When It's Real

by Erin Watt

  She glances over uneasily.

  We walk in silence, not venturing too far from the party. I look over my shoulder and see that Ty’s hawk-like gaze is fixed on us, even while he listens to whatever Paisley is saying.

  Vaughn and I stop at the edge of where the water meets the sand, both of us staring out at the ocean.

  “My mom really liked you,” I find myself confessing.

  “I liked her, too. She’s awesome.”

  I’m instantly skeptical. Then I feel like an ass for being skeptical, because it’s not like my mom is some evil shrew. Almost all of my memories of her are good ones, full of joy and laughter and lots and lots of fun. But the fun died a few years ago. Pretty much since she stopped calling me.

  “She’s so proud of you,” Vaughn adds.

  I shift in discomfort. “Yeah...I doubt that.”

  “She is. I swear, she wouldn’t stop talking about all your accomplishments. And she showed me a ton of pictures of you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What pictures?”

  Vaughn smiles. “Nothing too embarrassing. Unless you consider dressing up as Iron Man for Halloween embarrassing.”

  “I was going through a superhero phase,” I say defensively. “And I was eight.” A frown mars my lips. “She has all those pictures on her phone?”

  “Her phone has nothing but pictures of you as far as I could tell. She even has baby pics on there. I told you, she’s proud of you...” She trails off in hesitation.

  “What?” I say warily.

  “I think she thinks you hate her.”

  I swallow the huge lump that fills my throat. Then I cough. “Nah, there’s no way she thinks that.”

  Vaughn shrugs. “I’m just telling you what it seemed like.”

  I’m sure it did. My mother is a phenomenal actress. She was probably trying to paint me as the villain just to make herself look good.

  I answer in a bitter voice. “She called me after you guys had lunch. Before that, I hadn’t heard from her in a month. Before that, it was six months. If anyone’s in the wrong here, it ain’t me.”

  “How often do you call her?”

  She has me there. I grit my teeth. “I don’t call because I know she doesn’t care to hear from me.”

  Vaughn shakes her head in disapproval. “Sure, Oakley, keep telling yourself that.”

  I frown. “You’re not in any position to judge. You spent all of two hours with her. That doesn’t exactly make you an expert on Katrina Ford.”

  “Okay. Whatever. Forget I said anything.” She sounds grumpy again.

  Great. Now we’re both cranky.

  I take a breath and regroup. “Why are you in such a bad mood tonight?”

  Since I don’t expect her to tell me, I’m not surprised when she stays quiet.

  Her silence rubs me the wrong way, though, stirring up my inner shit-disturber. “What, did you and the frat boy get in a lover’s quarrel?”

  Vaughn flinches.

  “Did I hit a nerve?” I raise one eyebrow.

  Her lips flatten in a thin line.

  “Must have been a doozy of a fight, huh? Let me guess, he—”

  “Dumped me,” she interrupts.

  I blink. “What?”

  “He dumped me.” Her eyes take on a defiant glint. “That’s what you want to hear, right? How W dumped my ass? Well, he did. He broke it off the night you showed up at my house unannounced.”

  It’s hard to suppress the happy smile that’s begging to spring free. “Oh. That sucks. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t pretend to care,” she mutters. “Since we’ve met, all you’ve done is say nasty things about W. You think he’s pretentious and douchey.”

  Yeah. I do. “Aw, you know I was just joking around,” I lie.

  “Bullshit.” Her expression becomes pained. “I guess you can say whatever you want about him now. Because we’re done. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore, okay?”

  She looks on the verge of tears, and I feel like a total ass for needling her about it. I need to lighten the situation, distract her before she runs into the ocean and tries to drown herself or something. Luckily, I know just how to distract chicks—by turning up the Oakley Ford charm. That unique blend of annoying jerk and irresistible rogue.

  “Does that mean you’re going to stop sulking and enjoy this barbecue?” I ask cheerfully.

  She glares at me. “I’m not sulking.”

  “Babe, you’re totally sulking. It’s incredibly unattractive, if I’m being honest.” I’m grinning as I say it.

  A reluctant smile tugs on her lips. “You know what else is unattractive? Watching you stuff your face with hot dogs all night. How do you not weigh five hundred pounds?”

  Operation Distraction is a success. “I work out.” I flex both biceps at her. “Guns like these don’t grow on trees.”

  “What is it with you and your guns? You’re obsessed with yourself, dude.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? I’m a hottie.”

  She snorts.

  “You laugh, but we both know you agree. Come on, say it—you’re a hottie, Oak.”

  “Never,” she declares.

  “I really think you should say it...”

  “Or what?” she challenges. “Whatcha gonna do, Oak? Pull my hair?”

  “No, but I will do this.” Before she can blink, I yank her forward and haul her over my shoulder.

  A shriek fills the air. “Put me down right this second, Oakley Ford!”

  “Maybe later.” I secure her in a fireman’s carry and race toward the water. “I think you need to cool off with a nice swim,” I taunt as she pounds at my back with her small fists. “My fault, really. Most girls get overheated when faced with my manly good looks.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Vaughn sputters, but she’s laughing.

  I keep running. She bats at my shoulders.

  “It’s February!” she shrieks. “I swear, if you throw me in that ice-cold water, I will murder you!” Then she manages to get a solid kick to my gut, which causes me to stumble slightly. That’s all she needs to get out of my hold and scramble to her feet.

  She takes off running back toward the sand, and I hurry after her. “Come back here!” I shout between laughs.

  “Never!”

  I manage to grab the bottom of her shirt, but before I can tug her into my arms, she trips on something and goes flying forward, taking me with her. We land on the sand with a thud, Vaughn on her back and me nearly on top of her.

  We’re both still laughing as we try to catch our breath. I rise up on one elbow and peer down at her, and almost immediately, the humor is replaced with something serious. Something hotter.

  Her cheeks are flushed pink.

  My breathing goes shallow.

  Her lips part.

  My head dips, just slightly.

  I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone more than—

  Sand sprays into our faces, and we break apart abruptly. I look over in confusion and notice the soccer ball lying on the beach. Great. Perfect timing.

  “Hey! Kick it back!” one of the soccer players calls from the playing area.

  I hop to my feet, walk over and boot the soccer ball across the beach to the waiting children. Then I turn to Vaughn and reach out my hand.

  After a beat, she takes it and lets me pull her to her feet.

  “We should go back,” she says without meeting my eyes.

  “Yeah.” My voice sounds hoarser than usual.

  We return to the party to find that a music circle has formed. A dark-haired woman is playing the guitar, while a group of kids and parents gather around. She’s singing Katy Perry’s “Firework.” Some people are singing along, but most of them are just list
ening.

  “That’s the twins’ music teacher,” Vaughn whispers to me. “Mrs. Greenspoon. She had the school band play that song.”

  I try to envision a bunch of French horns, flutes and clarinets tooting out the melody and move a bit closer. Mrs. G is a decent guitar player, and although her voice doesn’t hit all the right notes, she’s having fun and it shows.

  Vaughn and I sit on a nearby beach chair and listen to the “show.” I absently thread my fingers through Vaughn’s hair, but I don’t even realize I’m doing it until she turns with a sharp look.

  “Sorry,” I murmur.

  “No. It’s okay. It’s...nice.” Her tone is grudging and confused and a tad upset.

  Eventually the music stops. Mrs. Greenspoon sets the acoustic guitar on a chair and goes to talk to a few parents. Everyone else just wanders off, none of them even glancing in my direction. They all saw me sitting there...and nobody asked me to sing something.

  For once in my life, I feel...normal. It’s nice, hanging out with people who don’t want a damn thing from me.

  “We can leave after the game,” Vaughn says, gesturing to the soccer match still in process.

  “I’m in no rush.” My gaze strays to the abandoned guitar. “Do you think they’ll care if I mess around on the guitar?”

  Vaughn looks at the chair, then at the deserted area around us. Most of the crowd has moved toward the soccer game. “I don’t think they’ll even notice.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that.

  With an odd jolt of excitement, I get up to grab the instrument then return to our chair. Vaughn moves to the opposite chair, sitting cross-legged, her braid hanging over one shoulder, as she watches me play a few random chords.

  “Any requests?” I joke.

  She considers it seriously, though. “Do you know any Lumineers?”

  I lift my eyebrows. “Seriously? You don’t want an Oakley Ford song?” I can’t believe she wants me to do a cover.

  Her lips twitch. “I thought you were tired of your own songs.”

  “Fair enough.” I grin at her then rack my brain for the chords to “Ho Hey,” the folk band’s most popular single.

  I mess up the intro, but once I start singing, the melody takes over and the chords just play themselves. Vaughn is totally engrossed, her eyes never leaving mine. When I get to the chorus, I switch it up a bit—gotta give the song some sort of original spin—and her eyes widen in delight. The faster, slightly more rock version of this ballad is sounding kind of awesome. I’m enjoying the hell out of myself.

  When I finish singing, a huge burst of applause breaks out. Startled, I almost fall out of my chair. I was so into the music that I didn’t realize anyone but Vaughn was listening. A few cameras go off, and...so much for feeling normal. This is normal, me being unable to sing a song to a girl without someone documenting it.

  Vaughn’s still staring at me, the confusion back in her eyes. I want to ask her what’s wrong, but people are suddenly coming up to me to say how much they enjoyed the song. Several ask for an encore, but I politely decline. Instead, I take Vaughn’s hand and the two of us quickly move away from the crowd.

  The game has wrapped up, and the twins, sweaty and disheveled, run over to us. We join Paisley and Ty, and all of us make a unanimous decision that it’s time to take off.

  “That was really beautiful,” Vaughn whispers as we trudge down the sand.

  “Ah. Thanks.”

  She stops when we reach the stairs that lead to the parking lot, letting the others go on ahead.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Half the time when you open your mouth, you say something that makes me want to punch you.” Vaughn gives a rueful smile. “But when you sing...you make it really hard to hate you.”

  I take that praise with me all the way up to the parking lot. The twins pile into the back seat of Paisley’s Nissan, while Paisley slides behind the wheel.

  Before Vaughn can get in the passenger seat, I tug on her hand. “Hey. Wait. Can I see your phone?”

  Her forehead furrows. “Ah, sure. Why?”

  I don’t answer. I just take the phone from her outstretched hand and pull up her contact list. I key in ten digits then hand it back.

  “My number’s in there now,” I say gruffly. “Call me if you ever need to talk, okay?”

  Vaughn looks stunned.

  Before she can question me, I lean in, plant a kiss on her cheek and then stride off toward my Escalade.

  Ty and I get in, and he glances over as he starts the engine. “Fun time, huh?” he says.

  “The best.” And I actually mean it.

  * * *

  A short clip of me singing “Ho Hey” pops up on Instagram before I even open my eyes the next morning. I only know about it because Jim wakes me up to tell me. He doesn’t sound mad, but pleased.

  “The video has more than a million views already!” he crows. “And the comments. Go read the comments. I just sent you the link.”

  Groggy, I sit up and put the phone on speaker so I can click on the link he texted. It takes me to the Instagram video, but I don’t press Play. I just scroll down to the comments.

  OMG So beautiful!

  He’s back, bitches! SEE! Told you he’s not washed up!

  SO GOOD TO HEAR OAKLEY SINGING AGAIN!

  Is that his girlfriend there? The Vaughn girl? Ugh. I want someone, anyone to look at me like he looks at her.

  *ShiversSHIVERS

  Oh. Em. Gee. I have shivers right now.

  I find myself smiling. Shivers is a musician’s favorite word. I stop scrolling, because there are more than five thousand comments and it’ll take me the rest of my life and then most of the afterlife to get through all of them.

  “Your fans miss you,” Jim says frankly. “This just proves it. You need to put out a new album, Oak.”

  “I’m trying.” As usual, my joy is short-lived. He just has to remind me how much I’m sucking, doesn’t he?

  “Try harder.”

  I clench my teeth.

  “You’re at the studio today, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m leaving in an hour.” I pause. “I was thinking of asking Vaughn to come along.”

  “That’s a good idea. You were with her last night and ended up recording something genius—maybe she’s your muse.”

  “I sang a cover,” I mutter.

  “Doesn’t matter that it wasn’t an original,” Jim argues. “You changed up that song and made it your own. Better yet, you sang it with emotion. People respond to all that emotion bullshit.”

  I laugh. “Emotions are bullshit? I feel bad for your wife, dude.”

  He ignores that. “Go record some music, kid. I’ll check in with you later and—I’m getting another call. Hold on.”

  “Why? We were already hanging up—”

  “Stay on the line,” he commands, and then the extension goes silent.

  I swallow my irritation, because, seriously, I’m just supposed to sit here twiddling my thumbs while he talks to another client? I have better things to do with my time than—

  “King is calling you in about one minute,” Jim suddenly barks in my ear.

  My breath stalls in my throat. Holy hell. “Are you serious?”

  “Yup. Be cool. Do not push him. Let him talk.”

  I slowly release a puff of air. “Got it.”

  “Be cool,” Jim presses.

  “I got it.” When the phone beeps, I pull the screen away from my face to see a blocked caller. “He’s calling right now. I’ll call you back.” I switch over before Jim can give me the order to be cool one more time.

  I rub my hands on my bedspread, trying to control my nerves. “Yo, King,” I greet him.


  “Hey, Oakley.”

  “Oak,” I tell him. “All my friends call me Oak.” And you and I are going to be closer than brothers by the time we’re done.

  “Yeah, all right. I’ve been watching your Insta likes pile up. You’re getting a righteous response.”

  “It’s sweet.” And then because I hate the uncertainty and I don’t want to hang back and wait, I do exactly the opposite of what Jim ordered. “You gotta know that I’m a fangirl of yours. The only reason I’m not stalking you is because Jim would kill me.”

  King laughs.

  “We both know I’m dying to work with you. And since this is the first call you’ve returned of mine, I’m guessing it’s for something more than congratulating me on a viral hit.”

  “You’re right. I’m seeing maturity in your music. The sounds you had before could have been produced by anyone.”

  He’s not wrong. I could try to bluff my way out here, tell him I’ve been working on new things since the drop of my last album, but he’d be able to hear the lie the moment he walked into the studio. I opt for brutal honesty. “If I don’t create something new, my career could be over. We both know single artists have a very short shelf life.”

  “You want to make a new sound so you stay relevant? Because teen girls are the only fans that matter in this business and they still love you. If staying famous is what you want, then you don’t need me.”

  “No, I want to make a new sound because I don’t relate to my old one. I’m not trying to reinvent myself so much as...” It’s going to take some leap of faith, some shedding of my protective layer, some introspection to get King to come on board. “As trying to find myself,” I admit. “I’m lost and have been for a while.” Then I shut up and for once in my life, I wait.

  “Ahhhh.” It’s a satisfied sound. “I can work with that, Oak. How about I come over, say, Thursday?”

  “Sounds good, man, real good.”

  We chat for a few more minutes, arranging a time and place. When I hang up, my hands are shaking and my palms are damp and I’m close to throwing up.

  And yet I’ve never felt better.