I tensed, memories of our breakup coming back into my head. I forced them back down again. Now wasn’t the time.
“I’ve been avoiding them,” Tate admitted. “But it’s Camilla’s birthday. I had to come.”
I rubbed her back as she leaned into me. Everything made sense. But what could we do?
“Can we stay out here for a while?” she pleaded.
“Of course,” I said.
We sat silently, watching the people coming and going through the doors. We could just hear the music playing inside. It had switched from country to early 2000s pop.
“I’m sorry,” said Tate a few songs later.
“For what?”
“I never wanted you to see me like this. I didn’t think it would happen.”
I stroked her hair. “You don’t need to apologize, baby. I’ll always be here, you know that.”
“But that’s not fair to you.”
“And it’s fair for you to take care of me when I’m drunk and doing stupid shit?”
She laughed. “So you admit you do it, then?”
“It’s just…the drinking is easier, you know? I can’t deal with what’s going on in my head, so I do my best to block it out.”
*
We didn’t stay at the party. We texted Camilla to apologize, then headed back to Tate’s place. She didn’t want to go, but given that the party had triggered a panic attack, it seemed better for her to work through her issues with house parties before going back to another one.
Her issues with house parties didn’t stop her from attending launch parties, though. The next night, she decided she was bored and wanted to go to an album launch party for one of our label mates. Her name was Trina Tequila, but I mostly just called her a Lady Gaga wannabe.
Begrudgingly, I agreed to go.
I left her alone to get changed. When I came back, her expression was resolute. Moxie ran around my feet, jumping up with excitement.
“Sorry little one, you can’t come,” I told Moxie as I picked her up and gave her some attention.
“I mean, it doesn’t say no dogs,” Tate said, a twinkle in her eye. “And it’d be good exposure for her, wouldn’t it?”
“You want to take her to an indoor pool party?” I asked.
Leaving her at home meant that we wouldn’t stay as long—we’d have a reason to leave early. I was still worried about Tate being at parties, so if she had a reason to leave that she couldn’t argue with, it would be better for both of our anxieties.
“No, you’re right,” said Tate. Phew. “We’ll leave her here. Mom can always check in on her if we decide to stay late.”
Damn. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Come on, let’s go or we’ll miss the red carpet.”
There was a red carpet? Shit.
The last time we’d done a red carpet together someone had thrown an egg-and-flour mixture at us. It’d hit Tate in the back and ruined her dress. And they’d done it because they didn’t approve of us as a couple. Great.
I fidgeted in the taxi there, worried the same thing would happen again. We didn’t have security with us, but they’d have security there, wouldn’t they? Why had she refused to have security with her all the time?
“It’s more conspicuous to have them with me all the time,” she said when I asked her. “So I mostly have them for official engagements or when I’ve got work coming out. The hype tends to be worse when I have a new movie or record coming out. Since I haven’t worked in months, it’s not such a big deal right now.”
She sounded more confident than I felt. Maybe I was just more conscious of things than she was. I’d spent my whole life being attacked physically and verbally for who I was. Tate had never really experienced that; she’d just lived in a fishbowl instead.
We got out of the taxi to cheers and applause, but they weren’t as loud as they had been at her previous movie premiere when we’d been together. Was there a reason for that? It couldn’t be to do with all the negative press coverage about Tate lately, could it?
No, I was being paranoid. That was dumb.
“Tate, this way!” shouted a paparazzo. Tate grabbed my arm and the two of us posed. I remembered what Melrose had told me about how to smile in front of a camera and how it often felt unnatural. Anger began to fill me at the thought of her. Not because I was angry at her, but because I was angry at myself for not having noticed how much she was using me. How had I been taken for such a schmuck for so long?
“Jack, where’s your head at?” said Tate as we continued to pose.
“What? Don’t like my pensive face?” I teased.
“You don’t look pensive, you look pissed,” she said, changing her position again.
“Oh. Sorry,” I said, trying to relax my features.
“Think of burgers,” she suggested. “That always works for me.”
“Even when they’re vegan?” I said.
She nudged me. “Even when they’re vegan.”
*
The inside of the party was full of fountains and water jets. In the middle was the pool area. I’d always questioned water around alcohol, but it seemed to be a popular combination.
Tate took off her dress and put it in the coat check. Underneath she was wearing a pink cut-out swimsuit that showed off all her curves. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. It hugged all the right places, emphasizing her figure and drawing my eyes to it.
“Can we just get out of here?” I whispered to her as I took off my jacket and checked that in too. I was wearing tribal print board shorts. Not nearly as sexy as Tate’s outfit, but that wasn’t what I was going for.
Tate giggled. “Later,” she said. “I’ve never been to a pool party before. I want to see what it’s like.”
“You sure you’ll be all right?” I said, still thinking about last night. She kept trying to brush it under the carpet, and that concerned me.
“Stop worrying so much!” she said, smirking as she noticed a couple of guys checking her out. I couldn’t blame them, although a pang of jealousy did run through me.
“Shall we get a drink?” I said, trying to take her mind from the guys walking past. They were both more muscular than I could ever dream of being. It didn’t help my confidence much.
“Have you seen the bar? All I see is water fountains,” she said.
“It’s over the other side.” I pointed to a brightly lit bar that was surrounded by sparkling lights.
She took my hand and we meandered our way through the crowds. Music blasted through the speakers. I think it was Trina’s new album, but I didn’t know her voice so I wasn’t sure. It was OK music. Nothing to get too excited about. Outside of the pool party setting, it would’ve faded into the background and been forgotten about.
“What do you want to drink?” Tate asked me when we reached the bar.
“Just water, please,” I said. I’d had a drink before coming out to try to pacify my cravings. When I was out with Tate I tried to drink less. It didn’t always work, but trying was a start, right?
Tate ordered me some water without hesitation. The bartender gave us a confused look but didn’t say anything. Tate just flashed him her signature smile. That’s part of what I loved about her: she was supportive of me, despite everything. I put my arm around her bare waist and kissed her cheek.
“What was that for?” she asked, turning her head so that she could kiss me properly.
“Just being you,” I said, kissing her again. Her lips were soft and moist thanks to the lip gloss that matched her outfit. I was pretty sure I’d end up wearing it too, but I didn’t care. I lost myself in her touch. Her hands ran over my skin, tickling me and making me need her more. Dammit, why were we at a party?
The bartender slammed Tate’s Coke onto the counter. We jumped apart.
“Thanks,” she said, passing me my water and giggling. “I don’t think he approved, do you?”
“He’s just jealous I get to kiss you and he doesn’t,” I said, pecking her on the
lips. We pulled away and she ran her thumb over my lips.
“Lip gloss,” she said, pursing her lips.
I smacked my lips together. “Why does it taste like cherries?”
Tate grinned. “What’s the point in makeup if you can’t have a little fun with it?”
“I didn’t think they made flavored lip gloss anymore. Melrose always complained she couldn’t find any.”
Tate shrugged. “She must’ve been looking in the wrong places.”
Or not looking at all and just wanting something to complain about. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
“Hey, you two!” said Camilla, putting her arm around Tate. She had on a lime-green bikini that didn’t leave much to the imagination. If it was any smaller, it would’ve been a couple of dishrags.
“Hey, babe,” said Tate, hugging her back. “Sorry about your birthday party.”
“It’s cool, don’t worry about it. How amazing is this party?”
“I wish I’d had an album launch party this cool! Mine were all so generic,” Tate said with a sigh.
“Yeah, but you’ve still got loads of album releases to come, right? You could always have it here next time,” said Camilla.
“I’m not sure the label would go for it. It clashes with my image too much. They wouldn’t want to give the press the wrong idea,” said Tate.
“Haven’t they already gotten the wrong idea with the stories they’ve been printing lately?” said Camilla.
Tate’s back stiffened.
“What have they been saying?” I asked. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know; I’d been trying to avoid reading the headlines after everything that had been said the last time Tate and I were together. I knew they were saying increasingly mean things out there, I just didn’t know what they were. But if it was something that was affecting Tate’s mental health, I had to know.
“Er…I’ll talk to you about it later,” said Camilla.
“No, it’s fine. I know most of it anyway,” Tate said with a sigh. She turned to me: “They’re saying I’m a has-been and that I’m just attention-seeking by going to parties and stuff.”
“That’s bullshit!”
“We know,” said Camilla, “but you know what the press are like. Anything to start a story.” She sipped her drink. “Anyway! Let’s not let that get us down. We’re here to party!”
*
Music aside, it was one of the best parties I’d been to. Ever. It put mine to shame. Next time I’d have to up my game.
Tate and I danced in the pool while drinking and kissing and nobody showed us any interest. It was rare for us to go out together and not get attention, but we were surrounded by half-naked (and some actually naked) celebrities, so that helped.
“Come on, let’s go get another drink!” said Tate.
She hadn’t had any alcohol in support of me—although I’d told her she could—but she was on a major sugar high from drinking so much Coke. She hadn’t had anything to eat before we’d left, which meant the sugar crash would hit her even harder when she came down from it. I’d be there to look after her when it happened.
The way she behaved when on a sugar high was kinda like how she acted when she was drunk. She was pretty much the same, just more flirty and bubbly. I liked that about her. It contrasted with how I was when I was drunk, which was a person I didn’t want to be. I shuddered.
“Where’s your head at, sweetie?” Tate asked.
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter,” I said. I took her hand and we forced our way out of the pool and toward the bar. It was so full of people it was difficult to move. Everyone was wrapped up in their own heads, dancing and drinking and barging past each other to get to the bar. Some pushed into me, forcing mine and Tate’s hands apart. I was jolted forward while Tate fell back. I fell into the woman in front of me. She turned and glared at me, but then her eyes fell on something behind me. I turned around to see. It was Tate. She’d fallen backward and it looked like she’d hit her head on the edge of the pool. Trust her to find the one spot that didn’t have anyone there to land on.
I ran to her and put my hand on the back of her head to check for blood. It was clear. Phew.
“Ow,” she yelped.
“Sorry,” I said, moving my hand. “Are you OK?”
“It hurts,” she said with a pout.
“Come on, let’s get you sitting down.”
The lady I’d crashed into helped me find a chair for Tate to sit on. It turned out that she was a nurse and Trina Tequila’s mom. She checked Tate over. “She seems OK to me, but I’d take her to get checked out by her doctor in the morning just in case. She’s showing no signs of a concussion, which is good.”
“Good. That’s good. Thanks for your help,” I said.
“No problem. If you need anything else, just give me a shout.”
“Thanks,” I said. I turned back to Tate: “Do you want to get out of here? The bass can’t be good for your headache.”
Tate sighed. “I don’t want to go. But you’re right: the music is making everything worse.”
*
We went back to her place where I helped her shower—she insisted on washing the chlorine out of her hair—then tucked her into bed. There was no way I was leaving her after she hit her head like that, so I settled into bed beside her.
I didn’t sleep much. I was too worried. So instead, I watched her chest rising and falling. Seeing it still moving reassured me that she really was fine and hadn’t done any serious damage that Trina’s mom hadn’t picked up on.
First thing the next morning I insisted that she get checked out by her doctor. She didn’t want to, but eventually she agreed just to shut me up. Since she’d hit her head, they rushed her through as an emergency. That made me feel even better about the decision I’d made.
When we got there, we were ushered into a doctor’s office. He checked her over, asked what had happened, and talked about her symptoms. She still didn’t have any signs of a concussion, which was reassuring. He told us what to look out for just in case, and said if we had any problems to give him a call. He then prescribed her some painkillers for the headache and sent us on our way.
“Feel better now?” Tate asked as we left the doctor’s office.
“Yes. Peace of mind is important,” I said.
“I suppose,” she said with a grumble.
“Are you still pissed we missed the party?” I asked.
“A little,” she said. “Although the music was pretty bad. I think people were only dancing to it because they were drunk.”
“They were definitely only dancing to it because they were drunk. The music was terrible.”
She laughed. “You think a lot of music is terrible.”
“No I don’t! I know good music when I hear it and I appreciate the work that goes into even the worst songs. That also means, because I’ve produced so many songs, I know exactly what makes a successful song. And the things they were playing last night are not successful songs.” I put my arms around her waist. “Ours, on the other hand, is pretty damn awesome. And if we’re going to write any more awesome songs, right now you need to rest.”
She sighed. “Wish I could, but I’ve got a shoot.”
“What?” I hadn’t known about that.
She checked the time on her phone. “Yeah. And I’m already late. That will really help my diva rep,” she said with an eye roll.
35
Tate
I hide how I feel
None of it seems real
I’m so lost
How much has this cost?
— “Everything has a Price,” Tate Gardener
Troubled Tate Gardener Crashes Out at Party
At the launch of Trina Tequila’s new album last night, troubled singer/actor/socialite Tate Gardener left early. She’s usually one of the last people to leave, but photos have appeared of her lying on the floor, clutching the back of her head. Did she slip? Did she fall? Who knows?
What we do know is th
at she went to get checked out by her doctor first thing this morning, escorted by a worried-looking Jack Cuoco. It’s rumored the two have been back together for a few months now. Could he be dragging her down his path of self-destruction?
“Oh, for god’s sake!” I said, slamming my phone onto the table. A few people looked over. Maybe a photoshoot wasn’t the place to be looking at the latest bullshit the press were printing about me.
“What is it, honey?” asked Lacy as they did my makeup.
“Apparently even though I hit my head last night because someone pushed into me, it’s still a sign that something is wrong with me,” I said with an eye roll.
“If that’s a sign that something’s wrong with you, then there’s something wrong with a lot of us. Besides, I thought you said you were pushed?”
“They left out that detail,” I said.
“Of course they did,” said Lacy, rolling their eyes. “Well, the good people know not to believe everything they read.”
“That’s true,” I said, patting their hand.
Getting my hair done had been painful. No matter how gentle my hairdresser was, whenever she went near the back of my head, it stung. Thankfully she was all done, but there were two more looks after this one to shoot, which meant more poking and prodding was to come. Bleh.
My makeup finished, I walked over to the photographer and said hi. “Where do you want me to stand?” I asked.
“On the big X in the middle of the floor,” he said, pointing at it with a bored look on his face. So it was going to be that kind of shoot.
I walked over and stood where he instructed. Then I posed and he began to take photos. It was tedious, standing there, moving from one position to another in an outfit so ugly my dog could’ve designed something better. Usually that didn’t bother me, but for some reason, lately it did.
“Tate, could you at least pretend you want to be here please?” grumbled the photographer.
Hollywood Parents Page 21
