Las Vegas
The hall casts a spotlight between my legs. I pull down my dress and jump off the washing machine, standing beside the pile of dirty clothes.
“Wes, get the fuck out.” Gwen opens the door for him and points out to the hall. He pulls his pants and jacket on. Won’t even look at me as he closes the door. Then it’s just me and Gwen in the dark.
I watch as she closes herself off, retreating into the bunker that is her body, and no matter how hard I dig, I won’t be able to reach her.
Her eyes are the color of shrapnel as I explain myself. I tell her about Star Search, I tell her about the tour, I tell her she matters more to me than he does. She swirls the drink in her hands.
“So, you lied,” she finally says. She’s measured, still in control of every part of herself. I flail as she stiffens.
“You lie every day,” I spit back.
“Can you just acknowledge you were wrong? This isn’t about me; this is about you. Just look at yourself.”
I deflate immediately, like she’s stabbed me with a pin. “I’m sorry.”
She asks why him of all people? What’s so special about him?
I shake my head. I don’t know. There is not a why, there is only a feeling. I wish I could pass it along to her, so she could see the shape and color of it for herself. I start to cry from shame, which makes her scoff. “You’re such a liar. Like, it’s actually crazy.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“How long has it been happening?”
“Since the summer.”
She laughs unnaturally, coldly. “You can fuck Wes. I couldn’t care less. I genuinely don’t care. What I care about is that you lied to me so much. So much. On the phone, on the beach, every single time we spoke. And I think you’re selfish. I think you’re a terrible friend. What if someone else had walked in here and found you?”
“You don’t actually like him.”
“Everyone thinks I do, though.”
I hold my face in my hands. “I know.”
“If this blew up, he wouldn’t protect you. He doesn’t care about you.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
I glance up at her. “Tell me.”
“No.”
I insist. She bites the inside of her cheek. “He’s said stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I don’t know, Amber.”
“You do know. Why would you bring it up to begin with?”
“Look, Wes cares about how he’s perceived. He wants to be successful. We both feel—I don’t know. You’re not very driven, Amber. Not like us. You’re just not. You have natural talent. Great. But what else?”
Anger whirlpools in my gut. Jagged rocks at the bottom, strong enough to grind down hulls. “I’m not interested in going back and forth about who works harder. I know how dedicated you are. I’ve always been proud of you. And I wish I was more like you. Okay? Like, I don’t know why I act this way.”
“Because you just want the approval of men. That’s your entire career.”
I laugh because this hurts so much, but I want to show her it doesn’t. “Sorry I’m not repressed like the entire country wants me to be.”
“But whatever they say goes, right? You say yes to whatever they want you to do. Yes to whatever outfit makes your video the most provocative. Yes, Sonny.” She begins to mimic me, fluttering her eyelashes in an exaggerated way. “When have you ever pushed back on anything? Or, like, thought for yourself?”
“When have you?”
She gnaws on her fingernail. “All the time. I want this next album to be different. I’m going to handpick my own writers and producers. Mike can go fuck himself if he likes, but that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Yeah, right.”
“At least I know what I’m doing.”
I slide to the floor. All my anger is just barbed sadness. “You really don’t think I know what I’m doing, too?” We stare at each other. Different insults are rising and falling in my mind, but I don’t say any of them.
“I really don’t,” she admits.
I let that sink in. The truth. I remember when she taught me how to dance, and no matter how hard I practiced, there was something innate in her bones, something I could never replicate. I wonder if she’s right, if I am selfish, if part of me just wanted to be with someone everyone thought was hers.
“I’m so sorry for lying to you.” This in a small voice. “It was wrong. But Gwen, you never really talk to me, and I’ve never felt that I can really talk to you, either. Have you ever felt like this?”
“Some people like to keep their personal lives private. You go around talking about penis size and giving blow jobs and having orgasms, but I’m not like that. Doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.”
“Never said there was.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t. I asked if you’ve ever felt like this. If you’ve ever loved anyone.”
“No, I haven’t. I’ve told you that. And if I loved someone, I would think it through first.”
“You think through loving people.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Well, that makes me really sad.”
I slump against the washing machine, staring up at her, as if asking for absolution. There is an undercurrent beneath us both: I am overworked, exhausted, just a kid. And I need you. I can’t do this alone.
I glance back down at my feet. “I said there was nothing going on because I didn’t want you to judge me. I’m always worried you’re going to judge me.”
Then I tell her how sorry I am over and over, as if I can give flimsy words more weight through repetition.
Staring at me, eerily calm, she says she forgives me.
“I won’t do anything else with Wes, I swear to—”
She’s turning toward the door. She’s folded herself away completely. “I told you. I don’t give a fuck. My team will break the story eventually. Our schedules were too hectic, blah, blah. Can you just lay low until everything settles?”
I’m starting to heave with tears. “But. Gwen. Please. I love you. You’re my best friend. My only real friend.”
“Well, I can’t be your friend right now.”
I sound like a little girl when I ask, “For forever?”
“I don’t know.” She opens the door, which offers a brief ray of light, then slams it shut.
Lying on the cold pile of laundry, I wipe my eyes on an anonymous satin bra. The breasts that would fill it are small and perky, the kind I’ve always prayed for.
I can hear two men talking in the hall. Both have greasy, unctuous voices; they keep oiling each other with compliments. One of the men says Savannah Sinclair and Alex Kowalczyk’s recent engagement is the worst thing to ever happen for both their careers.
“How old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
“Jesus.”
“Can you imagine?”