maybe this is the wrong door—the wrong exit.
But then there is a shuddering and the door swings open. I take a half step backward before it collides with my face. An official-looking man with a goatee stands in the open doorway. “Yeah?” he asks distractedly, looking over my head as if expecting someone else. Around his neck hangs several passes of varying colors, credentials that anoint him as the keeper of the backstage.
“I’m on the list,” I answer, feeling like I’m in one of those movies where the groupie tries to sneak backstage so she can sleep with the rock star. Except I’m not a groupie, I’m his girlfriend.
“What list?” he asks, scratching the sideburns that threaten to overtake his entire face.
“Tate said to come to this door,” I say more confidently than I feel. “I’m Charlotte Reed. My name should be on a list.”
His stare is hooded by the dim light over the doors, and the hallway behind him is a shadowed cavern where I can hear the reverberation of the concert echoing down the bare corridor. He reaches into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt and extracts a folded piece of white paper. He pulls it apart and I can just barely see names printed on the other side. There are only half a dozen or so.
“Reed, you said?”
“Charlotte Reed.”
He glances at me over the paper. “I recognize you. You’re his new chick.”
I nod, the fluttering of wings pushing up into my throat again—excitement and anxiety, merging into one.
“S
orry,” he says, refolding the paper and slipping it back into his breast pocket. “You’re not on the list.”
He starts to step back into the hallway, letting the door slide shut, but I stop him. “No.” I grab the edge of the door to keep it from closing. “Wait. I know I’m on there.”
“Sorry, honey. You’re not.”
“Will you check again?”
“Don’t need to. You’re not on it.”
“But you recognize me,” I say, trying to make him understand. “You know who I am. There’s probably just some mistake. I’m supposed to be in there right now, he’s expecting me.”
“For all I know, he broke up with you earlier tonight and now you’re just trying to sneak in to trash his dressing room.” He grabs the edge of the door above my hand. “If you’re not on the list, you’re not getting in here.” He yanks the door away from me and my fingers release just before it clanks shut.
“Wait!” I shout. I pound on the door, kick it with the toe of my high heel, but he doesn’t come back.
Cursing my choice of shoes, I jog around to the front of the building, where the glass doors emit a blinding glow of white florescent light. There are several people inside dressed in black uniforms, talking casually among themselves, and I approach one of the women standing in front of a poster of Tate’s unsmiling face. She barely looks up at me. “Ticket?” she asks, holding out a hand.
“I don’t have one,” I start. “I’m supposed to be on a list.”
“Did you pre-purchase your tickets?” she asks, still not looking at me directly.
“No. I’m on a list,” I answer more firmly.
She finally looks up, squints at me. “Sorry, there’s no list here.”
“Please,” I say. “Is there someone I can talk to?”
“Not at this entrance.”
“There must be a backstage list, or something—someone you can call?”
She scrunches up her nose, then lets out an exaggerated huff. “Name?” she asks, irritated.
“Charlotte Reed,” I respond quickly.
“Wait here.” I watch as she meanders—painfully slowly—over to a man standing by the escalators and he lifts his cell phone to his ear. I can’t hear what he’s saying but he’s definitely checking my name. This will be it; finally they’ll let me through. After what feels like an hour, he ends the call and the woman walks back over to me. I feel like my skin might tear open along imaginary seams if she doesn’t move faster. I can hear Tate from here: onstage, singing, his voice unmistakable, a voice that’s whispered words against my ear, now echoing through the Staples Center...and I can’t get to him.
“You’re not on any list, anywhere...in any part of the building,” she says dramatically, as if trying to make a point.
This isn’t happening.
I leave through the front doors, marching back around the building.
I’m almost back to the metal double doors when I see a group of girls—five or six—standing in front of it. The man with sideburns appears again, the hallway behind him casting a florescent glow over the girls’ faces. I wait to see them turned away.
But then he lets them through.
They shuffle inside, all long legs and bouncy hair and heels twice as high as mine. The door starts to swing closed behind them but I sprint forward, grabbing it before it slams shut.
I’m about to sneak through when a hand grabs my fingers and pries them away. “I don’t think so,” the man says, holding me by my wrist and forcing me back from the doorway.
“But those girls,” I protest. “You let them in.”
“Look, darlin’, I can’t let you in. It’s my job to keep out the crazies.”
“I’m not—” Then I swallow, composing myself. “I’m not trying to sneak in. Tate told me to come to this door and I would be on a list. So I don’t know what bullshit list you’re looking at, but there’s no way those chicks are on it and I’m not.” My throat tightens against the last words. “So look again.”
His face tugs backward a half an inch, surprised by my tone. A little smile quirks across his lips and I actually think he’s going to check the list again, or better yet, just let me through. “Persistent little thing, I’ll give you that.”
“Look, could you at least find Hank? His bodyguard? I’m sure he’s here, and he can come vouch for me.” Why don’t I have Hank’s number in my phone? I’m going to make Tate give it to me so nothing like this happens again.
The man’s smile flattens. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Don’t knock on this door again or I’m calling the police.” And he pulls the door closed behind him with such finality that it actually makes me jump.
Shit.
I turn and lean against the door, tilting my head back beneath the halo of light and grating my fingers across my scalp.
A wave of screams erupts suddenly from inside the stadium, and then settles as an acoustic guitar begins to play. I press my hands over my eyes and squeeze. I can’t be here, listening to this from outside. It’s torture. So I stand and wind my way back toward the parking lot, beneath the beams of light from the streetlamps, past a security guard, past the last few ticket-holders hurrying toward the front doors of the stadium.
I can’t believe this is happening.
The sky is muted with clouds, hinting of encroaching rain. I pull out my cell phone and send him a text: I can’t get into concert. Not on list. But I know he won’t answer. He’s onstage, performing...and I’m missing it.
Unfamiliar songs and gorgeous melodies sift out into the night sky. Clear white spotlights shoot upward from the roof, swirling and revolving like fireflies against the clouds, a beacon to the outside world that something big is happening inside the stadium tonight—Tate Collins has returned.
Anger burns behind my eyes, and I listen as Tate plays straight through three songs. I’m missing everything. I’m stuck out here and there’s nothing I can do.
TWENTY-THREE
I PUNCH IN THE CODE to the security gate when I pull into Tate’s driveway. I still have it saved in my phone from the night he texted it to me.
The rain falls heavily now, splatting across the windshield as my wipers work furiously to push them away. It’s an early spring rain, a momentary respite from the normally dry California heat. Tate’s house is dark as I pull around the circle drive and kill the engine.
I run up the front pathway in my heels, my hands over my head, and check the door: locked. I ring the doorbell, even though I know Hank will be with Tate at the concert, and there are no butlers or maids or staff to answer the door. I look back at my car. It might be another hour or more until he finally makes it back home. Then I remember the sliding glass door.
I push through the gate at the left side of the house and hurry along the stone path, which is lit with tiny solar lights. I emerge beside the pool—awash in a pearly blue, the surface vibrating with every pelt of rain. I’ve never been here without Tate, and the darkness feels suddenly foreboding, but I shake off the feeling.
I hurry to the glass doors, touching the metal handle, and the door glides easily open, folding back like an accordion. Inside, I breathe in the dryness of the living room and stand with my back against the glass, dripping water onto the floor. My hands fan across the wall to my right, feeling for a light switch, but find nothing.
My foot slams into the coffee table and I stumble back. “Crap.” I touch my right toe, exposed in my black high heels. I’m still not used to wearing these things. I kneel down, gripping the edge of the coffee table for support, and feel a large remote control. As soon as I touch it, all the buttons illuminate, and I notice one larger button marked FIRE. Sure enough, the fireplace directly in front of me sparks to life when I press the button. It’s enough light that I can actually make out the features of the living room.
&n
bsp; I pull out my cell phone. No missed calls or texts from Tate.
He must still be onstage, or doing post-concert interviews, or signing autographs, or just trying to get out of the stadium without being mobbed. I stand up, moving to the stairs, my heels clipping on the hard stone.
On the second floor at the end of the hall are two wide double doors—the master bedroom. I’ve only been here with Tate, that one night. I blush at the memory, touching the triangle bracelet he gave me just before he led me here to his room.
There is a faint, recessed light rimming the ceiling that provides enough of a glow to see the entire room. I run a hand across the comforter, the fabric smooth and silky beneath my fingertips. A wide set of sliding doors look out onto a patio. I touch the glass, watching the rain. Waiting.
An hour passes. I sit on the edge of his bed, then flop back on the comforter, listening to the rain pound against the roof. I consider texting Carlos, but I haven’t told him yet about my decision to defer Stanford. I can’t even imagine his reaction.
Instead, I send another text to Tate, the phone held above me as I type: Where are you?
Every few minutes, I sit up and click my phone on again, certain I’ve missed a call or text. But there’s nothing. Why hasn’t he called yet? Then an idea slips into my brain. I pull up a new web browser on my phone and search for Tate Collins. Social media posts instantly pop up: girls tweeting about being at the concert, grainy Instagram photos of Tate onstage. I cycle through the images, scrolling down. There are shots of him leaving the Staples Center through a throng of girls, unfazed by the downpour as they crowd around a black SUV, Tate climbing inside.
And then the photos change. They’re still of Tate, still in jeans and a black shirt, but the background is different. He’s at a club, sitting in a booth, lights blazing over his face. And surrounding him...are half a dozen girls.
Frantically, I open several more images, all tagged as being posted tonight: Tate downing shots of clear liquid, his platinum watch glinting in the light as he tilts his head back to swallow the shot; Tate with a red-haired girl pressed against his side, whispering into his ear. Tate partying, Tate not here... Tate not with me.
