The phone rings at six in the morning. Groaning, I roll over to check the display. Then I groan again, because the caller is Claudia. I can’t believe I have to suffer through a lecture about the disastrous end to the birthday party before I have any food or caffeine in me. I decide that Claudia can yell at me later, but as soon as the voice mail kicks in, the phone starts ringing again.
With a huff, I throw off the covers and answer the phone. “It’s six in the morning, Claudia, and no one in California but surfers and fishermen get up this early.”
“And publicists who are forced to clean up client messes left over from the night before,” she replies. Her voice is decidedly cool.
I grab my laptop. Did something happen last night with Oakley? He’d been upset, but I figured he just needed time to cool off. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“You tell me,” Claudia snaps. “If you were tired of dating Oakley, why didn’t you simply come to me or Jim? We would’ve found a way to wind this down without dragging Oakley through the mud.”
“What are you talking about?” My stupid computer won’t boot up fast enough.
“I’m talking about the fact that you decided to publicly cheat on my client. Not only have you destroyed our narrative, you took advantage of Oakley.”
“What? I never…” Oh, hell, there was that one kiss the night W broke up with me. Is that what she’s talking about? “Is this about Luke? Because I told Oak—”
“We’re not interested in your excuses. A courier will be delivering your severance check today. Feel free to change your passwords to your social media accounts. They’re all yours.”
“But Claudia—”
“You’re done,” she says and then hangs up.
My mouth is still open as I do a search for Oakley Ford. The first couple of headlines tell me everything I need to know.
The Ford’s Been Breached.
Out with the Ford, In With the New.
Sick to my stomach, I click on the first link.
Oakley Ford’s latest fling has found love—in the arms of his best friend. Luke Sellin has been Oakley’s bassist for five years, but Luke isn’t satisfied with playing backup. He wants to be the front man. Last night at the Sweetheart Lounge, Luke admitted to hooking up with Oakley’s new gal pal, Vaughn Bennett. Oakley had no comment when we reached out to him, but Vaughn’s old boyfriend did. You’ll remember that Vaughn was dating a USC student when she tried to upgrade to Oakley.
William Wilkerson told our cameras that once a cheater, always a cheater.
You can do so much better, Oakley! Call us now that you’re single.
I don’t need to read the comments. I already know everything they’re going to say. Quickly, I dial Oakley’s number, but it rings once and transfers me to voice mail. I leave a message.
“Hey, it’s me. I read the gossip this morning. How do you want me to respond? Is this going to hurt your tour? Call me!”
I text him the same thing.
There’s no response, but I tell myself the silence is because he’s sleeping. Oakley is allergic to early mornings. Six a.m. is an ungodly hour for him.
I try to go back to sleep, but my mind is racing, so I get up and make oatmeal cookies. And then snickerdoodles. And then lemon bars.
By the time Paisley comes downstairs, every surface in the kitchen has a baked good on it.
“Claudia called you already,” Paisley guesses.
I nod miserably. “And Oakley hasn’t called, but he’s probably up by now. I think I should go over there. Can I use the car or do you need it?”
Her eyes grow soft. She slides an arm around my shoulders. “Honey, Oakley left for New York an hour ago.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
She bites her lip. “Ty texted me when they were at the airport.”
“But…” I fumble with the phone I’ve been checking every spare second. “But he hasn’t said anything! I’ve left him messages. Called him.” I search her face for any sign that she knows what’s going on.
“Claudia says he’s blocked you,” Paisley admits. “Your calls will go to voice mail. Your text messages will disappear into the ether.” She avoids my panicky gaze. “He doesn’t want to hear from you.”
I feel sick. Like, about-to-throw-up sick. I shrug out of her grasp and sag against the counter. “But…why?” I choke out. “This thing with Luke happened before. When it was all fake. Right after W broke up with me, I was stupid and drank too much and kissed Luke, but that was it. I haven’t said more than five words to him since then.” I charge forward and grab her shoulder. “Call them and tell them!”
She gives me a sad look. “I can’t. It’s done.”
I scan my brain, trying to figure out what I could’ve done to make Oakley react like this. He already knew about the Luke thing, so it can’t be that. Was it the party? Because I invited his dad?
You did it for yourself. You weren’t thinking of me. You were thinking about how you’d like your parents back, but my parents aren’t like yours, Vaughn.
Oakley’s words buzz through my mind, making me lightheaded. Is that the reason? Does he think I was acting out of selfishness when I tried to bridge the distance between him and his dad?
Or maybe he’s purposely pushing me away. Maybe he was so freaked out by the angry fan incident that he decided the only way to make me stay away from the tour was to end it?
None of those options make sense to me, though. Nothing makes sense right now.
Before I can argue with Paisley some more, the doorbell rings. Shoving past my sister, I fly to the front door, hoping that Paisley’s wrong and it’s Oakley at the door. He changed his mind about me not going with him to New York. He’s here to pick me up. I know it.
I wrench open the door, but instead of Oak’s gorgeous face, a thick-jowled man in brown hands me an envelope.
“You Vaughn Bennett?” Is that disgust in his voice? Am I currently the most hated individual in LA? If I got egged before when Oakley loved me, what happens when he hates me? I shudder.
Deliveryman takes that as a sign of assent and shoves an electronic pad into my hands.
“Sign, please.”
Numbly, I sign. He jerks the pad out of my hand and slaps the envelope into my slack palm.
“Shouldn’t have screwed him over,” the guy says unhelpfully.
Yup, that was disgust all right. I slam the door in his face.
In the hall, I rip the envelope open and a sheaf of papers falls out. I’m even more panicked when I realize it’s the contract I signed after I agreed to work for Oakley—and on the front page is a big red stamp that says “Canceled.” Also enclosed is a letter that thanks me for services rendered, advises me to abide by the terms of my NDA or my entire life will be destroyed, and, finally, that I’m not to have any contact with the subject of the NDA for any reason whatsoever or the entire proceeds will be forfeited. A check slides out of the envelope and floats to the floor.
My phone buzzes. This time, when I pull it out of my back pocket, I’m a lot less eager than I was before. I’m numb. And shocked. And so close to tears that my eyes are burning.
I’m blinking back the tears as I read the text from Carrie.
Babe. Saw the IG post. So sorry. W is an ass. Oak’s an ass.
Trying valiantly not to cry, I open the Instagram app. It doesn’t take long to scroll to Oak’s feed and see the picture of him standing on the stage at Madison Square Garden. His back is to the camera, but you can see that he has a guitar strapped around his neck. The arena is empty.
On my own and loving life. Can’t wait to perform in front of NYC tonight, reads the caption.
I crumple the papers in my fist and walk away, leaving the five-figure payoff lying in the entryway.
36
HER
“What do you think about me egging Oakley’s house?” I ask Paisley three nights and a raft of tears later. We’re side by side at the sink, washing dishes after dinner. “Would that get you fired?”
“I’m going with yes, but only if we get caught.” She smiles gamely. “I’m in.”