by Piper Lennox
The difference is that, in New York, people no longer pretend otherwise. And they love it anyway. It’s not always pretty, but at least it’s real.
My move here five years ago was long overdue. This place really never sleeps, and that spoke to my soul like a crash cart to the chest.
I go back to my computer and check the video views. 2,993 so far, which isn’t bad for a few hours.
Also not great—but I’ll take it.
The blue dot on my email tab catches my eye. Probably my mother, the only parent I know who will send me the same information via text, Facebook Messenger, email, and the occasional, actual phone call all at once. She likes making sure I can’t ignore her.
First thing I notice is the subject line.
Pre-Appointment Info.
Appointment?
My mind goes to my sister Delaney, because I can’t for the life of me think of what appointments I’ve got coming up. Maybe it’s a glitch, and the email’s actually meant for her.
I click.
Hi, Dr. Dune!
…or should I call you Willow? Either one is fine with me. I just like to ask up front. (Can you tell I’ve had a LOT of therapists?)
First, thank you for the appointment slot. I know Thursday evenings are a weird time for therapy, but I appreciate it. Hopefully my schedule will open up after this summer.
Second, I thought it would be a good idea to “lay it all out,” as it were, so that we’re not starting from complete scratch in my first session.
My last therapist and I were working on a lot of different issues.
First, there’s the hair-pulling. I actually had a really good handle on it, until recently...I know progress isn’t linear, but it’s super important I get control of it again. It’s like it’s taking over my life.
I’m so, so tired of hiding.
There are family issues, too—things with my sister. We need time apart. But every time I try to get it…there she is. I don’t mean a few hours apart. I mean space. Physical, emotional, all of it. Her life is so intertwined with mine, it feels like I’m a bit player and our life is actually hers.
Don’t get me wrong, we’re really close. But she can be overbearing. Controlling. Especially when it comes to our job.
I love what I do, but…have you ever woken up and thought, “This isn’t the life I signed up for”? I guess everyone has moments like that. But I’m having them a lot.
I read on a little, skimming through this weirdly perky-sounding ramble of a screwed-up life. Must be Spam, someone asking for money or something. My cursor hovers over the button to report and block the sender.
Then something else in the email catches my attention.
“...and then there’s Wes Durham.”
He’s...well. A jerk, to say the least. He likes to trash-talk me like he’s my “competition,” but he’s not. Even if we were in the same arena, he isn’t anywhere near our level. Not anymore.
It started last year, after this big video blog summit. There was a masquerade party by the hotel pool afterwards. This is embarrassing, but we fooled around some.
I didn’t know it was him, of course.
But I’m convinced he knew it was me.
Anyway, long story short...I still can’t stand him, even more than before. I’m disgusted with myself for doing that. But I can’t stop dreaming about it.
I haven’t slept well ever since.
My last therapist couldn’t figure it out. I kind of got the feeling she didn’t take it seriously, so I’m interested in your insight....
.
For the first time, I look at the sender address.
ClaraBelle77.
Never mind that I knew, from the second I saw the first mention of my name, that it was one of the Hurley twins. And the second I saw “masquerade party”...I knew it was Clara.
My feet spin me away from the computer. I need to think.
For about two seconds.
Carefully, with as much determination as I imagine those glitter-soaked fingers tapped out all her fucking poison about me, I click Reply.
Three
Keep your headphones on.
It’s bad enough I’m the first one here, waiting for Wes Durham’s scowl to show up through the plate glass of the coffeehouse. No need to make it look like I’m waiting. Like I give a single damn what he has to say to me.
Like I didn’t stay up all night fighting panic over it.
“Looks like we have business to discuss.” God, that line was so horribly Wes, it rang in my ears over the stumbling traffic in the streets for hours. It’s still ringing. I can only imagine the kind of business he has in mind.
I should have never written that email.
While my brain combs each and every paragraph again, my fingertips slide under the edge of my hat. The regrowth over my ear is soft. New hair is always too soft, like the back of a baby’s head.
The bell over the door rings.
I turn up my music and keep my head down. This was why I brought my sketchbook, for this exact moment: so I could make sure he knows a half-moon of my own lip gloss on a hand-painted mug is more important to me than anything he has to say.
I’m still sketching when he approaches. From the edge of my glasses, I see his blurred form.
Acid-washed jeans. Fitted band shirt with a small hole at the hem.
Checkered Vans, just like the boy on the subway yesterday, the squares scarred with black ink instead of glitter. Lord knows he despises glitter.
“Good morning.” He leans close, his mouth right beside my headphone cup. I react like a hornet buzzed by.
My flinch makes him smirk. He pulls out the chair opposite mine with his foot, sits, and—instead of scooting the chair back in—pulls the entire table back. Rearranging the world around him, because he can’t stand that no one else does it for him anymore.
“Talk.”
“Oof.” He draws back, hand over his heart. “No pleasantries, first? How have you been?”
“Just tell me your price, Durham.” My fillings are going to pop out, I’m clenching my teeth so hard. “What do I have to do for you to delete that email?”
“I’ve been good, thank you for asking.” He looks at the table. “You didn’t order me a coffee? Seems rude, but okay.”
My tongue sharpens, ready to tell him off in a way he’ll definitely find rude—but then I freeze. Maybe this is a test or something.
“Of course.” My legs are as stiff as my voice as I push the table back at him, stand, and get back in line, clutching my change purse like the dagger I wish it was.
“Latte,” he stage-whispers.
With a rattling breath, I look at him. “Anything to eat?”
Flashing that obnoxious smile again, he sits back with his arms folded and shakes his head.
“Latte, please,” I tell the barista, who gives me a look you’d give a woman who’s in a bad relationship and doesn’t know it yet. Something like, Girl—fucking run.
I wish I could tell her the real situation. Wes Durham is the last guy I’d ever start something with.
And if I could run from this, I’d be halfway around the world by now.
When I return, Wes slides the cup towards himself with one hand...while sliding a folded five across the table to me.
Slowly—like it might be some kind of transdermic poison—I pick it up.
“I would have gotten up myself, by the way. I was just giving you shit. Surprised you went up there.”
“What other choice do I have?”
He looks up, studying me from under his brow.
“True,” he says.
I wrap my hands around my mug. It’s oversized, basically a bowl with a handle; Wes laughs to himself whenever I sip, because I inevitably dribble some into my lap.
Every time he sips, I stare at the shadows of his throat and swear I still smell sand and salt air.
“‘Disgusted with myself.’”
Snapping my eyes to his face, I sit up
. “Huh?”
“Your email.” He runs his tongue over the corner of his mouth, getting some foam. “Strong word choice. And here I thought it was your sister who loved the dramatics.”
“That was a private message,” I hiss.
“Then let’s talk about how to keep it that way.”
Heat spills into my bloodstream again. Amazingly, most of my anger is at myself, not him. I should have never trusted my email’s autofill after typing those three fateful characters.
“Name your price.”
“Not sure you can afford it.” He flicks the clasp on my coin purse. “You can fit, what—ten bucks in this stupid thing?”
“It’s a Grant Woolwright. Got that in a gift basket at the Digital Days conference.” I slap his hand away and dangle the purse by my fingertips. “I forget, were you invited to speak on a panel there?”
Wes shifts to the other side of his chair, spreading his legs out way too far under the table. My preferred sitting position is with my ankles crossed, hooked around the chair leg, but I purposely spread out now just to reclaim some territory. He winces when I get his shin.
“I don’t want your money. And you can put your claws away. Though I will say, it’s adorable you think you’ve got any leverage, here.” He halfway stands, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “I started a list. Subject to change.”
Again, I take the paper with hesitation.
“Pick up your dry cleaning, walk your dog....” I skim the rest and let the paper fold back in my hand as I glance up. “You’re blackmailing me into being your servant?”
“I prefer the term ‘unpaid personal assistant.’”
My blood runs hot again, this time behind my eyes. I blink it back.
“For how long?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“You can’t do that.” I slap the paper down. “I need clear terms here—none of this open-ended, indefinite shit.”
“Fine. Three months.”
“One.”
“You’re negotiating with me?”
His amused smile makes me lean back and curse at myself. This isn’t how blackmailing works.
Wes watches me for a moment before draining his coffee. “Two months. Final offer.”
Reluctantly, I nod. “How many days a week? What times?”
“To be decided.”
“No, we have videos scheduled, interviews, launches—”
“We’ll work around that shit. Don’t sit there and pretend you’re just so busy, sweetheart.”
The sound of this ironic nickname in his mouth closes up my throat.
I think of the cabana, and all those whispers softer than the foam the waves dragged across the shore.
How on earth that boy who touched me in the bleached-out moonlight is the same one so cruelly dangling all my secrets in front of me right now, I have no clue.
“Just the stuff on this list?” I stab my finger onto the paper, pinning it against the tabletop. “Nothing else?”
“Like I said, subject to change. Don’t rush me.”
There it is, another echo from that beach. “Please, stop teasing me....”
“Don’t rush me.”
God, I would give anything to erase that night as easily as an email.
The thought almost makes me laugh. Even if his demands stay limited to this meager list between us, I know none of this will be easy.
“Nothing that can ruin my career,” I tell him quickly. “I mean, obviously. That’s kind of the whole point of why I’m doing this, so....”
“I know. Calm down.”
I do, but only briefly. Something about the way Wes stretches, folding his arms behind his head, puts me on the edge of my seat. “And nothing sexual.”
“Christ.” He tilts his face to the ceiling and laughs. That smoldering sound could set off the sprinklers. “Like I’d ever do that to someone.”
“You’re blackmailing me,” I growl, ducking my head closer, “with a letter meant for my therapist. Nothing’s beneath you, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Hmm.” His tongue swells his cheek. “Good point.” Sitting forward again, his frame rattling the table until it’s pushed right to my ribs, he sticks out his hand. “So. We’re in agreement.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Ignoring his hand, I reach past it for my pencil and sketch pad, pack my bag, and screech the chair away from the table. “See you tomorrow.”
“Hey, wait up.”
I don’t wait. The absurdity, unfairness, and all-around horrible luck of the situation is catching up with me, and I’ll be damned if he’s going to see the water in my eyes.
The second I step into the street, I’m yanked backward.
“Fuck,” I gasp, the straps of my new backpack purse digging into my shoulders. In that split-second, my heart wedges itself into my windpipe…then ignites.
I’m prepared to scream at him. To pummel this brash, arrogant son of a bitch into the ground, leaked secrets be damned.
Until the next split-second, when his arm crosses over me and hefts me back onto the sidewalk—and a truck screams past, directly in front of us.
Yep, heart’s back in my throat.
“You’re okay.” Wes lets go and steps back as I turn, all the color drained from that angular face I can’t believe was almost the last thing I ever saw.
Pulses pounding, we stand there and pant a moment, staring at each other.
It seems he’s the first to snap to reality. “Damn,” he breathes, “watch where you’re going. And before you ran out of there, I was offering to shake on it. In case you didn’t notice.”
It occurs to me that I should thank him for saving my life.
Then I remember he’s also ruining my life. For the next two months, anyway.
“I did notice.” I readjust my bag. My shoulders still burn where the straps sawed into my skin. “But I don’t see the point of handshakes in a situation like this.”
He snorts. “What, you think you’ll find a contract for this?”
“No,” I admit, this time looking both ways—twice—before I cross, “but there’s no reason for me to think your handshake, or your word, means a damn thing.”
He follows. “What other choice do you have?”
I stop.
Wes glides in front of me and sticks out his hand again. My palm sweats the second it touches his.
Four
“It’s just such a violent sound. And people don’t respond well to it.”
Serving as the soundtrack to my mother’s criticisms is the roaring blender that Adler, Stepdad Number Five, runs about two consecutive hours a day. Pretty sure I haven’t seen the guy eat solid food since their wedding reception.
“Plenty of subscribers,” I sigh distractedly.
“I wouldn’t call twenty-thousand ‘plenty.’” Thank the Lord, Mom goes somewhere else in her Burbank monstrosity, far from her thirty-year-old boy toy pulverizing Chia seeds and figs. “Veda has two-hundred thousand subscribers, as of last week.”
“Uh-huh. And I stopped giving a shit, as of last century.”
“I think it’s because she’s so upbeat. Peppy. People like that, you know.”
Veda Jacoby played my older sister on Cut to the Chases. Mom adored her—and her parents, who had connections flung as far as the ladder-climber’s eye could see—so I’m subjected to these comparisons a lot.
While her channel’s largely dedicated to mediocre pop covers and rambling movie reviews, Veda gets most of her subscribers and likes from her Throwback videos: clips from the show (wonder who she had to blow to get those permissions), interviews with diehard fans, and songs she sang as Maisie Chase, whose most popular episode was when a record producer swindled her, and the family had to come to her rescue.
In other words: she’s fine living in the past.
I’m not.
“Did you talk to Louis about the reunion special?”
“Nope. Not happening. And you’re doing it aga
in, by the way.”
“Doing what?” she snaps.
Being a controlling stage mother, I think, but she checks herself and apologizes before I have to. Damn, you can hear exactly how much it kills her to say “sorry.”
Oh, well. Not my fault. Billie Durham has to live with her little scandal forever, relegated to the Shitty Celebrity Mom archives in the wing dedicated for parents who stole significant portions of their kids’ earnings.
I remind myself she did the right thing, eventually, even if it took a few lawyers and some heat to make her admit to it all. We opted for a settlement (in exchange for me dropping my emancipation threats; Delaney was too sweet to dare make any), and let the scandal die a quiet death. It was the only way to preserve our relationship. Which, believe it or not, I still wanted.
Things are strained between us now, to say the least. But at least I’ve got a little leverage when she starts criticizing my career.
The really fucked up thing about it, though? I feel like shit whenever I actually use it.
“Are we done?” The boredom from my end of the line is probably as deafening as Adler’s NutriBullet. “I have work to finish.”
“Fine, fine. Just think about it.”
“I won’t. Goodnight.”
Her sigh strangles me. I picture her on the balcony over their pool, swirling a glass of red wine her doctors don’t want her to have. “Goodnight, dear.”
I hang up first.
Violent sound. Leave it to my mom to completely miss the point of metal.
Or rock.
Whatever genre it is that I play. I guess it would benefit me to decide once and for all, but I’m not sure I care enough.
