“Okay. Because I have to tell you—and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way—you were the member of LtG I was most concerned about. But inking this deal should position you really quite well for the next several years, and if it’s a wild success—which it should be—several more after that.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Finally the doors slide open, and I basically fall out of them into the lobby. Fucking thing’s enormous and seems like a giant waste of space. But I guess empty space in Manhattan means you’ve really made it? Whatever. I’ll be way happier when I get back out onto the crowded streets. I’ll be able to breathe there, think, and then I’ll call Demps because I can’t wait to hear her voice.
Dempsey
* * *
The ringing won’t stop. The knocking won’t stop. The flashes and the rustling and the jiggling of the door handles won’t stop, and it is all too much. Way too much.
For the past two days or so, I have been under siege. Luckily in all my paranoia, I’m ready for this. Like a doomsday prepper, except I don’t think the world at-large will end; I’ve just been certain that at some point I will have people descend upon my house like locusts, and I won’t be able to open the door for days or weeks at a time. I’m still working my way through the food in my fridge, but I’ve got things in my freezer, too, not to mention those MREs I keep in my crawl space in the event of a real emergency. Which this might prove to be.
There’s more rattling of one of my windows, and it’s all I can do not to scream at the people doing the rattling—they’re like possessed raccoons trying to get at trash in locked-down cans. But the only thing that would do is attract more attention, spark more rumors, and god knows I don’t need people thinking there’s some sort of Jane Eyre thing going on here. It does not, however, stop me from crawling across the floor to get to the bathroom, which is the only room on the first floor that doesn’t have a window.
I shut the door and lock it and then turn on the shower to drown out the noises before wedging myself between the toilet and the wall.
They have to go away soon. They can’t camp out here forever. And why would they even? It’s not as though they’ll see anything interesting. I’ve told Vivian and Oona and Wash and Jake to stay away, even though I desperately want someone, anyone, here with me. But it’ll just make it worse if they’re here. And I may be avoiding Nick. Okay, yes, I am totally avoiding Nick.
The thing is, I knew—I knew—the second I was live on that video screen at the concert, that my world was about to implode. But I was so elated at the same time. That he had done that for me, that he wanted to share his life with me, wanted me to see and experience what he gets to do all the time but from a safe distance, and I so desperately wanted it to be okay.
Given my current surroundings and my reaction to having paparazzi swarming my house, it was clearly not. And not that this would be easy for anyone to handle, because the press are fucking vultures who can suck the marrow out of anyone’s bones, but I’m pretty sure it’s worse for me than it would be for your average Josephine. I’ve been upping my meds as high as I feel like is safe, and I’ve been talking to Vivian and Oona as much as I can. I’ve had to cancel client meetings and postpone work I’m supposed to be doing for them, which makes me feel like a failure, as well as having my brain riot over all of this shit that is hitting me so fucking hard and I…
It’s weird and kind of fucked up that, even though he’s the one who technically caused this, all I want right now is to be with Nick. Yes, it’s his fault, and I can’t say I haven’t been angry about it, but as Oona so annoyingly pointed out, me being mad about Nick doing something impulsive and over-the-top would be like getting angry at an earthquake for making the ground shake. It’s what he does.
Despite being pretty flustered and angry after the delight wore off, I want him to magically dig a tunnel to my house and be able to show up here without hurting me anymore, and we could sit in my bathtub together, and he’d do and say ridiculous things until I could forget the swarm of people and their goddamn cameras and their fucking lights and their godforsaken microphones. He could make me forget, I know he could, and I’m trying so hard not to blame him for this, but it’s hard not to be angry at him on top of all this stuff, and everything is just making me feel my limitations so very, very keenly.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I check who it is. Thank god I’ve had the presence of mind to list all of my clients and anyone I talk to regularly in my contacts so it was easy enough to stop answering calls from numbers I didn’t recognize. I’ve just let my voicemail get full and have Oona screening my emails, and while I hate how it makes me feel even more isolated than I already have been, I’ve stopped going on the internet for a bit. The last thing I need to see is my face and my home and my life splashed all over the gossip rags.
This call, though? It’s Nick. And while I have some pretty complicated feelings swirling around in my head about that, I should talk to him. If I weren’t a cowardly piece of shit, I’d tell him what was going on. But I can’t stand the idea of letting him know exactly how fucked up I am over this, and I really don’t want to yell at him when the dam of And It’s All Your Fucking Fault overflows.
Breathe, Dempsey. Breathe.
So I do and then I pick up my phone, and I’m saved by Nick’s voice coming rapid-fire from across the country.
“Hey, babe. I just got out of the longest meeting in the history of meetings, but you remember that thing I was telling you about? What I’m gonna do with all my time now since LtG’s kinda breaking up? We signed the contracts for the variety show. I’m gonna be the host and get people to do stupid shit and we’re gonna sing together and I’ll basically get to call up everyone I’ve ever wanted to hang out with and invite them on my show and they’ll say yes because it’s gonna be the greatest. And even though they were weird about it, I made them put a thing in the contract that says Fiona can be on set anytime she wants. So I’ll have to take her shopping because most of her outfits are for, like, going out on the town and not for being a maven of show business who should be taken seriously. Do you think they make dresses for dogs who want to be taken seriously or do you think those things are mutually exclusive? Anyway, it’s pretty cool and I’ll send you the contracts.”
“Great,” I manage before having to bite down on my thumb so Nick won’t hear exactly how close I am to crying. He’ll be back soon. I just need to survive until then.
16
Nick
* * *
I’m whistling on the way up Dempsey’s block. It’s the first time since I’ve gotten back from touring that I’ve been able to see her, and it’s so fucking great I can’t even stand it. Like happiness might just come spurting out of my ears. What would liquid happiness look like anyway? Maybe yellow? Nah, that looks too much like something you should probably see a doctor about. Turquoise or purple or some fluorescent pink, and it would definitely be shiny or have glitter. That no one would mistake for actual bodily nastiness.
As I approach Dempsey’s house, a woman slips out of her door and starts down the walk. She must be in her fifties or sixties because she looks like she could be friends with my mom. Except this woman looks like way too big of a hippy to be friends with my mom, in her white denim capris that she’d no doubt spill a wine cooler on at the neighborhood block party. No, this woman is wearing a long-ish skirt with some leather sandals—maybe vegan leather, whatever the fuck that is—and is carrying a bag that’s made out of yarn. Not knitting, what’s the other one? The one that people make the swinging plant holders out of? Crochet, that’s it.
I’m guessing it’s Oona, because this is kind of what I’ve always thought a woman named Oona would look like? Dempsey’s told me some about her, and I think she’s super-cool and badass and she’s basically Dempsey’s mom. Yeah, if this is Oona, I want to be president of her fan club.
So I smile real big and wave as I turn onto the stepping stones that lead up to Dempsey’s door.
Even if it’s not Oona, it’s gotta be someone Dempsey trusts enough to let into her house so she’s got to be cool, worth making friends with. I mean, I usually assume I can make friends with everyone. Not that everyone wants to be friends with me, but it’s probably going to be because they can’t stand me, not the other way around.
And from the look that crosses this woman’s face as I get closer, this might be one of those times. Which is weird because I haven’t even opened my mouth yet, and that’s usually when I get myself in trouble.
“You’re Nick, right?”
“Yeah, hey. You must be—”
She drops her bag on the sidewalk and tries to push up her sleeves, but it doesn’t really work because they’re floofy and made out of some filmy material. But the act is enough to make me feel like this woman is good and ready to kick my ass.
“I will be your worst fucking nightmare if you hurt Dempsey is who I am. I don’t know what you think you’re playing with, but you need to tread very carefully.”
I hold out my hands because I’m not even going to try to fight with this woman. “I don’t—”
“Which is exactly the problem. You don’t get it. You know she had reporters calling her and paparazzi showing up at her house after your stunt the week before last? They were here for almost a week. Do you know what that does to her? I swear to god if she ends up back in rehab or having some kind of breakdown, it’s going to be your fucking fault. She’s in a good place, has been for a few years now. A comparatively good place, okay?”
What is that even supposed to mean? Like, yeah, Dempsey doesn’t leave her house and her yard, but she’s physically healthy, pretty frigging successful, and while I know there are things she misses about the world outside her postage stamp lot, she seems pretty satisfied. Sounds pretty damn good to me.
“Hey, she didn’t tell me about the reporters and the photogs, okay? I didn’t know.”
Oona crosses her arms, and laser beams practically shoot out of her eyeballs. “How could you not have realized that there would be fallout from your announcement? I’ve seen you in the gossip rags and all over celeb news. Publicity is not new for you, you’ve been in this game for over a decade. How could you not realize that dragging her into your life would subject her to that, too?”
Well, fuck.
“If Dempsey’s talked to you about me, you probably know I’m not the greatest at thinking ahead. I fucked up, okay? I’ll go talk to her about it now and see if there’s anything I can do, aside from not putting her on the Jumbotron at any more concerts. I care about her a lot, and I’d never intentionally hurt her, I swear.”
Oona regards me with a slightly-less-homicidal death glare. “Okay.”
That seems way too easy, and for a second, all I can do is blink. “Okay? Are you seriously not going to whip out a knife from a thigh holster and shred me? You seemed pretty mad.”
“I am mad. I’ve known Dempsey for a long time, and I have seen her at her best and at her worst. She likes you and you seem to make her happy, so you’ve got the benefit of the doubt. Also, I was expecting you to make excuses and be a dick. I wasn’t expecting you to own up to having made a mistake. Way to not totally fuck up, Nick.”
I scratch the back of my neck and feel like I’m being tugged toward Dempsey’s house. “I apologize a lot, I’m pretty good at it. No sense in pretending I’m perfect. I just admit that I’m definitely not. S’worked out so far. And I’ll go apologize to Dempsey right now since I don’t really think it’s you I owe an apology to.”
Oona uncrosses her arms and scoops up her bag from the ground, and then does that thing where she points two fingers at her own eyes and then at me. “Good plan. And I’m watching you, Fischer. Never forget it.”
Christ. That’s only one of the most terrifying things anyone’s ever said to me. I swear that woman’s got an arsenal under that hippy skirt and is just waiting for an excuse to use it. But I didn’t give her one today, thankfully. I nod, and then we pass by each other so I can head up Dempsey’s walkway, and it’s probably just my imagination that I feel Oona’s glare boring into the back of my head as I ring Dempsey’s bell.
Dempsey
* * *
After what feels like months but is really only several weeks since the last time I saw him—although only for a sleepover before he had to fly back to his next tour stop, which hardly counts—Nick is here. And looks weirdly uneasy. I didn’t honestly know he was capable of that.
“Hey, you.”
I greet him with a kiss, and whatever’s wrong, it’s not to the detriment of the kissing, oh no. He takes me in his arms and kisses the hell out of me, tasting me so thoroughly and squeezing me so tightly that I feel like I’m being consumed. And would that really be so bad? If Nick devoured me, then I’d be part of him and I could go on all his adventures with him. I’m quite certain that if he could envelope me completely, I’d feel safe and would be able to make it past my front door. That’s obviously not a thing that can actually happen, but it’s kinda nice to think about while I kiss him back, thoroughly.
When he finally lets me take a breath, he buries his head in my shoulder and holds on for dear life.
“I’m so sorry, babe.”
Sorry? Oh. Goddammit, Oona.
I hold him close and rub the sinewy muscles of his back through his nearly threadbare tee, slip the fingers of my other hand into his hair. “I’m okay, Nick. See? Not rocking in a corner somewhere. And I’m not mad at you.”
Not really. I had been, but over the course of many phone calls totaling a ridiculous number of hours, I’d worked through it with Vivian and separated out my feelings. I was angry about being vulnerable, furious about how terrified I was when they started showing up, livid that I had lost days of my life to panic when the deluge had started.
None of that is Nick’s fault. He’d done a nice thing, an adorable thing that, in the moment, had made me—for the most part—wildly happy. He wasn’t wrong about that, and I loved feeling like I was part of his world even when we couldn’t be together. I was angry that my boyfriend couldn’t do a nice thing for me because of how fucked in the head I am. Which is not a charitable way to feel about oneself. And I don’t most of the time, but wow, does this kind of thing bring it into stark relief.
I also hate that I should’ve warned Nick, given him some kind of an instruction manual about how not to mess with my head, but who wants to do that? Who wants to tell someone who they like and who genuinely seems to like them back that they are so far out of the range of normal that they need step-by-step instructions as to how not to make them have a mental breakdown? No one wants to do that. Yes, I suspect that things will come up—hell, obviously, they have—and we’ll deal with them. But if I make a list, roll them out in front of him like an ancient scroll, it will be too much and he’ll leave. And I hate that Oona was right about all of it.
Nick pulls away, and I can see now the misery and guilt etched in his face. “You should be mad at me. I should’ve known better. I should’ve thought it through more. I just thought it would make you happy, and I got on top of it enough to get the guys to make the technical details work, but—fucking A, Demps. I’m sorry. And…why didn’t you tell me?”
Yeah, that is totally my fault, 100 percent. I could’ve, easily. We talk almost every day, and every day I had made an effort to stitch myself together to talk to him and let myself unravel when it was over.
I swallow hard and take a deep breath because it’s not like this is something I’m proud of. “I didn’t want you to worry since there was nothing you could do about it from the other side of the country, and while you were so busy with your tour and the appearances and your meetings and all the press—”
He takes the point of my chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, forcing me to look him in the eye. “I’m never too busy for you.”
Oh, wow. If I were a Dempsicle, I’d melt. He’s so earnest it kills me. He has no game, no guile, just the truth th
at he would put aside everything he does to make sure I’m okay. The funny thing is, that’s not a surprise to me at all. So even though it makes my stomach flip, I tell him so. Take his hand from my chin and kiss his palm before curling it around the back of my neck. “I know. Which is part of why I didn’t tell you. I knew if you thought I was having a really hard time and it was because of something that involved you, you’d drop everything and come out to try and fix it. But that doesn’t work with these people. You know that. You showing up here all enraged would’ve just fed the flames. As things are, the attention has died down a lot. But I do appreciate—very much appreciate—that you would drop everything for me. I just don’t want you to damage your career for me. It’s this tightrope I have to walk of acknowledging that I’m fragile in some ways, but also that I am a grown woman who can take care of herself. I’m not always perfect at making the distinction.”
“Well, shit, babe. You know I’m about as far from perfect as a person can get. But I guess the ways in which I’m a mess can actually be sorta useful? Like sometimes I feel shitty when I let down my friends or when I disappoint someone or do something wrong, but the feeling passes pretty quickly. I might forget almost everything under the sun, which can be a real pain in my ass, but I also get to forget some of the reasons I feel crappy, which is nice. A lot of it doesn’t stick. But I know your brain’s not like that.”
No, no, it’s not. But Nick’s lack of frustration, lack of annoyance, lack of anything except feeling bad about having any negative effect on me makes me feel better. Makes me feel less broken than other people often do.
The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel Page 16
