Then Reagan’s best friend, Bristol Perri, came strutting in, wearing an extra-large T-shirt that soaked up the remnants of pool from her bathing suit. She was an A-list actress who’d won an Oscar three years before when she was only twenty-four. She was a beautiful—shocker, I know—familiar face on all the fashion magazines, and what the entertainment media called “The Next Meryl Streep Under Thirty.”
“Blair,” she said and leaned over the granite kitchen island as I poured the tequila into the blender.
“Bristol,” I said suspiciously. From her relaxed eyes and flushed cheeks, I sensed she was feeling pretty good on margaritas, much like the rest of the party. We all started drinking at eleven, and it was now three p.m., so all of us were feeling it. Myself included. Besides saying a few words to each other in a larger conversation with the group, we hadn’t spoken one-on-one yet, and her devious tone warned me she was about to yank some info out of me.
“A little birdie told me you’re sleeping with the host.”
My smooth self flinched at the sudden confrontation, and about a shot’s worth of perfectly good Patrón spilled on the counter. This was The Next Meryl Streep Under Thirty we were talking about, so she was doing a really good job pretending to be the lead interrogator at the Gaslight Shores Police Station, all hidden within that famous smile that graced the silver screen.
She drunk-cackled. “So, that spill confirms the rumors?”
“Was the little birdie the host?”
“Maybe.”
“My lips are sealed.”
She pointed a ruby-red painted nail at me. “You passed the test. Just so you know—as Reagan’s best friend—I gotta protect her from dirtbags because the last few people she dated were narcissistic dirtbags.” Her words slurred a little bit, and I tried hiding my laughter that she was drunk-grilling me about my intentions.
“I’ve heard,” I replied and poured her the freshly made cocktail, hoping that by giving her the first taste of the new batch, maybe I’d win a couple of extra points with her. “But Reagan and I aren’t dating.”
She accepted and took a sip. “But then why are you here? Staying in her bed? Getting handsy all fucking day long?”
“Hey, I was fully prepared to pretend like nothing’s going on, but little did I know, she likes the PDA.”
“And she usually doesn’t, for the record. But she’s been all over you. We’ve all been talking about it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “We?”
“Yeah. All of us. She’s out there telling us everything about you guys. It seriously took you that long to kiss her?”
I rolled my eyes, poured myself a shot, and tossed it back. Bristol tilted her head back in laughter and followed my lead in drinking more of her margarita.
“What else did this little birdie tell you?” I asked.
“That she likes you but you don’t want a relationship.”
Why did I wipe up that tequila when I could have easily taken the shot from the counter? Because with that new information Bristol Perri spoon-fed me, I needed another shot of Patrón right about now. This was uncharted territory we just discovered. She actually liked me? She wanted a relationship? God, I thought we were only sleeping together. Where did all of this come from?
“I just got out of—but she doesn’t—she doesn’t want one either,” I said defensively because I had no idea where else to start with this load of knowledge. “There was a whole Vogue feature about it.”
“She likes you, Blair. I asked her the lowdown last night while you and Annie were on the unicorn pool inflatable. I asked her what was up with you guys, and she told me that you two were sleeping together but she thinks she actually likes you more than that. But you just got out of a relationship and made it clear this was only sex.”
“She’s never told me any of this.”
“Yeah, because she’s an actual child when it comes to her feelings. Like, she won’t do anything about it.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Just a heads-up, don’t expect her to tell you how she feels, especially after her last three relationships. She put herself out there, and they treated her like crap. She legit told me after Jessie dumped her that she wasn’t going to seek out anyone again. She was tired of it. I can’t really blame her.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all of this info.”
“Easy. If you really like her, you need to tell her because she won’t tell you; as much as I lecture her about how immature she’s being, that’s where she is right now. Refusing to put her feelings out there. So, if you’re just in it to hook up, please don’t fuck with her.” She said it as if her best friend’s love life drained her energy. “It might seem casual to her, but I got different vibes.”
I couldn’t tell if Bristol Perri was trying to fish out information to give back to Reagan or if she genuinely wanted to take the initiative to protect her friend’s heart. For most of the night Reagan sat next to me. At one point, her legs were on my lap, arm locked around mine, and anytime the two of us snuck away to make out in various spots of her property, whether it was in the kitchen, her bedroom, or the inflatable slide, Bristol Perri’s dark eyes focused on me as if telepathically trying to tell me she would cut me if I hurt her friend.
I had no idea what we were doing. Bristol probably needed more clarification from Reagan on exactly what we were doing because Reagan didn’t really give me any indication we were anything more than just sex on tour…even though I could feel my chest tighten anytime she walked into a room, or I caught her stare, or someone brought up her name.
All signs I was getting feelings.
I guess our feelings were mutual.
Fuck.
* * *
Sunday morning, before the whole house woke up, Reagan shook me awake so I could join her on a bike ride around the empty boardwalk during sunrise. And as much as I wasn’t a morning person and loved sleeping in until eleven, I couldn’t pass up a bike ride through a sleepy Gaslight Shores with her. I hadn’t ridden a bike since my Nashville days when I had the space of empty country roads. It’d been eleven years, and to say I lost my balance on two wheels was an understatement. As I tried to get my bike groove back, Reagan circled me, trying to steady her balance as each laugh jerked her handlebars. She offered to give me a helmet and kneepads, but I refused because a twenty-four-year-old woman shouldn’t be acting like she discovered a bike for the first time. When I finally got the hang of the bike, we pedaled into town, zigzagging through the desolate streets lined with small beach town shops, and journeyed over to the quiet beach. We tossed our bikes into the sand, and Reagan wasted no time frolicking down to the tide. I trailed behind her, noticing that it was so hard to force the smile back in.
“I love coming out here during the sunrise,” Reagan said as she took a seat in the cold sand, collecting a handful of it and letting it fall through her fingers. “It’s like the one time I feel safe to come out in public because the town is still sleeping. Every now and again, I see runners or bikers, but it’s just for a split second. I’m practically a stranger in a split second.”
Her head rested on my shoulder, and the two of us gazed up as the pinks, oranges, and yellows of the sunrise brightened the sky into a light shade of blue.
“The fans every night are pretty great, but so is this,” I said. “Right now. Empty beach. Beautiful sunrise. And you.”
She lifted her head from my shoulder and assessed me as if a revelation sprouted in her mind. “Thanks for putting up with all my friends this weekend,” she said and kissed my shoulder before looping an arm around mine. “You’ve been quite the trouper. I know we’re a lot.”
“It’s been a lot of fun. Lots of margaritas. You’re kinda adorable when you’re drunk.”
“It doesn’t take much. I only let myself loose every now and again, and this weekend is the weekend. I’d figure you’d enjoy that part.”
“Oh, I have. Don’t you worry about that.”
She let out a long sigh. “I can’t believe summer is over. I can’t believe I’m going to be in Europe for a whole month. Without you.” She faltered for a moment and positioned her chin to rest on my shoulder. “Is it weird to say that I’m gonna kinda miss you?”
My mind transported me back to her kitchen the day before with Bristol Perri. If it weren’t for her insider knowledge, if Reagan still told me that she would miss me, my stupid brain wouldn’t have picked up on the giant clue right in front of my face that she actually had feelings for me. But because I did have that information, it was a clue to me that we shared the exact same feelings. As the weekend flew by, I could feel a dull tug in my chest getting stronger the closer Monday came.
“Why would that be weird?” I said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I held my breath, waiting for her to follow up with a statement as to where we stood. An explanation for what we were. I didn’t even know what I wanted us to be. After finishing up a few things back in LA for a week, she was going to spend three weeks in Nashville to be with her family before touring Europe for a month. Was I allowed to see other women? Were we going to keep in contact during those six weeks? Was she going to find someone else to fill my void in her tour bus?
“I’ll miss you too, if that makes you feel any better,” I said with a nudge. “But only a little.”
“Yeah, same. Just a little. Nothing too significant.”
And we laughed, and then zigzagged back to her house to say good-bye to all of her friends who would leave that day to fly to different parts of the world. When we finally had the house to ourselves for one more night, we had a cookout on her patio. I grilled up some burgers; she made the side dishes. I made the margaritas. She drank all of them, and seeing her buzzed was hilarious because she became extra quirky and talkative and spoke even faster than she did when she was nervous. We floated in the pool illuminated by lights when dusk fell, looking up at the sky to find stars popping through the darkness—stars that I’d forgotten even existed since my Nashville days when I could actually see a shooting star in the dark, suburban skies. And then, we started kissing in the pool and then peeled each other’s bathing suits off so we could fully bask in the wonderful touch of our nakedness one last time before we resumed the rest of our North American shows in February.
I was definitely going to miss her. More than for it to be an insignificant hiccup.
The next morning, we woke up bright and early to take Reagan’s private jet back to LA.
Yes, the girl I was sleeping with had a private jet.
A jet with beige leather seats; a long, beige leather couch; and a bathroom that could actually fit two whole people in it, unlike commercial planes. Maybe if we got bored, we would join the mile-high club? That was something that would be fun to cross off my bucket list.
As I rested my head on her lap, she leaned back on the couch to answer work emails, and I checked my phone only to find that Miles blew up my screen with three simultaneous text messages. Each text was a different article from a trustworthy entertainment news source.
Reagan Moore Gets Handsy with a Lady Friend This Labor Day Weekend.
Reagan Moore Spends the Long Weekend with a Mystery Girl. Who is She and What You Need to Know About Her.
Is Reagan Moore Dating Midnight Konfusion’s Lead Singer Blair Bennett?
“Um, Reagan?”
“Hmm?” she said, eyes still on her phone as she typed.
I shoved my phone screen in her face. “What the hell should we do?”
She took my phone for a better view of the articles. But instead of the reaction I was thinking would play out in front of me, like chucking her phone into my lap, hyperventilating, and calling the pilot for an emergency landing, instead, she rolled her eyes and handed me my phone.
“For starters, you should stop reading the internet,” she said. “It’s really bad for your mental health.”
I was confused. That was her first thought about drones invading her privacy? Hovering over her fenced-in backyard? Did she remember that we had sex in her pool the night before? Did the drones record that?
“You do realize your stalkers this whole weekend were drones, right?” I said as I sat up since this conversation couldn’t have been done with my head in her lap. “That this whole conversation about you liking women has started?”
“They’ve been questioning my sexuality from the beginning. I’ve said in interviews before that I’m attracted to the person, not the gender. I’m not really worried about that at all. And you seriously didn’t see the drones flying around?”
“You did?”
“Blair, they were flying around the tree line, hiding right in there. It’s why Bristol was shooting off fireworks during the day. It wasn’t for patriotism.”
“But they have photo evidence of this whole weekend.”
“Bristol was on my lap, too. They’ll probably say I’m dating both of you. Hey, go me.” She patted herself on the shoulder.
“What about the things you said about Zeke and Jessie? You worried about it then.”
“I was in relationships with them, and the media storm was a million times worse than a pesky drone and a few articles online. Paparazzi were stalking me around every turn. I had rumors about marriage and cheating and pregnancy one month into dating Zeke, and I was nineteen years old.”
“You don’t think drones flying around your house isn’t stalking?”
“I mean, that’s kind of bad, but I’m used to it here. It’s why I’m asking for a pellet gun for Christmas.” She laughed at her own joke.
“So, you’re not taking this invasion of privacy seriously because we’re not together?”
“Pretty much. There’s less to lose.”
A dull heat found its way to my stomach. I don’t know why the comment bothered me so much, but it did. There was less to lose because everything Bristol Perri told me was apparently for intimidation purposes and not at all the truth. All the cuddling, sex, lap sits, secret kisses in inflatables, and arms locked while watching the sunrise didn’t mean anything. It was just sex. Nothing more than sex in her pool, and I was an idiot for having this hope that it actually did mean something more.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said, hearing the own disappointment in my voice. “Two completely different things.”
Reagan creased her eyebrows. “Yeah…my point exactly.”
“Okay, cool. Glad we’re all clear now.” I lay on my other side, using my own arm as a pillow instead of her lap.
“Blair, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just tired and want to take a nap.”
“Do you want a blanket?”
“I don’t care.”
She fanned out the red, green, and yellow plaid blanket she got from the linen closet next to the bathroom and placed it delicately on me, tucking me into my nap.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Totally fine.”
She paused. “Can I nap with you?”
“If you want.”
“Okay…” I could tell with the uncertainty in her voice and the drawn-out pauses at the end of her comments that she knew that I was upset. “Can I big spoon you?”
“Sure.”
My heart betrayed me and fluttered when I felt the warmth of her whole body pressing up against my back and her arm sliding over my side. I was so terrified that I let her beauty and the thrill of chasing her turn into actual feelings. But then I told myself this cuddle wasn’t anything worthy of protection. The drones could film us all they wanted; it was as meaningless as if she spooned Bristol Perri.
If she had nothing to lose with me, why did it feel as if I had a lot to lose with her?
Chapter Eight
Now that I was in one city for the next five months and Reagan just performed a show in London, my lesbian dating app resurrected from the Cloud and blew up with matches and messages from girls in the area. Since Reagan had nothing to lose with me, everything Bristol Perr
i told me went right out the window.
Hello, dating world; it’s me, Blair Bennett.
In the few conversations with girls on the dating app, only one conversation didn’t eventually lead to them figuring out my job was touring with Reagan Moore. The girl, Paige, asked me what I did for a living, and I told her I was a musician, and I think she probably figured I was really, like, a waitress who said she was a musician but really just busked on Hollywood Boulevard. It wasn’t until three days into our conversation that I invited her out to our gig at House of Blues in Anaheim, and I think she figured out then it was more than a hobby. But still no signs of internet research, which earned bonus points from me.
While Reagan toured Europe, during the day, Miles and I finished recording our album. Finally. Only a year later. The summer of sexual frustration, confusion, and feelings really helped fill my journal with songs, and by the time November came around, the album was completed. Over those two months, Reagan and I only exchanged casual text messages a few times a week as if we were just friends who never saw each other naked, talking about finishing up albums and how a VIP fan passed out in Paris when she first saw Reagan backstage. I told her how excited I was to sign more boobs that belonged to a really hot woman after our Anaheim show. Apparently, that was becoming a thing now when we headlined shows. That was something I would always say yes to. Reagan thought it was impressive as well, but it made me wonder if she felt any sort of jealousy. I told myself not to hold my breath on that because not once since Gaslight Shores did we ever crack open our feelings about missing each other.
I woke up to the smell of coffee from our kitchen. Miles always woke up before me and saved me two cups of coffee. He’d been doing this routine ever since we started living together right after I dropped out of USC my sophomore year. We’d spent the night before at a club with Paige, and then I ended the night with her in my bed. So needless to say, I really needed some caffeine.
Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things Page 13
