He picks up on the first ring.
“Where are you?” he says. Not even hello.
“The lobby of the Roosevelt,” I say. “In the bathroom.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I’m on my way. Stay put.”
He shows up quickly. He knocks softly on the stall where I’m crouched down, doing a haphazard job of hiding myself. “Paige?” he says. “It’s me.”
I come out with my head in my hands. I hear him exhale before I even look at him. “Christ,” he says. “What happened?”
I peel my eyes off the floor. “We got in a fight,” I say. And then: “Please just take me home.”
Jordan looks at the door. I can tell he’s nervous. I hadn’t thought about how we’d escape once he came. “We have to get through the lobby to go out the back,” he says. “They’re camped out there, and if they see…” I watch him take in my crumpled dress, deflated hair, what’s probably smeared makeup.… I’m not only drunk—I look drunk. In our world, that’s worse.
“Put this on.” He takes off his hoodie and drapes it over me. I thread my arms through and zip it to the top.
Jordan pops the hood up. “Come on,” he says.
He takes my hand and pulls me out the door. I see a few people look at us when we come out, but I keep my head low. I don’t think they recognize us. Jordan tucks his arm around me, and we make it outside. When we get there, I exhale against the side door. I press my back up against it. The whole world is spinning. I feel like I’m going to faint or throw up. Both, maybe. Jordan pivots and puts his hands on my waist but lower—just on my hips. I feel his fingers dig in. He pins me back, so he’s balancing me. “Breathe,” he says into my ear. “The car is coming.”
I steady my hands on his shoulders. I feel the muscles under there—hard and knotted, like wound rope. My hands start to move over them.
“Paige…,” Jordan says. His tone is shaky, faulty, but carries a warning.
The car comes around, and Jordan helps me inside. It’s his pickup. “Crouch down,” he tells me before he closes the door. “Just till we’re in the clear.”
As we pull out of the main entrance, I hear the paparazzi scream Jordan’s name. I see the flashes—far off and distant. I stay down, kneeling in the space between the seat and the glove compartment. My head on my knees.
“You can get up now,” Jordan says after a few blocks.
I hoist myself onto the seat. I see his knuckles, white on the steering wheel. I feel humiliated. I stuff my hands in the pockets of Jordan’s sweatshirt and lean my head against the window. The glass is cold. I press my cheek flat up to it. My breath makes hazy patterns as we drive.
We don’t talk as Jordan winds his truck through the back roads to my house. The house I share with Rainer.
The only car parked in the driveway is the rental. Rainer’s Range Rover is missing. I half expected him to come back here and wait for me, but I guess he went to his mom’s.
Jordan unclips his seat belt and turns to me. “Okay,” he says.
I take my hands out of the pockets. “Thanks for bringing me back,” I say.
“Of course.” I see him look at the parked car, dark house.
“He’s not home,” I say.
Jordan doesn’t answer. Instead he pops open his door. “I’ll help you inside.”
Somewhere between the hotel bathroom and the house I’ve taken off my shoes, and I hold them in my hand as I stumble toward the entrance. I grope under the mat and find the key. Jordan stands behind me as I push the door open.
It’s so quiet here tonight. It has felt like a safe house, like an oasis, but now the quiet seems deafening. It screams to be filled with all kinds of frightening things.
I toss my shoes to the side. I turn back to him. “This is it,” I say. “This is where we live.” Drunken stupidity.
Jordan tilts his head at me. “I know,” he says.
I press my hand to my neck. Once again, I think I’m going to be sick.
“Hey,” Jordan says. “Come on.”
He guides me down the hallway to the bedroom. I stand in the doorway and watch him slip past me to the bed. He tosses the throw pillows on the floor and pulls back the comforter. “There,” he says. “That should be sleepable now.”
I walk over and kneel on the bed but I can’t totally sit up, and I slide down against the pillows, letting my body fall into the soft cotton.
Jordan comes over to me. He pulls the covers up, and when his hand is at my chest, I reach out and thread my hands through his hair.
“Wait,” I say. I remember the morning on Maui. When I asked him to just sleep with me and he did. But this time he pulls back. He gently plucks my hands from his hair.
“You’re drunk,” he says.
“Why did you kiss me?” I ask.
“Paige.” He sits down next to me. “It was an awards show. We won Best Kiss.”
I shake my head. “You’re so angry at me. You try to hide it, but I can tell. Every time you’re with me. It’s like you hate me. You were so cold on tour. You barely spoke to me on my birthday. Even lunch wasn’t the same. And tonight…”
I see his chest rise and not fall. He inhales further. “I don’t hate you,” he says, but his tone doesn’t change.
“Why did you leave tonight?” I ask. “You wouldn’t even look at me.”
He takes another breath. I can almost feel the effort. “I don’t look at you…,” he says. He crosses his arms, and I keep my fingers curled in my lap, waiting for him to continue. “I don’t look at you because when I do, it makes me feel like I can’t do my job. I think about the next three years, Paige. About being on Maui with you and acting with you and watching you with him, and it makes me want to quit. Leave a job I love. Looking at you makes me want to give up.”
I feel the tears building. “I’m so sorry, Jordan.”
“That’s not the point,” he says. “You think I don’t understand. I do. But what am I supposed to do?” He reaches his hand out tentatively, like he’s not sure of whether I’ll slap him away. And then his hand lands on my cheek. I feel his fingertips there—cool and light. Relief. “I can’t have you. Worse, I can’t even want you.”
I stay perfectly still. His thumb runs over my cheek and down to my lips.
“What do you think it’s like for me?” I whisper. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere—like a cranked-up stereo system. “I see you with Alexis, too. And I know I don’t have a right to care.”
Jordan shakes his head, but I keep going. “You should move on. I just want you to know…” His thumb runs over my bottom lip, and they instinctively part. I feel our onstage kiss from earlier.
“Move on,” he repeats, almost soundlessly.
“I want you to be happy,” I say. I do. I want him to be happy. I realize it like a knife to the heart. Even if it means never being close to him.
“I know,” he says. “I want you to be happy, too.”
I want to tell him I’m not. I’m not happy. That being away from him is torture. That Rainer isn’t here. That I don’t know how to help him and I feel alone—really, really alone. But I see the pain in his eyes, and I don’t want to make it worse than it already is.
But he’s here right now. Really here. It’s just the two of us. And it seems ridiculous—absolutely insane—not to reach out and touch him.
So I do. I place my hand on his face. He closes his eyes. “Paige,” he says. “Stop.”
“I can’t,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse. I trace his jawline with my fingers. He puts his hands on my shoulders and then runs them down to cup my elbows with his palms. My skin feels like it’s being lit on fire. “I miss you,” I say. “All the time.”
He draws me to him, and I think for one brief moment he’s going to kiss me, but instead he buries his face in my neck. I feel him groan—his breath hot on my skin. I wrap my arms around him and press my lips to his head.
“I miss you, too,” he whispers. He picks his head up. He untangles us slightly,
but not all the way. We’re still touching. “Look at this,” he says. “What if Rainer walked in right now?” His black eyes are hard. “This is his house,” he says.
I taste the salt water on my lips. “We’re not doing anything wrong.” I know we are, but that reality seems light years away.
“Yes,” he says, gentler this time. “We are.”
“You haven’t even…”
“Kissed you?” Jordan laughs, but it feels cold and mirthless. “This is worse.”
I wipe my eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t call you tonight for this.”
“No,” Jordan says. “You called me tonight because you were drunk. And maybe you still are and you won’t remember this, but I’m not and I will.” He takes my hand in his. “I want you all the time, not just when my defenses are down.”
“I hate this.”
Jordan looks at me. His black eyes have flecks of gold in them. “You chose him, Paige,” he says. “That’s all that matters now.” He clears his throat. He pulls entirely away from me so we’re sitting up, face-to-face. “That’s why I don’t think we should see each other,” he says. “Not anymore.”
I’m so confused that it takes me a moment to register his last words. “What are you saying?”
Jordan shifts on the bed. “We have a good few months before we have to go back and film. I think we should just… let things fade.”
I sit up and put my hand on his back. I feel him flinch, but he doesn’t move away. “Do you really think that will work?”
“I have to try. We’ve been over this.” He gestures with his head to the hallway, and I know he means whatever isn’t in this room right now but is always between us—Rainer.
“Things are such a mess,” I say.
I open my mouth to say more, but I’m not sure what else there is. I feel like a character, like August. I thought love triangles only existed in the movies. But here I am, the undeniable third point.
“I’m going to go,” Jordan says. “You should sleep.”
He stands up, and I swing my legs over the bed. The room sways around me, and I clutch the edge of the mattress. “So this is it?”
Jordan exhales in the doorway. He puts a hand on the frame and then turns around. My eyes work to find his face in the darkness. “You weren’t wrong,” he says.
I wait for him to continue.
“About tonight, you weren’t wrong. I kissed you because it was the only way I could see being able to be that close to you. It was an opportunity, and I took it. And I’m sorry.” And then, right before he disappears, I hear him say, “It won’t happen again.”
CHAPTER 8
Goddammit. Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit. I wake up with a pounding headache to the sound of my phone ringing on the pillow next to my head. I open my eyes and try to focus them on the screen. My mother is calling me. My fingers struggle to hit the green button, and when they do, the room starts twirling like ingredients inside a blender. “Mom?” My voice sounds scratchy in my ears.
“Hey, honey, how are you? We were going to watch the Awards last night, and then I don’t think the cable worked. Is MTV cable, sweetheart? Your father…” I close my eyes again.
“Mom, I’ll get you a tape, I promise. But I have to call you back.”
I run to the bathroom and throw up. And then throw up again.
As I lie on the cold tile, I think about last night. Winning Best Kiss. Fighting with Rainer on the dance floor. Jordan taking me home.
Rainer.
I get up and wash my face. I still feel like the house is spinning, but I force myself to focus. I don’t let myself think about Jordan, about what it felt like to hold each other here. I can’t believe I almost betrayed Rainer like that. In the light of morning I know how right Jordan was. We need to be apart.
I dial Rainer and put the phone to my ear. It rings once and then goes straight to voice mail. Is he screening me? I know he was pissed that I wouldn’t leave with him, but I also know Rainer; he’s not one to hold on to things like that. I just have to get to him. When we’re face-to-face, I’ll say I’m sorry, he’ll forgive me, and it will all be okay. I’ll apologize for being a drunken mess last night. And an asshole.
I throw on shorts, a hoodie, and Doc Martens, and tuck my hair up into a baseball hat. Then I locate the keys to the rental in the bowl on the kitchen counter.
As I open the door to the silver Audi, my phone buzzes again. I buckle my seat belt and check the screen, hoping it’s him.
Sandy. I groan and pick up. “Sandy, can you give me an hour, please? I had too much champagne last night.”
“Paige.” Her voice sounds serious. “Where are you?”
“On my way to Rainer’s mom’s,” I say. “Call you in an hour.” I hang up, feeling only slightly guilty… but I have to prioritize. I type Rainer’s home address into the navigation system.
Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I see him, arm around Britney, but I let the image retreat to where it came from. Just because I’m a terrible girlfriend doesn’t mean he’s doing the same thing.
I drive through the canyon and down into Beverly Hills, following the navigation’s instructions. The streets are so flat and wide here, it makes you feel exposed even in a car. And unlike Santa Monica, no one walks. There isn’t a person outside.
I pull up to the Devons’ giant, columned home. It reminds me of Cher’s house in Clueless—all white pillars. Two cars sit in the driveway—but Rainer’s black Range Rover is nowhere in sight.
I type in the gate code he gave me and swing around. I’ve only ever been inside this house and met his mother once, and as I climb the steps and ring the doorbell, my stomach feels like it’s been set to boiling. I’m nervous. I wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t want to see me. What if he’s told his mom how horribly I behaved last night? She will hate me, too.
But nobody answers. I ring again. Once more. Nothing.
I go back to the car. There is another missed call from Sandy. I dial Rainer’s number again. It just rings and rings. Where is he?
I think about his favorite places. Venice. The beach in Santa Monica. Urth Caffé. I pull out of their gate and then over to the curb. I have no idea where to go. Driving around in search of Rainer in public places doesn’t feel like the best option, but I can’t just go home. I need to do something.
And then I hear a tap on the window.
I look up to see a man in a black sweater. He’s saying something, but I can’t understand through the glass. I roll down the window, just halfway, and when I do, I see another man behind him, holding a camera. Suddenly the lens is right up against the glass. It happens in three seconds, no more.
I’m blinking, trying to catch up, when he starts firing questions at me. “How long have you been cheating on Rainer?” “When did it start?” “Has the affair been going on since you began filming?”
What?
I get it together to roll my window up, but the camera is still there, in my face. I can still hear him yelling questions, but I focus on the car. I shove it into drive and pull out, away from him.
I start driving down Beverly, and my phone goes off again. This time it’s Alexis. I answer on the first ring. She’ll know what the hell is going on. “Jesus, darling, where are you?” she says.
My voice comes in panicked hiccups. “I fought with Rainer last night. I’m trying to find him.… And photographers just yelled at me about an affair.… Going to Urth—”
“Do NOT go to Urth!”
“I thought maybe—”
“Listen to me,” Alexis says, her voice serious. “You are to come directly to my house. Immediately. Do you understand?”
“Have you heard from him?” I ask. “You’re making me scared.”
“Good,” Alexis says. “You should be.”
I meet Alexis at her place—a small house in West Hollywood close to the Grove, a shopping center she hates but still frequents.
She’s standing in the open doorway when I pull up. She�
�s wearing a bathrobe over yoga pants, and her hair is up in a loose ponytail. I feel a flare of jealousy that she looks this good sick.
“Did anyone see you?” she says. She cranes to look down her street—a tree-lined block that is fairly empty for a Monday in L.A.
“I don’t think so?” I follow her as she motions for me to come inside.
She closes the door and exhales dramatically. “Where were you last night?” She’s looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and accusation. And suddenly I realize what I’ve just done: I’ve come to Jordan’s girlfriend for help.
“The MTV Movie Awards,” I say. “You know that.”
She plucks a tissue out of her pocket and blows. “Of course I know that. I saw you fully embrace your Best Kiss win. I mean after.”
I swallow. “A party at the Roosevelt. Britney threw it. You didn’t miss much.” Except my getting drunk and trying to make out with your boyfriend.
Alexis shakes her head. She motions for me to follow her through the sunlit living room into her bedroom. Like her, her house is all color and light. Not overly designed but not supercasual, either. You get the sense that there are couches for sitting on and couches for looking at.
I’ve never been in her bedroom before, and it’s more feminine than I would have imagined. Cream and pink silk curtains and a white bedspread with teal and pink stenciled flowers. A black silk nightgown hangs from one of her bedposts, and I imagine her slipping it on, Jordan gawking.
“You need to see this,” she says. She motions me over to the desk by the window. On it sits a paper-thin laptop. My eyes land on the screen.
Oh. My. God.
The images on the screen are grainy—obviously taken with a camera phone—but still instantly recognizable. Me and Jordan. Pressed up against the side of the Roosevelt. His hands on my hips and mine on his shoulders. His lips by my ear so it looks like he’s kissing my neck. My eyes are closed. LOCKED’S LOVE TRIANGLE LEAPS OFF THE SCREEN.
No no no no no no.
I launch closer to see the website—they’re on Perez. Which means they’re everywhere. But I already knew that. This is where the paparazzo got his questions. They think I’m cheating on Rainer with Jordan.
Truly Madly Famously Page 8
