Cross your Heart

by Haley Jenner

  You have zero respect for yourself.

  Your dad must be so proud of you. Not.

  Can’t believe your dad still talks to you. slut.

  They’re* #Idiot

  Loser. Skank. Cunt. Bitch. Ugly. Words fly out of the comments in knife blades of hate. Thousands of comments, ninety percent of them cruelly vilifying her for a cheesy caption and photo.

  What the actual fuck is wrong with the world?!

  I scroll on, anger crackling along my skin.

  breerivere does Roxy Monroe exist without ripped jeans? Love them, honey. X

  A much-needed balm coats my skin at that simple comment. It quells the flames of fury engulfing me, the hatred this world chooses to offer like fucking gasoline.

  I’m more thankful than ever for my mom in that moment. A slice of kindness in a sea of venom. But I would never expect anything less from the woman who raised me. Swiping out of Instagram, I shoot her a quick text to tell her I love her. Paying her kindness forward.

  I try to ignore the thought niggling at the very back of my mind. An incessant mosquito, forcing my attention to focus where it doesn’t care to.

  My mom follows Roxy on social media. Which means, they’re likely in contact. And she’s never told me. Never.

  “Make sure you don’t like any photos,” Baxter jokes. “Nothing worse than looking like a weirdo stalker.”

  I glance over at him. “I’d just delete the account.”

  He laughs, and after a beat, I smirk.

  “What’s your obsession with this chick?” he asks. “I’m starting to think you joined the ‘gram for the sole reason of stalking her page.”

  I sigh, watching him carefully. Trust isn’t something I hand over easily. Especially not in this industry. Snakes are all too common. The slippery little fuckers that slide into your life, pretending to have your best interests at heart. In truth, before you’ve had the smarts to recognize their true nature, their fangs have punctured, their poison seeping into your life at an alarming rate.

  “I knew her once upon a time.”

  “No shit?” he murmurs, genuinely surprised.

  “No shit.”

  “Lucky you were smart enough to jump before that shit storm hit.”

  Eyes focused on his cell, fingers moving a million miles a minute. “Paparazzi are in full force at the hotel. Dave, your security guy,” he reminds me, “has requested we take you through a back entrance.”

  “Rewind.”

  Fingers pausing, he glances up. “Dave?”

  “Back,” I demand.

  “Paparazzi?”

  “Further.”

  “You not using Instagram for its intended purpose,” he guesses.

  “The shit storm,” I clarify. “Why would you say that?”

  “Roxy Monroe?”

  I nod.

  “Fucking disaster. Her PR team must be running around without heads right now.” He’s not even looking at me. His eyes fixated on that stupid piece of technology held in his hand.

  Plucking it from his grasp, I pocket it.

  “What the hell, Reid? Trying to organize your life here.”

  I blink, unaffected. “Speak fucking English. Roxy Monroe.”

  He groans. “Some sex scandal. Leaked footage of her engaging in a little self-love.”

  My nostrils flare. My chest expands unhealthily.

  “Your eye is twitching,” Baxter observes nervously. “Is that a bad thing? I’m thinking it’s a bad thing.” He shifts, moving closer to his door.

  Rubbing a palm down my face, I clench my fists. “How was it leaked?” My words are spoken quietly, a deathly echo surrounding them in the quiet car.

  “I don’t know. Rumor has it she did it herself. Publicity stunt.”

  Pushing my fists along my thighs, I rest them against my knees. “Bullshit.”

  In my peripheral, I see his hands raise in surrender. “Just telling you what I’ve read. I’m surprised you haven’t read anything about it. The scandal has been drowning TMZ for weeks.”

  Neck twisting, I scowl at him. “Do I look like I read fucking TMZ?”

  “No,” he agrees easily.

  “I know Roxy Monroe, no fucking way she would put something like that out for all to see.”

  I try to ignore the devil on my shoulder, laughing at my ignorance. Mocking me. I know shit about Roxy Monroe and the type of person she is. I have zero idea of what she’s capable of.

  “What’s she saying about it publicly?”

  Baxter shrugs. “From what I’ve heard, she’s not said a single word about it. She hasn’t attempted to deny the claims or done anything to reform her image.”

  Five

  Take Two

  Roxy

  I’ve always been a bit of a loner.

  What. A. Dick.

  “He certainly hit a big fat fucking delete button on me.”

  “Rox,” my mom placates through the line. “You’re making a bigger deal of this than you should.”

  I’m glad she can’t see me right now to witness the complete and utter look of betrayal on my freshly made-up face.

  “Please Mom,” I snap sarcastically. “Keep defending him. It makes me feel so much better.”

  She sighs. “Baby. You live the exact same life. What was he supposed to do? Say he had a best friend, but it all went to shit because she fell in love with him. Everyone from home would jump at the chance to offer your name up for the slaughter. Imagine the tabloids.”

  Why is it so irritating when someone pours perspective over your tantrum? Ugh. I hate it when she’s right.

  “Still fucking hurts.”

  “What’s with the swearing?”

  “I don’t know,” I grumble. “My new agent uses cursing in place of breathing when he speaks. Must be wearing off on me.”

  “How’s he working out?”

  I sip my water through a straw, careful not to smudge my lipstick. “He’s really great, Mom. We’re on the same page. He gets me. I feel like I’ve known him forever.”

  “Don’t go falling in love with him.”

  I glance at my reflection in the mirror. “Really, Mom?”

  She doesn’t even attempt to hide her laughter. “You can’t say it’s too soon.”

  “You’re an asshole,” I complain, the insult cushioned by the affection in my tone. “Anyway, he has a script we’re meeting up to go over tonight, he’s just not sure I should take it.”

  “Why?”

  I exhale, turning away from my reflection. “It has full-frontal nudity. He’s concerned about what it could do to my image after everything.”

  Silence hits me on the other end and I curse myself for bringing it up.

  “What are your thoughts?” she tests uncertainly.

  Dropping onto my couch, I look out at the sun setting over the city. The brilliant orange hue cracking between the pillars of buildings spanning my view. “I don’t know. I’ve had a decent level of support from the public, but a large portion of them slammed me too. None of them care to hear my truth. Shit, there’s still an Instagram page dedicated to me being a cum rag,” I sigh. “I’m not sure if dipping my toes into something seemingly controversial so soon is a good idea.”

  “Seems like you’ve already made up your mind.”

  I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “I need to see the script first. It might be made for me.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “Of course.” I check my watch. “You and Dad still planning on coming out next month?”

  “If that works with your schedule?”

  “Yeah, Momma,” I murmur, wishing she was closer.

  I hear the smile in her tone when she replies. “Love you, honey.”

  It’s crazy how often I consider moving back to Tampa to be closer to her. This life is lonely. I have friends out here, sure, but none that I’d hang with regularly. Everything is so surface level. Nearing thirty, I’m pickier than ever about who I let into my life. I still comp
are friendships to what I shared with Reid. Annoyingly, he was right, once you’ve experienced the best of something, anything sub-par isn’t worth it. I still have Brooke, but like Mom and Dad, she’s back in Tampa.

  Finding friendships later in life is hard. Everyone you meet is over bullshit. Fuck the tedious drama that governs relationships when you’re in high school or college. No one has time for that anymore. You meet someone, you don’t hit it off, sayonara. You’re both better off. Who has the patience or time to pretend? On the flip side, even if you do hit it off, finding time across professional schedules is near impossible. Add romantic relationships, family, and kids into the mix and bye-bye social life. People are busy building their futures and here I am, sitting in my penthouse suite, as lonely as fucking ever. This isn’t how I pictured my life. Not in the slightest.

  “I should get going,” I mumble, wanting her to stay on the line forever so I could feel more connected. “Love you, Mom. Give Dad a kiss for me.”

  “Will do, honey. Love you.”

  She disconnects before I do and I pull my cell from my ear slowly, loneliness settling comfortably beside me.

  My phone buzzes almost immediately and I pick it up once again, shoving my melancholy back down my throat. Swallowing it like acid, letting it burn all the way down.

  Brooke: He was a LONER??????????

  Brooke: Guy had his cunt flagging loud and fucking proud in that interview.

  Brooke: Side note - why did he look SO good? Fucking asshole.

  I smile in spite of myself. Call it toxic, call it counterproductive, I don’t care, Brooke and I are encouragers. The devil sitting on your shoulder working you up, when in truth they should be talking you down. So kill me, I love it almost as much as I love her.

  Pulling her number up, I hit FaceTime, waiting for the call to connect.

  “Seriously.” She begins talking before the picture is even clear enough for her to see. “What I’d give to... Oh, you look hot, where are you going?”

  “Meeting with my agent.”

  “Is he hot?”

  I frown at her. “Firstly, he’s my agent. Second, he’s gay.”

  “Too bad,” she sighs. “You seem calm,” she accuses. “Too calm.”

  I laugh.

  “You’re not mad?”

  Mom’s words playing in my mind, I find myself shaking my head. “What was he supposed to say? Tabloids would go freaking nuts to paint me as a desperate Reid Rivere reject. I guess he did me a solid by erasing me.”

  Her eyes narrow. “You spoke with Zara.”

  “Yep.” The word is out quickly, denial unnecessary.

  “Damn her and her perspective.”

  I smile. “She’s not wrong,” I concede. “I appreciate your gloves on ready to make me feel better.”

  “I feel ripped off, quite honestly. She needs to know to call you after I’ve stirred you up.”

  “How’s the baby?”

  She pretends to cry. “Oh my God, Rox. People try to warn you, but babies are really fucking hard work. I’ve just got him down to sleep and I honestly just want to sit on the couch and stare at nothing.”

  “Do it.”

  Head tipped back on her neck, she groans. “I have-not exaggerating-at least twelve million loads of washing to do. I need to pump, my tits are in fucking agony and leaking like a dairy cow, I also can’t remember the last time I ate something other than Cheetos. And don’t judge me, but I haven’t changed my sheets in over two weeks.”

  I grimace. “Ew.”

  “I said don’t judge me,” she scolds.

  “Are your mom and dad helping?”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s me. They offer it,” she confesses. “But they were so against me having him, that accepting their help feels like I’m admitting they’re right.”

  “Firstly, they were absolutely not right. You’re a great mom, Chook. Charlie been around?”

  “Puhlease,” she gripes. “I’ve blocked his number. He was making promises and falling down on every one. I got over feeling disappointed every time he proved what I already knew.”

  Brooke was knocked up in a drunken one-night stand with her high school boyfriend. They ran into one another at a party, too many red Solo cup refills later and they decided to play for old time’s sake. Sober Brooke was less than impressed with intoxicated Brooke. Even more so two months later when she discovered Charlie had decided to leave a parting gift of his miniature version growing inside of her.

  “Sleep, stare at nothing, do not clean.”

  Bottom lip tipped out, her head moves side-to-side. “Not a charity, Rox. Like every other fucking helper you’ve sent over, I’ll send them straight back to where they came from.”

  “It’s not fucking charity if you’re helping a friend.”

  “Don’t make me regret talking to you,” she whispers. “You’re my friend, but fuck off if you’ll turn me venting into a way to make yourself feel better.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You listening to me ramble is help enough. I actually feel energized.”

  I laugh and a second later she joins me.

  “Fine,” I agree. “But promise me, the moment you need help...”

  “First person I call.”

  “I gotta go, Chook. My car will be here in five and I still need to get dressed.”

  “Still weirds me out that you have a driver. Let me know how the script looks.”

  “Will do. Love you. Give Spence a kiss for me.”

  “Love you.” She ends the call on a blow of a kiss and I throw my cell to the couch, missing her more than ever.

  Six

  Take Two

  Roxy

  “Will you sit down?” my mom chides. “You’re giving me anxiety.”

  “No.” I pick up my wine glass, taking a hefty sip. “Why do they have so many freaking ads?” I shift closer to the TV, only to move a step backward.

  “He didn’t have a date,” my mom baits and I scowl in her direction.

  “I’m not still in love with the guy. Jesus. I couldn’t care less if he had a date.”

  She holds her hands up in surrender. “No need to bite my head off.”

  “That’s enough excitement for me,” my dad groans, pushing himself up from the sofa, kissing my cheek before leaving the room. I don’t blame him. I’m as sharp as a knife’s edge right about now. Ready to force blood from anyone that handles me incorrectly.

  “Holy shit.”

  “What?” I turn to Brooke, too fast, some of my wine spilling on the carpet.

  “Nothing.” She drops her phone, eyes concentrating on an ad for hair loss treatment a little too intently.

  I stare at her, waiting impatiently. She has the worst poker face in the history of existence. Eyebrows knotted together, she purses her lips feigning interest.

  “You look constipated.”

  Her eyes flick in my direction and back to the TV awkwardly.

  “Brooke,” I grumble.

  “He joined Instagram this week,” she huffs, shifting Spencer, currently nestled comfortably in her neck to cradle him.

  “Who?” Mom asks. “Reid?” She picks up her phone.

  “Don’t you dare follow him.” I point at her in warning.

  “I won’t,” she gripes, lying through her teeth. “I’ll just look at his pictures.”

  “His handle is too busy reiding,” she tells my mom. “Reiding spelled like his name.”

  Mom chuckles. “Clever.”

  “Ugh,” I complain. “That’s so Reid.”

  “I followed him,” Brooke confesses, a guilty smile staring at me in anything but apology.

  “You’re lucky you’re holding a super cute baby, or I’d bonk you over the head with this remote.”

  She looks at the device held tightly in my hand, considering my threat. “I assumed some random social media manager would be manning his page.” She shrugs. “He only follows like ten people.”

  My anxiety eases until Brooke mumbles
incoherently under her breath. I step closer. “Huh?”

  “Mmm?” She feigns innocence. “Oh, I said mmhfhdjfhjjj.”

  “You didn’t speak any actual words just then.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I said mmhfhdjfhjjj.”

  “I actually don’t care that you’re holding that cute little baby, I’m about to give you a concussion,” I threaten.

  “He followed me back,” she rushes out, her words running together like wet ink.

  “He what? Nope. Not okay. Don’t accept his request.”

  “I already did.”

  “Brooke,” I whine.

  “You’re acting like a child,” she admonishes. “Stop it. Reid and I were friends once upon a time.”

  “You hate him.”

  “For you. I hate him for you. That’s different from actually hating him,” she clarifies. “Was he a dick to you? Yes. But he was an eighteen-year-old boy trying to navigate the feelings of his best friend. He fucked up royally, but his intentions were in the right place.”

  “I can’t believe you.”

  “Rox,” my mom cautions.

  “Why are you punishing yourself by watching this” —Brooke gestures at the television— “if you hate him so much?”

  I swallow, turning away from her.

  “My point exactly,” she exclaims confidently. “You’re watching to see him take home that trophy.”

  “Of course I am,” I snap, waking the baby. “Sorry.”

  She waves me off, settling Spencer within seconds.

  “He’s worked his whole life for this,” I speak to the TV, watching the cameras span the countless faces, the pathetic side of me hoping for a glimpse of him. “He was exceptional in The After. He deserves to win.” My voice drops. “I want to share that with him. Even from the anxious comfort of my lounge room.”

  Silence dances around my confession.

  “So don’t have a go at me for wanting to share a bit in his life too,” Brooke argues quietly, humming to keep Spencer asleep.

  We spend the next hour watching the ceremony in relative silence. Me drinking copious amounts of red wine, Brooke offering inappropriate commentary on anything and everything.