Paisley eats two huge bites before setting the plate on the step. “I love you, Vaughn, you know that, right?”
I make some noise of acknowledgment, but I don’t want to talk to Paisley about this right now. She’s never had a serious boyfriend because she’s always been focused on moving forward. I don’t like moving forward. I want things to stay like they were forever. Mom and Dad around the table. The twins little. W holding my hand.
“The twins’ school barbecue is this Friday,” she says when it becomes clear I’m not going to contribute to the conversation. “You’re still coming, right?”
I respond with a noncommittal grunt.
“Claudia wants you to bring Oakley.”
Now I grit my teeth.
“She won’t stop calling, by the way.” Paisley pauses. “Oakley gave a hell of a sound bite last night.”
That gets my attention. “What did he say?”
“Not the nicest stuff,” she admits. “He spoke to the press about W.”
I look over sharply. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “He called W a waste of space. And, uh, insinuated that W isn’t a real man.”
Oh, God. No wonder Claudia is freaking out. “Let me guess—you totally agree with those observations,” I say sarcastically.
My sister releases a heavy sigh. “Vaughn.”
“What? We both know you hate W.”
“I don’t hate him.”
“Yeah, you do,” I say irritably.
“No, I don’t. Hate is a strong word. I don’t hate people.” She speaks in a firm tone. “But you’re right—I wasn’t fond of him. I didn’t like W because he wasn’t good to you. You were convenient for him.”
“That’s not true,” I protest.
“Yes, it is. When he canceled at the last minute, you didn’t care. When you won those Dodgers tickets at the school raffle and he wanted to go with his friends, you coughed them up without an argument. You wear those shoes around constantly—” She points accusingly at my Vans “—but where are his? I know you drew on his, too.”
I fight the urge to cover one foot with the other. “You’re forgetting all the times he held me after Mom and Dad died. Or all the times he let me hang out at his dorm while he was busy doing his YouTube show. He was there for me.”
“He was there,” she agrees. “W was there, physically, but he wasn’t ever there for you—emotionally. And frankly, you knew that. It’s why you didn’t have sex with him.”
“I wasn’t ready!” I yell at her.
She leans back against the swing, unfazed by my shouting. “And you weren’t ever going to be ready with W.”
“Because I’m too immature?” I shoot back.
“Nope. Because you never loved W like you thought you did.” She reaches out for my hand. “It’s not like I don’t think you’re capable of that kind of love. Just that whatever feelings you had for W weren’t as strong as you thought they were.”
I jerk away. “Because I didn’t gorge myself with cake?”
“Because W’s a selfish jerk and you’re more upset about the fact that you lost an anchor in your life than you are that you lost W.”
I turn away and fold my arms around my waist. I hate her matter-of-fact tone.
But mostly I hate that she’s probably right.
23
HIM
1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 Do u think she’s cheating on him with her ex?
OakleyFord_stanNo1 @1doodlebug1 she’d be stupid if she was
1doodlebug1 @OakleyFord_stanNo1 inorite?
The benefit is at the Wilshire. It’s a fancy dinner, followed by a silent auction—all proceeds go to medical research—and then a performance by Deadhead Bloom. I hadn’t realized they were the headliner. King produced their last album, which means there’s a chance that he...crap, he is here tonight.
I feel sick when I spot him at a nearby table. I had no idea he was going to be here. I’m about to avert my eyes, but it’s too late. He’s already noticed me.
He tips his head in a nod, and there’s a smile on his lips that doesn’t quiet reach his eyes. Then he turns to talk to his companion, a gorgeous woman in a white cocktail gown.
The people at my table are all industry people, none of whom I know well. Three are members of a hot new boy band. The rest of the table is filled out with a couple of music execs and a brunette in a silky red dress. Her chair inches closer and closer to mine throughout dinner until she’s practically in my lap. I ignore her and talk to the exec to my left, but I can feel her staring at me, and every now and then she tries to cut in.
“Oakley, how’s the new album coming along?”
“When’s your next tour?”
“Are you still with the same label?”
Every time, I answer with one-word grunts before turning to the label exec and pretending to care about what he’s saying. Something about marketing strategies and utilizing Facebook groups to build an online fan base. Even though I hate social media, I know what’s current, and this exec doesn’t have the first clue. I want to tell him that Facebook is practically a dinosaur now and everyone’s on Instagram and Snapchat, but he’s so into his speech and I let him drone on because he provides a good buffer between me and the overeager brunette.
The silent auction goes by fast. The only item I bid on is a trip to Paris, because it seems like something Vaughn might enjoy. I don’t win, but I don’t care. She probably wouldn’t have gone with me anyway.
Then there’s a brief intermission as the band sets up. I quickly excuse myself from the table, but even trying to leave the ballroom is an ordeal. People keep intercepting me while I smile and nod and constantly repeat the same thing, “Sounds great, but I got to hit the little boys’ room.”
I keep walking until I reach the French doors that lead to a small terrace. I’m not sure anyone’s supposed to be out here. The smoking area is on the main patio, but I don’t care if I’m in an off-limits zone. I’m Oakley Ford. And I need a break from all these people and their nonstop chatter. It’s choking me.
I don’t smoke, but I kind of wish I had a cigarette right now. Knowing my luck, someone with a telescopic lens across the street would snap a picture of me sucking on a cancer stick at a cancer benefit, and the next thing I know I’m the poster boy for antismoking campaigns and the dangers of fame.
When I hear footsteps behind me, I stifle a sigh and reluctantly turn around. I expect to see the brunette, or maybe some other chick who saw me sneak out, but it’s King. He steps out holding what looks like a joint, but I think it’s a hand-rolled cigarette because the sweet scent of tobacco wafts over to me.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I remark.
“Every now and then.” He shrugs. “I mostly use it as an excuse to get out of talking to a bunch of strangers.”
I half smile. “You should take my lead.” I hold up my bare hands. “Don’t even make an excuse. Just walk out.”
“Yeah, I suppose you don’t make excuses. You do what you want and say what you want, doncha, kid?”