by Cassia Leo
I tie the ends of the scarf together to secure it to his hand. “There,” I say, satisfied I’ve stanched the bleeding for now. “But you should really go home and wash that soon. You know, once you sober up.”
He looks down at his hand then into my eyes for a long moment. “Are you gonna tell anyone about this?”
I shake my head. “No. Of course not.”
He glances at the empty beer cans. “I was trying to make myself sick.”
“Why?” I reply quickly, my voice barely a whisper.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Just felt like there was something I needed to get out.” His gaze wanders over my face, stopping on my dark, wavy hair, then he leans forward and sniffs. “You smell like strawberries. Do you always smell like that?”
I swallow hard as my pulse pounds in my ears. “I don’t know. I guess.”
He stays there for a long moment, with his nose hovering just above my hairline. Then, I suddenly feel his lips on my forehead and I think I might pass out. His kiss lingers there for a moment before he pulls away and looks down at me.
The left side of his mouth is turned up in the tiniest of smiles. “You are appreciated.”
I chuckle nervously at this reference, utterly shocked that he’s been paying me any attention at all. First, the lucky scarf. Now, he’s repeating my catchphrases? I went through a Tupac phase a couple years ago and started saying “you are appreciated” instead of “thank you.” I’ve had a hard time breaking the habit.
His smile disappears. “Can you do something for me?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“Can you take a selfie of us?”
My heart drops as I realize he’s not interested in me. He’s only interested in what I can do for him and his social media presence.
“Why?” I ask, almost defiantly.
He stares into my eyes for a while before he responds. “I want to have proof of this.”
“Proof of what?”
“Of this,” he murmurs as he leans in and kisses me.
I grab onto the front of his black T-shirt to hold myself steady as I sway on my feet. This can’t be happening. This has to be one of those cruel dreams I have where Ben and I are together, just a couple of kids in love.
But this isn’t a dream. I can taste the beer in his mouth. As his tongue whispers to mine in a language I’ve never spoken, I realize this is intensely real. I’m having my first kiss with Ben Hayes. And as he places his good hand on the small of my back to pull my body flush against his, I think, I’ll never take my lucky scarf off again.
6
Money
Now
There are a few things you learn pretty quickly when you become a social media influencer:
You are a brand. The places you visit, the friends you keep, the food you eat, the clothes you wear, the words you say, the movies you watch, the songs you listen to… These things are all part of your brand. Choose wisely.
You belong to your fans. You may be in a committed relationship, but unless you’re married, significant others are insignificant others. They come and go. Your relationship with your fans is the one they care about most. Never forget that.
Your feelings don’t matter. Depressed over your lack of privacy? Distressed at the current political climate? Ashamed of the things you’ve done to boost your career? Pissed at your agent? No one cares. Save the complaining for your therapist.
Since I passed 500,000 followers on social when I was sixteen years old, I’ve whored myself out more times than I can count. Selling off pieces of my soul to the highest bidder in exchange for money and fame. So, I can’t really complain about the lack of privacy. This is what I asked for, right? To be followed by strangers with cameras day and night.
The pap from the beach follows me in his rental car all the way back to my house, though he has the decency to park a few houses away. I’m relieved beyond words when I see Ponti’s six-foot-six Hulk-like frame leaning up against a sparkling black SUV parked at the curb in front of my house. He nods his big Samoan blockhead at me as I pull my dad’s Prius into the driveway.
My dad refuses to let me upgrade his Prius to a Tesla because, according to him, “Elon Musk is a self-absorbed man-child.” Of the two of us, my dad is the only one who’s met Elon — at Comic-Con a few years ago — so I take his word for it, even though it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. As electric cars go, I prefer my Fisker Karma Revero. Even so, back in L.A., where I have more cars than I can count, Ponti drives me around in my Land Rover most of the time.
Celeb gossip columnists — otherwise known as the surprise hair in my burrito — would say I prefer to let Ponti and my buddies drive me around because I’m almost always drunk or stoned. Shockingly and sadly, they would be correct.
As I slide out of the Prius, I’m stoked to see Holder and Tyrell getting out of the SUV. I met Tyrell a couple years ago when he did the sound mixing on my second album. Holder I met at a party while Charley and I were still together. He’s helped me write a ton of lyrics for all my albums, including the third one that hasn’t released yet.
Holder is unlike anyone I’ve ever known, and the mint-green beanie he’s wearing in eighty-two-degree weather confirms that. “Yo, B. You have any Push-Pops at your house?” he asks, staring at his phone screen as he walks his skinny, white ass toward the front porch.
“Get the fuck out of here with your damn Push-Pops,” Tyrell says, shaking his head as he climbs the steps. “How’s your dad?”
“Sleeping like a log when I left,” I say, reaching for the doorknob. “Hey, any of you scared of dogs? My dad has a Great Dane with an attitude problem.”
Ponti lets out a deep chuckle. “Dogs love me, bro.”
Holder cocks an eyebrow as he tucks his phone into his back pocket. “There’s a lot to love.”
“That’s what your girl said last night,” Ponti replies.
“I didn’t know you were visiting your mom last night,” Holder replies. “I hope you enjoyed her special fourth meal.”
I shake my head as I turn the knob and push the door open. “That’s fucking disgusting, Holder.”
“You calling my mom disgusting?” Ponti says, entering after Tyrell, while Holder stays on the porch.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask.
“Yo, dogs and I don’t usually get along. They can’t handle all this alpha-ness,” he says, patting his scrawny chest. “I’m a threat to the pack. A big dog like a Great Dane might do some damage. Can’t risk messing up this pretty face, you know?”
I turn to Ponti and he shakes his head. “All right,” I say, nodding as I call out toward the hallway, “Spidey! Come here, Spidey!”
Holder’s eyes widen and his pale skin turns white as a sheet. “Yo, I’m not fucking around. I don’t like dogs. Don’t make me hurt that beast.”
My dad’s tiny white Chihuahua comes darting out of the hallway toward the front door, and I quickly scoop him up so he can lick my face.
“Great Dane?” Holder says, shaking his head as he pushes his way past me. “Fuck you, man. I’ll get you back.”
“Hey, don’t you want to piss on Spidey’s face or something? Show him who’s boss?” I say, shutting the front door.
Tyrell comes back from the kitchen, his favorite place to hang out no matter where we are. “Yo, your dad doesn’t have any ham or sausage or something? Where’s all the food?”
I set Spidey down so he can greet everyone. “My dad’s a pescatarian. He doesn’t fuck with that shit.”
As soon as the words come out of my mouth I realize I’m probably scaring the rest of these assholes off fish and vegetarianism, considering my dad hasn’t eaten meat for most of his life and he’s still going to die before his fiftieth birthday. It makes me wonder if maybe you can get cancer from a broken heart. My dad’s never been the same since my mom died eighteen years ago.
Life is brutal as fuck.
“Dude, shouldn’t your dad be awake by now?” Holder says, pu
lling a pack of cigarettes out of his jeans and taking a seat on the brown leather sofa in the living room.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“What?” he asks with the cigarette dangling from his lip.
“You can’t smoke in here,” I reply.
His eyes widen. “Ah, fuck. I forgot. Sorry, bro.”
I turn back to Tyrell. “I know you’re starving, as usual, but I gotta check on my dad before we can go grab something to eat. I’ll be right back.”
Tyrell nods. “You need some help, bro?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
When Tyrell isn’t obsessing about working out and eating a ketogenic diet, he’s the most standup guy I’ve ever met. After I broke up with Charley, and Mason became my sworn enemy, I went through a dark period when I didn’t think I had anyone left. Tyrell and I met shortly after that, when we were working on my Blink album, and I couldn’t have gotten through that time without him. Dude goes above and beyond for his friends without anyone having to ask.
As I walk down the hallway, I avoid looking at the pictures lining the walls. My dad is almost as obsessed with hanging photographs as Charley is with taking them. Just about every wall in this house is covered with pictures of me and coastal landscapes, most of them taken and framed by Charley herself. My dad is a junkie and she’s his supplier.
His bedroom door is closed, just like it was when I left to follow Charley to the beach this morning. Pulling my phone out of my jeans pocket, I glance at the time on the screen, cocking an eyebrow when I see it’s past ten a.m. My dad was always an early riser. The cancer probably has him sleeping more than usual.
I knock a couple of times, but he doesn’t respond. Pushing the door open, I find my dad tucked under his blue-plaid comforter, facing away from me. I approach slowly, thinking that if he’s still asleep I’ll leave him be. But when I round the foot of the bed and see his face, panic rises in my chest.
His eyes are closed, mouth partially open. His face is frozen in what looks like a silent scream. He doesn’t appear to be breathing.
I step forward and tap his shoulder. “Dad? You awake?”
He doesn’t respond.
I put my hand in front of his nose and mouth, but I can’t tell if he’s breathing. “Dad? Please,” I plead, jostling his shoulder a bit more roughly. “Dad, wake up… Please.”
My eyes sting with fresh tears as I realize my dad died alone. My efforts to get here on the first flight out yesterday meant nothing, because the first chance I got, I left my dad alone so I could chase Charley.
Life isn’t brutal. It’s fucking tragic.
I pull my phone out of my pocket again to call 9-1-1 before I start CPR, but as I dial the 9, I hear a loud snort. “Dad?”
My dad blinks a few times as he opens his brown eyes and squints at me. “I thought I dreamed you came back last night,” he says, a huge grin spreading across his gaunt face. “I’m glad it wasn’t a dream.”
“Jesus Christ, Dad. I thought you were dead. You wouldn’t wake up,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket.
He waves off my concern as he sits up, tossing his slim legs over the side of the bed. “I woke up about three a.m. and took some pain meds. The good ones keep me knocked out for a solid eight hours.”
“Are you in pain now?” I ask, following him out into the hallway.
“I’m fine. How long are you here for?” he says, stopping outside the bathroom door.
“Indefinitely.”
“What about your movie?”
“There’ll be other ones.”
He shakes his head and smiles. “It’s good to see you, kiddo.”
I stand outside the closed bathroom door for a minute, listening to make sure he’s not vomiting or anything. I have no fucking idea how to take care of a person with lung cancer. I’m going to have to ask my assistant to find a caregiver to help me out. When I hear the shower turn on, I set off toward the living room.
“Did you bring my 58?” I ask Tyrell, referring to my Shure SM58 microphone.
“57 and 58 are both in the car.”
“Thanks. You hungry?”
“What do you think?”
“Let’s go grab a bite. I know a great seafood place with a killer bloody Mary,” I say, thinking of how annoyed Michelle will be to find out we went to a rival seafood restaurant.
As I close the front door behind me, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Pulling it out, my stomach clenches at the sight of my agent’s name on the screen.
“Hey, Jordan,” I say, holding up a finger when Holder shoots me a frustrated look.
“What the hell is going on, Ben? I just got a call from Harry Blumenthal saying you walked off the set. Please tell me this is a joke,” he says in his annoyingly thick Valley accent.
“It’s not a joke. My dad has lung cancer. I came home to be with him.”
“You can’t just walk off the set. You have a contractual obligation to finish out the movie.”
I think of the split second when I worried my dad was dead just a few minutes ago. I try to imagine what it would feel like to get a call telling me that my dad died while I was on location. Then, I would have to live with the fact that I chose to be thousands of miles away, playing pretend while my dad spent his last moments suffering and feeling totally alone.
No fucking way.
“Then, I guess I can’t do the movie,” I reply, trying to keep my voice even, though inside I’m a fucking mess.
I don’t want to give up the movie or my career, but I’ll die before I let my dad die alone.
Jordan scoffs at my flippant response. “Getting a reputation as someone who’s difficult to work with will kill your career. Do you understand that?”
“My father is dying of cancer. Do you understand that?”
“Is he dying tomorrow?” he replies, and I almost hang up before he continues. “You have seven weeks left on this shoot. If you don’t go back, they’ll replace you and reshoot the scenes you’ve already done. Four weeks of shooting down the drain at, what, $400,000 a day? That’s, like, eight million bucks. Add on your salary and additional losses for postponing the release and damages will clear twenty mil, easily. They’ll sue your ass and blacklist you. You’ll be finished.”
“So be it. I’d rather fuck over my career than fuck over my blood.”
Jordan is silent for a moment before he replies. “You’d better not be getting any crazy ideas now that you’re back there.”
I swallow hard as I consider the meaning behind his words. He wants to make sure that now that I’m back home, facing the wreckage of what I did to Charley, I’m not going to get any crazy ideas. Like telling her the truth about why I broke up with her three years ago.
“Don’t worry. I have no desire to hurt Charley any more than I already have. But you already know that, don’t you?” I say, ending the call before he can respond.
As I head toward the passenger seat of the black SUV, the only thought on my mind is that I’ll have to forgo the bloody Mary’s at the restaurant. I’m going to need something a bit stronger today.
7
The Wave
Then
If you were to pick a random person in a crowd of people and ask them if they’d rather date someone who was uglier and less successful than them or someone who was better looking and more successful than them, the vast majority would choose to date up rather than down. But dating up is not all it’s cracked up to be.
For the first four or five years Ben and I were together, my stomach was in knots every time we were out in public. I felt like everyone was looking at us, judging me as unworthy. True, most of them were just admiring Ben’s striking good looks. But often, I found myself grappling with the painfully heavy realization that I was dating up. Ben was just too good for me.
Only this last year — after years of Ben trying to convince me that I’m the most gorgeous and amazing thing that ever happened to the universe — have I finally started feel
like Ben and I are equals. Well, almost equal. He’s still a better singer than I am and I’m still better at taking selfies than he is.
Ben and I carry our surfboards across the narrow isthmus toward Goat Rock, the rocky outcrop just off the coast of Goat Rock Beach.
“Take my board,” I say, stopping in the middle of the sandy path connecting the beach and the hundred-foot-long miniature island.
Goat Rock is about forty feet high with a nearly flat top and off-center arch carved through the middle, where inexperienced swimmers have been killed by the rising tides and aggressive surf.
“What are you doing?” Ben said, a note of worry in his voice as he takes my board and tucks it under his free arm. “The tide will be coming in soon. We need to hurry.”
“I just want to take a picture from here,” I say, grabbing the camera that dangles around my neck and pointing it at the pelicans perched at the top of the arch.
“Does Mason know where we are?” he asks as I take a few more shots of the beach and the rock.
I continue on across the isthmus, a thrill of adrenaline coursing through me when a wave rolls in and laps against my calves, the salt spray stinging my nostrils. “I told him we were going to Goat Rock to take pictures of the harbor seals.”
Ben skips the last few feet until he reaches the sandy shore of Goat Rock, quickly leaning the boards against the rock face and heading back toward me to grab my hand. “This was a stupid idea,” he says, his grip on my hand tightening with each step we take. “We should have just gone to the lake.”
I laugh when we reach our boards. “We’ve had sex at the lake dozens of times.”
“We’re gonna get tossed,” he says, grabbing both boards and stacking them on top of his head. “You climb up and I’ll hand you the boards. Then, I’ll climb up.”
