“We never should have left the room last night,” Tate says. “I’m sorry. I’ve had pretty good luck walking around freely since I’ve been here, but I should have done more to protect you.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “And I already told you—I don’t need your protection. I shouldn’t have lied to my grandma. But I shouldn’t have needed to.” I stare out the window at the passing city, cloaked in gray as clouds descend over the highest buildings. “I’m eighteen. She needs to learn to let go a little.”
Outside the airport, Tate runs his fingers through my hair, kissing me. We both know he can’t get out of the car—can’t risk being seen and photographed again. If my grandma saw us kissing in another tabloid photo, it would only make things worse.
“When will I see you again?” I ask.
“I should be back in LA in a couple weeks.” His face has been unreadable since we left the hotel, a hint of tension in his features. I tell myself it’s only because we were forced to stop so close to finally being together.
He gives up a tiny smile now, kissing me once more before I step from the car.
This weekend was almost perfect, almost everything I wanted it to be. And now I will pay the price when I get back home.
*
I arrive back at LAX in a daze. Maybe I should be, but I’m not prepared for the paparazzi waiting for me. As soon as I descend the staircase toward baggage claim, they are there, hovering like vultures. Had they tailed our movements since last night?
“Charlotte! Charlotte!” they call out. “Where is Tate? How did you meet? Charlotte!”
I ignore them, holding my arm in front of my face. I press forward, trying to find a way out.
“Are you still together? Is it true he’s recording a new album? Why did you come back so soon?”
Cameras flash, bursting and popping. My vision swims. I try to glance up while keeping my head down. My eyes scan the periphery for a place to escape. Ahead, I see a ladies’ room and run.
Inside, I press my hands against the sink. I breathe in and out. Tate warned me that fame could be hard, that the paparazzi are intense, but I didn’t realize how vulnerable I would feel when I was by myself. I realize I’m shaking.
When I look up, I see a familiar face and my breath catches. I’m having déjà vu—I’ve seen her light eyes and freckles before, someplace just like this. For a second, I can’t place it, but then I realize...it’s Goth girl from the Lone Bean. The one who told me to stay away from Tate. I’ve barely given her another thought since then. What’s she doing here? Why do I keep meeting her in bathrooms?
“You didn’t listen to me,” she says, staring straight at me. Her black hair dye is beginning to wash out. Just as I’d suspected, I can see a hint of red underneath.
“I’m sorry, I don’t even know—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“I told you to stay away,” she says before she begins taking swift steps backward. “I told you.”
Then she turns and pushes past a woman in the doorway, and is gone.
I look at myself in the mirror, my ponytail a mess from the flight. My green eyes look tired and I realize I look older, somehow—like I know things I hadn’t known before. I’m not sure what to think—about the paparazzi waiting outside the door, or the girl with the dyed black hair and her strange warning. I steel myself. Once I make it out of here, I have to face my grandma, too, and somehow that’s an even more frightening thought.
*
Grandma is beyond furious.
I try to avoid seeing her by slipping into the house quietly and sneaking down to my room, but she appears in my bedroom doorway as soon as I drop my suitcase onto the floor. I’m exhausted after evading the paparazzi by cutting through the crowd and boarding a bus—I just want to crawl into bed and hide, but I won’t be so lucky.
“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” she says quietly, her youthful face flushed.
I should apologize, I should admit that I made a mistake and promise never to do it again, but I can’t believe what she’s saying. My anger is burning away all rationality.
“I’m me, Grandma. Nothing is different.”
“Excuse me?” she says, taking a step over the threshold into my room. “Nothing is different? Charlotte, you’ve been lying to me for months. The Charlotte I knew wanted to go to Stanford and make something of herself. If I’d told you six months ago you’d be sneaking around and letting some boy fly you all over the country, you’d have laughed in my face.”