Heartbreakers

by Ali Novak

  “The owner is in the back,” he said. “I rented out the place for the night so we could have some privacy.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. He didn’t mean that kind of privacy. He meant so we could keep our relationship a secret.

  “Look over here,” Oliver said before I could give his previous words much thought. He pointed to the end of the row of art, and I instantly recognized a vibrant photograph on the wall. “This is why we came.”

  I stared up at one of Bianca’s pictures. It was the original print, but I was more stunned by the fact that I was looking at my favorite of all her pieces, something that Oliver never could’ve known. It wasn’t the first photo of hers I’d seen when introduced to her work, but it was the one I found most inspiring.

  The subject was so simple: a little girl, maybe five or six, who was playing in the street during the middle of a summer shower. Her feet were bare and the look on her face said that nothing in the world was better than being covered up to her waist in mud. In her smile, I’d recognized the sort of carefree spirit that Cara, Drew, and I all had as kids. I hadn’t felt that way since Cara’s first diagnosis, and I realized I wanted it back, if only for the shortest of moments, so I could capture the feeling with my own camera before it was forever gone.

  “I…” I started to say. I wanted to tell Oliver what this meant to me, but I was breathless and I kept thinking there was no possible way to finish my sentence, to use words to explain. They weren’t enough.

  “You like it?” Oliver asked. “I was trying to decide where to go tonight, and then I read somewhere that this gallery had a Bianca piece. I called just to make sure.”

  “Yes,” I said, finally able to speak. Oliver was oblivious to the fact that this particular picture was one of the special few that had inspired my passion for photography.

  “Good,” he said like that was the only explanation he needed. “I’m glad.”

  • • •

  Dinner was at a local place called Amber India three doors down from the art gallery. They let us sneak in through the back, and there was a private dining room normally reserved for large parties where we could eat in peace. Before the waitress arrived with our food, I excused myself to wash my hands. When I was leaving the bathroom, I noticed a commotion at the front of the restaurant.

  “Ladies, please!” The hostess was attempting to push back a group of twenty or so girls. “If you’re not here to eat, then you need to leave!”

  I rushed back to our table. “Oliver,” I said, waving him over to the door. “You’d better come see this.”

  “Crap,” he said after peeking out into the hall.

  “How did they find you?” I asked in disbelief. It was like the girls had materialized out of thin air.

  “Anyone in the restaurant who saw us could have tweeted about it,” he explained. He pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table. “It happens more often than you’d think.”

  “Okay, so what do we do?”

  “Hopefully we can still sneak out the back.”

  We weren’t that lucky. Oliver tried to hurry down the hall, but he was easily spotted by his fans. When the hysterical screaming began, he grabbed my hand and we started to run.

  “Hold on,” he said, pulling up short of the rear door. He poked his head around the corner before quickly pulling back. “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. As adrenaline started to pump through my heart, I wondered if our relationship would always be like this: secrets and chases and drama.

  “There’s a whole bunch of paparazzi. We need to go a different way.”

  “What other way?”

  “Through the kitchen?” he suggested.

  We hurried through the swinging metal doors, and some of the cooking staff looked up at us in surprise. The kitchen had one exit. It led out into a tiny, fenced-in area where the Dumpsters were kept hidden from view, but there was a padlock where the fence was supposed to open, trapping us inside.

  “Now what?” I was starting to worry that our first secret date wouldn’t be secret for that much longer.

  Oliver thought for a moment before pulling me back into the small kitchen. He threw open the janitor’s closet and pushed me inside before stepping in after me. When he closed the door behind himself, we were shut in darkness.

  “Ouch,” I hissed as Oliver trampled over my foot.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. I couldn’t see much of anything, but I was pretty sure that Oliver had shoved the cleaning cart under the doorknob so no one could get in.

  “Hey!” someone in the kitchen shouted. “You girls can’t be in here!”

  Squealing ensued. We waited, our breathing heavy, until the commotion outside the door died down. My heart was finally slowing and I was able to relax slightly, but that didn’t solve our current problem—we were still trapped inside a janitor’s closet.

  “So how exactly are we going to get out of this one?” I asked. I heard Oliver shuffle around. A second later, there was a sudden bright light as his phone woke up, and he hit a number on speed dial.

  “Hey,” he whispered when someone answered. “Stella and I are trapped at this Indian place. We need someone to pick us up.” The phone conversation lasted a few more seconds as Oliver gave whoever was on the other end the address of the restaurant. When he hung up, he said to me, “It will be about twenty minutes.”

  “What do we do until then?” I asked. “Hide here?”

  With his phone back in his pocket I couldn’t see Oliver, but I could hear the grin on his face. “I can think of a couple things.” He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me up against him. “For example…”

  And he kissed me instead of finishing his sentence. At first, it was much softer than our previous two kisses. Oliver took his time, slowly pressing his lips to my forehead, cheeks, and neck. But when he finally found my lips, it was a whole different story. He backed me up against the wall of the closet and pressed his chest against mine as he kissed me feverishly. I accidentally kicked something over as we moved. It was small and metal, probably a can of cleaning spray, and a broom clattered to the floor along with it. My fingers went straight into his wavy curls and locked together as I inhaled his scent—cinnamon and laundry soap.

  We made out in the closet until Aaron showed up, and when he snuck us out of the restaurant, I felt like I was part of a James Bond movie. But dating Oliver wasn’t all thrilling adventures, dangerous chase scenes, and passionate kisses. The very next night, after the Heartbreakers concert, I let the boys talk me into going to an after-party. It was at a night club a few blocks from the arena, and when we arrived, it didn’t take me long to learn that the hardest part about secretly dating one of the world’s most eligible bachelors was that nobody—nobody meaning girls—knew that he wasn’t so eligible anymore.

  A crowd flocked around the band as soon as they stepped inside, mainly gorgeous girls who were dolled up for a night of dancing. I never felt self-conscious about my appearance in front of Oliver, but suddenly I felt underwhelming in my frayed jean shorts and tank top.

  Our party was given a VIP room next to the DJ booth, and while it gave us some privacy from the rest of the club, we sat with a small group of fans who were lucky enough to be selected by security to join us. Three girls in particular were hanging on Oliver, all tall, golden, and nothing like me. The frustrating thing was that I couldn’t hate these girls for their shameless flirting, because they had no idea he was already taken.

  I took a spot on one of the leather couches and tried to look as nonchalant as possible, playing with my phone and watching the mob of people pulse together on the dance floor. At one point, Oliver caught my gaze and looked at me with apologetic eyes, but for most of the night we stayed apart to keep up appearances.

  “Hey, you okay?” JJ asked when the club was finally closing. “You’ve been awfully
quiet.”

  “Me?” I asked, trying to sound surprised. “Never better.”

  • • •

  “Veggie smoothie?” Xander asked me.

  I was sitting at the kitchen counter in the boys’ hotel suite working on my second cup of coffee. It was early morning and everyone was still in bed with the exception of Xander. Fifteen minutes earlier he’d emerged from his room, still half asleep, and headed straight down to the hotel kitchen. When he returned, he had a huge glass of something green and poisonous looking in his hand.

  “No thanks,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “I think I’ll stick to my usual bagel.”

  Because of all his food allergies, Xander had the strangest diet of anyone I’d ever met. Normally all he ate were scrambled eggs, chicken, salads, and occasionally he’d mix things up with a blender. He was gluten intolerant, nut intolerant, shellfish intolerant, and there was even a list of fruits he couldn’t safely eat—I could live without the seafood, but the carb lover inside of me cried at the thought of missing out on bowls of spaghetti.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, happily sipping his vegetables as he pulled out the bar stool next to me. “So why are you up so early?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I told him. “I added some new pictures to my website yesterday, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  So far my personal website was doing well. It didn’t have nearly as many views as the Heartbreak Chronicles—in fact, it only had a few hundred—but that was to be expected. I was still proud of myself, and every time someone left me a positive message, I found it reassuring.

  So last night I worked up the courage to post the pictures I’d taken of Cara—the ones I’d shown Alec—and although the response was positive so far, it was still nerve-racking to bare the most personal part of my life to the world. I felt vulnerable somehow, like I was playing cards and while my hand was exposed for the entire table to look at, I couldn’t even see who my opponents were.

  “Oh yeah?” he said. “How’s that going?”

  “Well,” I said, “so far so good…at least I think.”

  Xander scoffed and waved his hand to dismiss my doubts. “I’m sure it’s amazing, Stella. Have you thought about what you want to do when your contract is up?”

  “Not really,” I said, the words faint on my lips. His question brought on a whole new wave of worries and concerns, things I didn’t want to think about. “I was supposed to start school in the fall, but I deferred when Cara got sick.”

  He took another sip of his drink and then used his sleeve to wipe away a green mustache. “You think you’ll ever decide to go?”

  “I don’t know.” I raised my hands in the air and let them fall, feeling lost. “So much has changed since then.”

  He was quiet for a second, choosing his words. “Well, what about photography school? Ever consider that?”

  I had to stop myself from laughing. “No, of course not.”

  “How come?” he asked. I thought he was joking, but my amusement faded quickly when I saw the serious look on his face.

  Grasping my coffee mug between my hands, I stared at an unfixed spot on the wall. “It never occurred to me,” I admitted after a minute of consideration. “I wouldn’t even know what schools have good programs.”

  Xander perked up. “Let’s look,” he said and gestured at my computer. It was resting on the counter in front of us, waiting to be turned on.

  He seemed much more excited about the idea than I did, but to humor him, I set my coffee aside, opened up my laptop, and for the next thirty minutes we researched different schools. We discovered a handful of universities that frequented every top list. Yale was the most surprising because I didn’t realize they had a photography program, while the School of the Art Institute of Chicago seemed liked the most practical choice for me since I wouldn’t be too far away from home. But the place that really caught my eye was the School of the Visual Arts.

  “I like this one,” I told Xander as we looked over the website. “I always wanted to live in New York.”

  “Then apply,” he said and clicked on the admissions tab.

  “Apply?” I said, and this time I wasn’t able to hold back my laughter. “I already missed the deadline. Fall semester starts in September.”

  “So?” he said, pulling up an online application. “Who said you have to go this semester? There’s always spring and next year.” He wasn’t even looking at me now. Instead, he was concentrated on reading over the information displayed on the screen in front of him.

  Okay, I hadn’t really considered that, but this idea to go to school was so abrupt and hasty. I needed time to consider how a choice like this could possibly fit into my life. “Yeah, but I don’t even know if I want to go,” I said, shying away from the computer.

  “It’s not like you have to make a decision now,” he said with a chuckle, already typing in information for me. “Full name?”

  “Stella Emily Samuel,” I responded, the reaction instant. “Won’t there be an application fee?”

  Xander shot me a look. “Really, Stella? I’ll pay the fee if you’re so worried about it. Male or female?”

  Now it was my turn to give Xander a look. “Funny,” I told him, and he grinned at me.

  “Come on, Stella,” he said and crossed his arms. “Giving yourself options won’t hurt.”

  I glanced from him to my computer in thought. This was silly. If SVA had one of the top photography programs in the country, there wasn’t a big chance I’d get in. That part, as disappointing as it sounded, was the easiest to accept. The real issue was Cara. Leaving for school would be long-term and what if she wasn’t better by then? When I accepted Paul’s job offer, it was with the knowledge that my contract would be up in two months and then I could go home.

  I quickly shook my head to clear the negative thoughts. I hated that I always got so worked up and confused whenever I imagined my future. Here Xander was trying to do something nice for me, and all I could worry about was something I had no control over—well, at least in this moment. He was right; SVA would be a nice option to have even if I wasn’t accepted or never went.

  “Fine,” I said, and gave him a curt nod. “What do I need to do?”

  Just in case.

  Chapter 19

  A week later the fighting started again.

  “God, you’re such a pretentious asshole!” JJ shouted, the hotel door slamming open and bouncing against the wall. I knew from the tone of his voice that, for once, he wasn’t joking around.

  This morning, the band had some type of meeting with their label to discuss the new record that would go into production as soon as their tour was over. While they were gone, I hung out at the hotel and worked on my post that was due later today.

  “Me?” Oliver shouted back. “I’m not the one who kept mouthing off the whole damn time. Were you trying to piss him off?”

  Alec was the first to appear in the living room. I jumped to my feet when I saw him, but he didn’t stop to tell me what was going on. He swept by silently and disappeared down the hall without a word.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” JJ said, clearly anything but. “I didn’t realize asking for a little creative freedom was considered mouthing off. Next time I’ll consult you before thinking or breathing.”

  “Dude, why are you mad at me?” Oliver demanded.

  “Because! I want to do something different for our next album.”

  I had a strong feeling that neither Oliver or JJ wanted me to hear their fight, so I decided to hide in the suite’s office before they saw me. I scooped up my laptop and dashed across the living room, but when I reached the edge of the room, I realized that their voices weren’t getting any closer.

  “What’s wrong with what we have?”

  “It’s not us, Oliver,” JJ said as the two continued to fight in the front hall.

>   “Of course it is,” he shot back. “I wrote it.”

  “No, it’s not. You only wrote what they wanted to hear. I’m sick of the sucking up and the sugary music and the stupid clothes. I want things to be like they used to when we had fun and you wrote killer songs.”

  I held my breath and tried to ignore the slow burning feeling of guilt in my stomach; I knew I shouldn’t have been standing here, eavesdropping on an exchange that was probably private, but I was tired of not knowing and I couldn’t make myself move. Whenever there was some kind of tension with the band, I always felt like I was catching the tail end of the conversation. Not because I was literally only hearing half of what was said, but because the Heartbreakers seemed to have all these little secrets that everyone knew, but weren’t willing to talk about.

  “I’m not sucking up!” Oliver shot back.

  “Yeah?” JJ said. “Prove it. Let’s play one of our old Infinity and Beyond songs tomorrow night.”

  Oliver’s voice dropped, and I almost didn’t hear his response. “You know we can’t do that.”

  “Why not? Because they don’t want us to? Don’t you get it, Oliver? We made it. We don’t have to take their shit anymore.”

  “The set list is already set and—”

  “Screw the set list! Screw them!” JJ shouted. “And you know what? Screw you too!”

  The door opened and slammed again. It was quiet for a moment and then, before I realized that the fight was over, Oliver stepped into the living room. When he saw me, he scowled.

  “Were you listening to that?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, my cheeks warm. “I wasn’t trying to, but you guys were shouting and it was kinda hard not to hear.”

  “God dammit!” Oliver swore and kicked the armchair in front of him. Then he dropped down in the seat and buried his face in his hands. After three painfully long seconds he said, “Sorry for yelling, Stella. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  As I looked at him I was hit with another wave of guilt, but I pushed the feeling away. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked tentatively, and he was quiet for so long that I thought maybe he hadn’t heard my question.