Break It Up

by Tippetts, E. M.

  So much for not blowing things with Zach. I’ll go down in his memory as a mistake, but if I get out of here without detection, I hope to be a minor one. I need to find my friends, though, and I don’t know which rooms the rest of the band are in. I can’t exactly go down to the front desk and ask either.

  I step out into the hall and pull Zach’s door firmly shut behind me, as if that act would seal off my connection to him and save him a boatload of embarrassment. A quick glance up and down reveals a bunch of anonymous numbered rooms.

  But I’m in luck. A door across the way opens and Ben leans out, still fully clothed and still very much awake. “Hey, Kyra. We got a car for your friends a while ago.”

  Even from across this hall, his clothes smell like marijuana. “So they’re both home?” I ask.

  “Or wherever they told the driver to take them, yeah. We watched some DVDs of concert footage and all figured you didn’t want to be… disturbed. Did you have a fun evening?” His smile is knowing and irritating.

  “Yeah. Zach got a phone call and I fell asleep.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He strides over and plucks at my shirt flirtatiously.

  Fine, I don’t care what he believes. His reputation rides on this as much as Zach’s. “I just need to get out of here before I ruin your wholesome image.”

  Ben rolls his eyes. “It’s just an image. It’s fiction. Better for everyone when it’s gone.”

  “I’d think a little more about that,” I say. “Once it’s gone, it’s gone for good. You can’t ever get it back.”

  “Good riddance.”

  “You do not want the whole world thinking you’re a man-whore,” I insist. Because he really, really can’t tell on me to the press.

  “But what if I am?”

  “Listen to me. You may not believe nothing happened between me and Zach, but nothing happened, and you can’t leak a rumor like that about Zach to the press. Fine if you don’t care about your image, but he cares about his. Please show him a little respect.”

  He meets my gaze steadily, unblinking. Then he shrugs. “I won’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t. It’s your business.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You need a ride home?”

  “No. I drove.”

  “’Kay, let me walk you to your car. I’m starving. I need vending machine food.”

  “First class all the way, huh?”

  He chuckles as he pulls his door shut behind him and we head down the hall. “So I’m Ben, by the way.”

  “Kyra.”

  “You’re Jason Vanderholt’s niece?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he part, um… Latino?”

  “Excuse me? You making assumptions because I have a really good tan?”

  “I have nothing but respect for your brownness.”

  Without even thinking about it, I give him a playful punch in the shoulder, which he dodges before grasping my hand. That split second of skin-to-skin contact is enough to make me back off immediately, and he holds his hands up in understanding surrender.

  “I’m his sister’s step-daughter,” I explain.

  “Gotcha.”`

  We reach the elevators and I push the down arrow.

  “So,” he says, “do I get points for not making some crack about you cooking or cleaning stuff?”

  “Yes, but you just lost them, plus a penalty.”

  “Dang it. How big a penalty?”

  “Does it matter? You weren’t ever going to get anywhere with me anyway.”

  “Ouch.”

  The elevator arrives and we both step in.

  “Do your parents wonder where you are or is this a normal thing?” asks Ben.

  “My phone is dead.”

  For the second time in one night, a member of Triple Cross takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. The problem is, I don’t know my parents’ numbers by heart; I’ve always used speed dial. In fact, there’s only one phone number I’ve had to dial enough times to memorize it, since I wasn’t allowed to program it into my phone. Normally I wouldn’t bother someone in the middle of the night, but some people have it coming. The phone line goes straight to voicemail, but a callback comes before I can leave a coherent message.

  “Do I even want to know?” Jason asks me. “I’m at your house, by the way. Thanks for stressing out my sister.” His sister, my stepmother, happens to be seven months pregnant.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Who else would be calling right now? And I know your cell phone is dead. And I’m married to a forensic scientist. I’m getting good at this stuff. What’s the story?”

  “It was an accident,” I say. “Seriously. Not just making that up. I fell asleep.” No one brings out the whiny kid in me faster than Jason. That’s part of the reason we don’t get along.

  “So you want my advice on what? How to lie to your stepmother?”

  “No. I called you to get her number. I don’t have it memorized.”

  “Back in my day—”

  “You communicated by telegraph and had to memorize a forty-five-digit string of numbers just to call down the street.”

  “Nah, we had cell phones and I didn’t know anyone’s number by heart either. Yeah, okay, I’ll tell Jen when she wakes up. She’s asleep. You able to get home all right?”

  “Yes. But why are you at my house?”

  “Chloe’s having a rough time.”

  “Oh…”

  “So you will not stress her out—”

  “I never do,” I snap. “You’re the one who’s all high strung and stressy.”

  “All right.” He sounds wounded, but he accepts my point, which is definitely a new thing for him.

  Ben’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Who are you talking to?” he asks.

  “I’m talking to my loser uncle.”

  “Who are you with?” asks Jason.

  “A friend,” I say. “He’s walking me to my car. That’s all.”

  Ben’s eyes are like saucers. “You’re talking to Jason Vanderholt?”

  Two conversations are more than I can handle at once. “’Kay, I’m on my way home,” I say to Jason. “Tell my dad and Jen not to worry. I’ll be there soon. Bye.” I hang up.

  Yeah, this is my life—argue with Jason Vanderholt while alone in an elevator with Ben Roland.

  As if reading my thoughts, Ben starts to laugh. “Why did you call him?”

  “That’s the only number I have memorized. And anyway, he’s at my house.”

  The elevator stops and we both step out into the dark of the parking garage.

  Ben quirks an eyebrow at me.

  “His new house in Albuquerque isn’t ready yet,” I explain, “and his wife started her new job today. Yesterday. Whatever. So they’re with us. Don’t tell the paparazzi.” A pointless request. The paparazzi already know. I hand Ben’s phone back to him and try not to wince with guilt. Jason’s number is now in the call history, and that’s a big no-no. But, being chewed out by Jason isn’t a new experience for me.

  Ben follows me into the ringing silence of the dark subterranean lot, where the only sounds are our footsteps, the ticking of a car engine cooling down, and a siren wailing in the distance. My red jeep, Libby, sits unmolested in her spot as if waiting for me.

  “Nice wheels,” says Ben.

  “Thanks.”

  “You all good?”

  “Yeah.” I reach out to shake his hand. “Thank you.”

  He smirks down at my outstretched hand before he grabs my wrist and pulls me in for a hug. “Any time,” he says, his voice low, his mouth right by my ear. His clothes reek of pot. I wonder how much he smoked. Before it gets awkward, though, he releases me with a salute an
d withdraws towards the elevators.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m stepping in the front door of my house, with its spacious front room that is a living and dining area that curves around the state of the art kitchen. Food is very central to my parents’ lives, what with my stepmother being a chef and my dad knowing hundreds of traditional recipes by heart.

  The sun isn’t up yet, but the horizon’s all alight.

  Jason, the Hollywood A-lister half my friends would sleep with given any opportunity, is seated on the couch with a phone still in his hand. “It just occurred to me,” he says, “that making a phone call at this hour might make Chloe paranoid.” He doesn’t even look up as he speaks.

  “Because all the tabloids and even some of the real press say you’re having an affair?” I ask.

  His shoulders go stiff and his gaze snaps to my face. He’s got deep blue eyes—the kind that look Photoshopped and fake. Not like Zach’s, which are paler with a dark blue ring around the edge of the iris.

  “Kyra, listen—”

  “The press got a mislead somewhere. I know, I know.” And I do know. Jason and I can read each other easily.

  He’s not having an affair. He’d sooner impale himself on a rusty spoon than do anything that would hurt Chloe in any way. It’s too simplistic to say he worships the ground she walks on or that she’s the woman of his dreams. She’s the woman of his ideal reality, the woman he feels he would have met and married more easily if he hadn’t gone to Hollywood and had instead stayed in Albuquerque and become a lawyer like his parents. Then he’d have met her at some local mixer, fallen madly in love, and been able to court her like a normal person. As it was, when he met her, he had this huge entourage tailing him, and when he managed to get her aside for a private word, paparazzi took pictures of the whole encounter. I watched him rip himself to shreds trying to get her to take a chance on him.

  One night, over a year ago, I sat in the back hallway of this house and eavesdropped on him in this very room, on this very couch, pouring his heart out to Jen. He’d confessed to Chloe that he loved her. The problem was, they weren’t even dating at the time and she’d politely shown him the door.

  Now it’s like he still thinks he’s on borrowed time, like any moment she’ll come to her senses and realize that being married to Jason Vanderholt is every other woman’s fantasy, not hers.

  I’m pretty sure she’s crazy about him, though. I can’t read her well, but she sticks around no matter how weird it all gets. I don’t know many women who’d sit reading science articles with a highlighter in one hand while their significant other made out with someone else in front of rolling cameras, but Chloe does it all the time.

  “The tabloids wouldn’t get to her if she didn’t love you,” I point out.

  “There’s that.”

  “Come on, this is Chloe. She survived a murder attempt when she was eleven. You think the media can faze her?”

  Jason nods. “Yes I do. The media can take down whole governments. One marriage is nothing.”

  “Jason…”

  Before I think of the right thing to say, he gets up and heads back to the guestroom, where Chloe is no doubt still sleeping. I’ve never been a Jason Vanderholt fan, as in someone who ever had pictures of him up on my wall or fantasized about kissing him, but I’d give anything to find a guy who likes me a tenth as much as he loves her.

  A couple of hours later, I’m in the kitchen with Chloe, drinking coffee. I’ve told her the whole story of last night, minus the part about Zach being a mega famous musician. I just said I was out with “friends” and fell asleep with “this guy.” “He’s going to hate me,” is how I finish it off.

  “Then you can do better,” she says. “Forget about him. Sounds like a judgmental jerk. I mean, he fell asleep too. It’s not like this is all your fault.”

  “You think so?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Morning,” says Jen, my stepmother, padding into the kitchen in her slippers and bathrobe.

  “Morning,” says Chloe.

  I roll my eyes. “Nice waiting in the hall to eavesdrop until we’re done talking about the juicy stuff.”

  Jen cuffs me on the shoulder. “I love you.” She’s so enormous that her bathrobe doesn’t cover her pregnant belly. The belt is tied across an expanse of pink nightgown, and her ankles are like tree trunks, which makes me feel extra guilty.

  “Love you too,” I say. “And I’m sorry. I fell asleep. I totally would’ve been home by midnight. It was an accident.”

  Jen winks at Chloe as she reaches for a coffee mug.

  Chloe grabs a bowl of cereal and eats it quickly before heading out the door.

  Jen takes her time with her half cup of coffee—which is all she’s allowed per day while pregnant—and scrutinizes me. “You all right?” she asks.

  Right then, my father steps around the corner, wearing his faded denim work clothes. He’s a foreman of a construction company. Lucky for me, he doesn’t scowl. He just smiles in that way that makes his mustache curve up at the edges and gets his own cup of coffee.

  “Okay.” I face both of them, the counter at my back, the coffeemaker hissing and dribbling its dark brew into the carafe to my right. The sun’s up, but its light is still pale and anemic as it slants in through the front windows. “So, about last night.”

  “Mmm-hmm?” My father doesn’t even seem all that uptight. He just sips his cup of coffee and drops a couple slices of bread in the toaster.

  “Those guys I was out with?”

  “You said friends, not guys.” My father’s eyes twinkle as he pretends to scold me. It’s weird. Why isn’t he on the verge of going ballistic?

  “It was Triple Cross. The band. Their assistant called and invited me out to dinner, so I went with Marissa and Brandy and I was talking to Zach Wechsler in his room when I fell asleep.”

  “That sounds like a wild night,” says Jen. She doesn’t look all that angry either. The two of them smile at me as if this is all some kind of joke.

  That is messed up.

  “How am I not grounded right now?” I say.

  “You didn’t lie to us,” says my father. “If we wanted to know every single last person you were out with, we should have asked. You let us know your phone might die. If we’d wanted you home right at midnight, we knew we could have called Marissa or Brandy.”

  “I still did something dumb.”

  “Mistakes happen,” says Jen. “And that’s a pretty funny one, if you think about it.”

  “Why do you guys believe me?”

  “Because you tell us the truth these days.” Jen puts her empty coffee mug down and shrugs. “It’s not like we were lying when we said that if you only would tell us the truth, we’d cut you more slack.”

  “And you’re eighteen,” my father says. “So legally, you can be out as late as you want.”

  This is totally and completely bizarre. I am not the kind of person adults trust, especially not my own parents. I’ve done so many stupid things that it’s a wonder they haven’t locked me in a tower somewhere.

  “Kyra,” says Jen, “are you actually mad at us for not reaming you out?” She starts to laugh.

  “It’s weird,” I insist.

  “It’s the new normal, sweetie,” says my father. He spreads some jam on his toast, gives me a peck on the forehead, hugs Jen, and then heads for the back door.

  And just like that, my face-off with them is over. Nobody screamed. Nobody cried. It’s just weird.

  Later that afternoon, after a long morning nap, my phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. “Hello?” I answer it. I hold it to my ear with one hand and clutch the handle of the refrigerator door with the other. I’m starving, as I didn’t eat breakfast or lunch.

  “Hey.” It’s a male voice.

&nbs
p; “Um… hi?”

  “How’re you?”

  “Sorry, but who is this?”

  “It’s Ben.”

  “Yeah, what do you want?” I jibe. Because this is totally how I talk to rocker sex gods. Apparently.

  “Hello to you too.”

  “Thanks for walking me to my car last night.”

  “You’re welcome. And now you have my number. If you ever need it.”

  “Right,” I say. Surely this is a joke.

  “Later.”

  “Later.” I hang up. I really need more caffeine. I have no idea what just happened there.

  However…something occured to me. I dive for the caller ID box next to our landline. My call from late last night is logged—with Zach’s phone number.

  The etiquette in this situation is to delete the call record and leave it at that, but instead I copy the number into my phone under the name “Brad Sego,” my lab partner in ninth grade chemistry. I suggested doing this for Jason, but he always shot me down, no matter how amusing the names were I came up with. He still doesn’t trust me because he has a memory, unlike my parents.

  I delete the number from the caller ID and slip my phone into my pocket. I know better than to use it. Really, I do.

  I should not be taking my phone back out of my pocket and bringing up Zach’s number, and I should definitely not open up a text message to him. This is not allowed. I’m breaking the cardinal rules of celebrity. Try to be “friends” with a famous person and you will get kicked to the curb. They’ll block your phone and you’ll never get invited to do anything with them ever again. I’m an acquaintance, nothing more. Maybe that’s what I want, though. It’d prevent another night like last night.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I type.

  I hit send.

  Three hours later, my phone pings.

  Brad Sego: It was nice to meet you too. Hope you got home all right?

  A reply? I take a deep breath. He’s just being friendly, which is torture.