The Inside Track: A License to Love Novel

by Tamsen Parker

  “We’ve all got our own things to deal with, right?”

  “Right. But I don’t want you to ever be embarrassed with me. I’m not gonna think any less of you, no matter what. I need help all the time and so do my guys. It’s just a matter of what we need help with. So if there’s anything you need me to do to the people who were bothering you, just say the word and I will end them.”

  “Thank you. But right now, I don’t want you to level anyone with your atomic rage.”

  I lean in and kiss his neck, skim my hands along the back of his waistband and then slip my pinkies inside, touching his skin. He’s warm, and I love how he feels under my touch. He feels like comfort, like trust, like home. And that’s pretty great.

  “Yeah? What do you want?”

  “You, Nicky. I just want you."

  17

  Dempsey

  * * *

  It’s a bad day. This happens sometimes. I wake up barely being able to breathe, and the day doesn’t usually get much better. Sometimes there’s a reason for it, but more often there’s nothing concrete that’s happened to set me off, which is wildly frustrating. If only there was something I could do to make this not happen.

  I wasn’t working with any of my difficult clients yesterday, and no strangers came to my door. Nick got back from his tour a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve been seeing him a lot so it’s not that prickly missing-him feeling that’s eating at me. It’s just…a bad one.

  I’ve stuck to my routine in an effort to stabilize, and it’s worked. A little. I’m still feeling like all my nerves are exposed and anything could set me off, as if my skin were as thin as tissue paper. I should call Nick and cancel this afternoon because I’m not exactly fun to be around when I’m like this. But on the other hand, this happens regularly enough that I won’t be able to hide it forever. If he can’t handle it, well, then he can go fuck some mentally stable woman. I’m hoping, though, that he’ll be able to. That he’ll roll with this as effortlessly as he’s rolled with everything else. That this will be no more than a speed bump in our afternoon together and that Fiona won’t mind overmuch that I am incapable of going out into the yard today. Being that exposed at the moment sends bolts of panic through me, my chest tightening, head spinning. Yeah, bad day. Really bad.

  Before I can get carried along on this wave of souped-up anxiety, I bring up my favorite breathing app on my phone. It’s a little drawing, a bunch of lines that form a pretty shape and it expands and contracts in time with how I’m supposed to breathe. Kind of like a lotus blooming and closing, it connects with my brain in a way that works and takes some of the cognitive load off me—I don’t have to count, I don’t have to memorize anything. The image is right there, and all I have to do is follow it.

  Ten minutes later, my skin still feels wrong clinging to my body, but it’s better. I’m better. I’m not going to drown in the rising tide of panic. Which is good because Nick is going to be here soon, and the thought of seeing him buoys me further. I’ll let myself float on his waves of foolishness and running commentary and maybe even some sex.

  Because while sex is definitely not a fix for anxiety—is sometimes downright terrifying in its closeness when I’m feeling this way—it can sometimes treat the symptoms. And perhaps today is one of those days. I’d like it to be.

  Nick

  * * *

  Dempsey is going to be thrilled. I mean, yeah, I try to do nice stuff for her all the time, because I like doing nice stuff for her and she deserves someone who does stuff that will make her happy, but this will be my crowning achievement. Why do they call it that, anyway? It’s never seemed to me that people get crowns because they’ve achieved anything really, aside from coming out of a royal vagina or getting married to a royal person. And what the hell is that anyway? Maybe this is my American showing itself all over the damn place, but what’s so special about royalty anyway? They didn’t, like, do anything. Maybe that’s why I like sports? And gladiator shit? Those people actually have talent. Would Dempsey let me build an American Ninja Warrior-type course in her backyard? Maybe. I’ll ask her. But not today. No, today is about making her happy with the biggest, best surprise I could think of that she would actually be game for.

  I pull up to her house and get Fi out of the car before the others pull up behind me on the street. I tell everyone to keep it down as they get out of the cars and grab the stuff—cases of booze, enough food to feed twice as many people as are actually going to be here, some extra chairs because Dempsey doesn’t keep many on hand.

  Waving Rowan and Zane over, I head up to Demps’s door. Aw, man, this is going to be so great.

  “Hey, guys, thanks for coming today. I know you don’t get a ton of time together, and you probably want to spend it fucking instead of coming to a barbecue, but it’s cool that you’re here. Dempsey’s gonna die. She thinks you’re awesome, Rowan.”

  Rowan’s cheeks get kinda pink, and Zane gets his dander up but then just rolls his eyes. Right. They might actually want to be having all the crazy sex, but I shouldn’t say that. Whatever. We’re all thinking it; I’m just the one who said it out loud.

  We get to the door, and I ring it because Demspey’s door is locked as per usual and she hasn’t given me keys yet. Not that we’ve really been together long enough to warrant her giving me keys, but I wouldn’t be sad if she did. Elated, probably. It wouldn’t just be a relationship milestone, which would be pretty major anyway, but it’s a trust thing.

  If Dempsey gave me keys, it’d be like… I don’t even know, man, like I’d hit the lottery and our record went platinum and signing a big fat solo contract all in one day. My head might explode. Which would be gross. And I’d feel bad because Demps is cool about cleaning up Fiona’s drool, but grey matter might be too much for her to take.

  I hear footsteps, and I can barely keep my excitement in. This is like Christmas morning, but better. And I didn’t think anything could get better than Christmas. Nah, that’s not true. Christmas was super-fun, but with nine kids, no one’s getting the attention they deserve and we all opened our presents at the same time so there was no spotlight. This time, Dempsey is going to aim her floodlight at me and I’ll get to soak in it—this could really go to a guy’s head. How long will everyone else have to stay so that she can enjoy this before I can tell them to leave and we can have sex?

  By the time she opens the door, I’m practically vibrating out of my shoes, and I must have a smile on my face like a creepy-ass clown but I can’t help it. This is more excitement than my overtaxed body can contain.

  I can hear the tumblers in the locks shifting, and then the door opens to reveal Dempsey looking a little less radiant than normal. But who cares? This is something I can fix. And I can start by yelling, “Surprise!”

  Dempsey

  * * *

  It’s certainly not the first time Nicky’s yelled when I first see him, but it is the first time there have been other people standing behind him. My first impulse is to slam the door in his face, throw all the locks, and hunker down with my back against the wall because no one can see me there.

  They could be photogs, they could be reporters, they could be rabid members of his fan club. Those people could be anyone, and I don’t want them in my house. Except that when I take the time to blink, I recognize them. It’s the members of LtG. Nick has brought Christian, Teague, Benji, and Zane to my house. I’m going to have the biggest boy band stars in the world In. My. House. And…OMG, there’s Rowan Andrews. Rowan Fucking Andrews is at my house, and Jordan, Benji’s girlfriend.

  The thing is, I know all these faces are friendly ones. In that rational part of my brain—which is by far the biggest part—I know that. And yet I am having a very hard time not slamming the door in their smiling faces because the irrational panic part of my brain is small but mighty. I am, in fact, having a hard time standing here because I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe and I can’t speak and I can barely think.

  Think, Dempsey, think.<
br />
  Though it feels like I’m moving through quicksand, I manage to open the door wider and back up, resisting the compulsion to shut the door and leave everyone on the other side of it. But I stumble back and then Nick is in my face. Probably no closer than he ever is when he’s talking to me, but it feels like he’s looming, threatening. My hopped-up anxiety is playing with my perception like funhouse mirrors, and this thing I was so looking forward to just moments ago has turned into a nightmare.

  “Surprise, babe! Look who I brought! Isn’t this way better than an autographed eight-by-ten glossy? Rowan Andrews is in your house. How cool is that?”

  I want to be happy, I really do, but it’s difficult to be happy when you’re drowning, when you could pass out or puke at any second, which would be wildly embarrassing in front of all of these people. For some people, that’s the heart of their agoraphobia—they’re terrified of leaving home because what if they have a panic attack and they embarrass themselves in public? I wouldn’t call it the heart of mine—I feel like it’s a domino that fell later but that I can’t set upright. It’s become, I think, more of a factor since I don’t have to protect myself from my parents anymore. So it’s super-awesome that not only am I having a massive panic attack and probably turning some shade of grey and sweating profusely, but there are other people here to see it. Doesn’t help that they are some of the most famous people on the planet, even though they’re also just my boyfriend’s pals.

  At this second, I hate Nick. I shouldn’t, because he’s done what he thought would be a nice thing, and maybe it would’ve been if I weren’t having a bad day already or if he’d called first or any number of things, but god. I am falling apart, and I can’t stand the thought of these people seeing me this way.

  I do manage to point in some direction and get out in a slur, “Living room. ’Scuse me.”

  Then I’m fumbling my way up the stairs to my bedroom, to my bathroom—where I let myself shut and lock the door—to my medicine cabinet, to my bottle of Xanax. I shake out a pill into my hand, so tempted to take two, but I refrain, and then toss it in my mouth, bending over the sink and chugging water straight from the faucet.

  I know it’s a placebo thing, but as soon as I’ve swallowed, I feel a little better. And hell, what does it matter if it’s a placebo? It works just the goddamn same. It’s likely that I know the Xanax will kick in shortly and I will feel better, which takes some of the edge off.

  It’s a couple of minutes before there’s the knock at the door that I’ve been anticipating. Maybe dreading? A little? Because I just embarrassed myself and Nick, and I wouldn’t blame everyone if they’ve gone home. I don’t honestly know what to hope for.

  “Demps? You in there?”

  Breathe in, breathe out, answer the question before he breaks down the door. Or gets Teague to do it because that guy is huge.

  “Yes.”

  There’s a pause as though Nick is waiting for me to say something else, as though he doesn’t understand that getting that one word out was a process, a task of monumental proportions. One word is all he gets.

  “Are you okay?”

  Oh, Nicky. As much as I hate it, this is where the tears come. Am I okay? Clearly not. My boyfriend does something nice for me, something that would delight most people, and yet here I am, sitting on the floor in tears trying to fight my way out of a panic attack, because no, I am very much not okay.

  Here it is. Another chance for Nick to decide that this is not cool, that he can’t handle it, and that there are thousands of other women who would be happy to be his girlfriend and that I am far more trouble than I’m worth. I mean, honestly, it’s kind of wild that he hasn’t walked away already. This has got to be it—the tipping point. If I can’t get my shit together, he’s going to leave. There is literally no reason for him to stay with me when I’m such a mess.

  I have a choice, too. Do I take another deep breath, wipe my eyes, make my voice as steady as can be, and say yes? Open the door and grit my teeth and have my stomach riot while I descend step by step into what is meant to be a party but now feels like the pits of hell? Do I let myself expend three months’ worth of energy on this party because Nick was trying to be nice and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings? I might be able to. Maybe.

  Or I could be honest. And maybe end this before we get any more closely entwined. Before Nick has my whole heart instead of just a sizable chunk of it. What’s the point of letting him love me if he loves a lie?

  “No. No, I’m not okay.” Choked by tears, there’s no way he can mistake my voice for anything but words forced out between weeping.

  There’s a thunk on the door and it startles me, but he’s not trying to break it down. I’m guessing more like he’s dropped his forehead against the door and is standing there, desperate and feeling helpless.

  “Can I come in? Maybe I can help? It’s just me, everyone else is chilling out back. They like your yard. I tried to get Fiona to stay out there so she could show them around, but she insisted on coming up here with me. Didn’t you, princess?”

  There’s a whine and a scratch of doggy nails at my door, which makes me laugh even through my tears. And while I am mortified as hell, the Xanax has relieved some of my anxiety and I’m just so fucking charmed by the idea of Nick and Fi arguing at the door to the patio about whether she should play hostess or whether she needed to come be my anxiety buddy. I love that dog. And as inconvenient as a time it is to realize it, I love Nick, too.

  I reach up and turn the door handle, making the lock pop and the door crack open, and a split-second later, Fiona’s giant head is bursting in. She lumbers in as quickly as she can and then puts her front paws on my lap to lick me in the face until she’s assured herself that I’m alive. At which point, she promptly deposits herself—all fifty pounds of her—onto my lap and nudges my hand with her cold, wet nose. Because clearly, if I’m not dying, I should pet her. Which I do, because she’s a delightfully warm and heavy weight. Of course if she sits here for too long, she’ll cut off all blood flow to my feet, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  Nick has followed the canine rescue brigade and is moving as quietly and slowly as I’ve ever seen him, like I’m a wild animal backed into a corner. Which I guess I kind of am. But I’m a wild animal with Xanax, which is an important distinction.

  Nick

  * * *

  Careful not to block the door, I sit on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. It is not comfortable. But what makes me feel a thousand times worse is Dempsey’s tear-streaked cheeks. How could I have fucked this up so badly? Again? But before I can get my apology out, she looks up from where she’s scritching behind Fiona’s ears and says, “I’m so sorry. Do you hate me?”

  “What? No, I don’t hate you, at all. Actually I was going to say the same thing to you. I gotta be honest that I don’t totally know what I’m apologizing for, but I know for sure you don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  Dempsey chews on her bottom lip and looks away. I want to go to her so badly, but I’m holding my arms across my chest and white-knuckling my hands on my biceps because I may not know a lot, but I know enough that it doesn’t seem like a good idea right now. Not after she basically ran away from me downstairs. In such a hurry that she almost tripped on the steps and looked like she’d seen a ghost.

  I am by no means an expert on women, but I’m pretty sure it’s not a good sign when they look like they’re going to hurl when you show up at their house. I may be kind of dense, but I can take a hint when it punches me in the face.

  For the first time in my life, I don’t try to solve a problem by opening my mouth and letting whatever’s in my head come out. I’m not sure if she wants me to talk or if she wants to talk or if we’re just going to sit here in her bathroom for hours which would be fine except I should text the guys and let them know. Maybe they could move the party to Teague’s? He’s got a big-ass grill that he loves to use.

  “So you know I have
agoraphobia and that I haven’t left my house in years.”

  I nod but don’t say anything. Yeah, I know. It’s kind of a bummer when I think of somewhere I’d like to take her or something I’d like to do with her that I can’t bring here, but it’s not a big thing. Inconvenient, but it’s just how things are. If I want to be with Dempsey, then I have to be here, which is an easy call to make—here it is.

  “Well, you haven’t seen it yet, but this is part of why. That agoraphobia didn’t come out of nowhere. It wasn’t like I just decided one day that it would be fun to be a hermit and to have everything I need brought to my door. That’s…that’s not what happened at all.”

  “I know.” I mean, I do, like, in my brain, but do I really get it? I can’t imagine staying anywhere for years, never mind a little bungalow in Atwater Village. But Dempsey must have had some damn good reasons. Or her brain interacting with things that have happened to her in ways that made holing up like this seem like her best option. She’s smart like whoa and practical as hell, which is what makes her so good at her job.

  “I was always kind of an anxious person, but I also wanted to please my parents so badly, which is how I got into acting. I wanted to make them proud of me, and my mom had always dreamed of being an actress and wanted me to fulfill her dreams. So I shoved it down, telling myself that it would get easier the more I did it. That was a big fat lie. It didn’t get better, at all. But I kept doing it because they were so proud of me. I tried to tell them a few times how hard it was on me, but they dismissed it, said it wasn’t that big of a deal. Told me that I was a big girl and I could handle it. So, uh, I stopped trying to tell them.”

  That sure explains a whole lot about why Demps doesn’t like to talk about this stuff and keeps her triggers and other stuff to herself, even though it would be helpful for me to know about them. The people whose literal job it was to protect her didn’t and basically told her to get over it when she told them she was having a hard time. What turdmonsters. But she’s not even done yet.