Chapter Eighteen

 

A terrible chore awaited me the next morning: paying bills. To make it even worse, I hadn’t been exactly organized. Some paperwork was in my room, there were stacks on the kitchen counter, random things crammed in pockets, and a pile of unopened mail on the table by the front door. I made a stack on the kitchen table, poured myself a whiskey for courage, and settled in at the table for a marathon session. I promised myself a second whiskey when I made it through the pile.

I sorted receipts to record and bills to pay. When I got to the folded-up paper, I flattened it and started skimming it before I realized what it was: the contract Jimmy sent Hope. I skimmed the document for a void stamp or an end date, but there wasn’t one. I flipped through the pages until I came to the photo clause. It had a big “X” drawn through it. “Clause voided per Jimmy Standish,” it said, with Hawk’s initials. It was backdated to my first day with Jimmy.

I stared at it, processing what it could mean. Jimmy would probably have sworn to himself never to mention my name or think about me again, yet he did this for me. It felt like an apology.

I hadn’t finished processing it when my phone buzzed with a text.

It was from Hope. Go check your email. Then CALL ME.

I powered up my laptop and opened the email Hope forwarded me, with the subject line: “FW: Photo Release for Willa Reynolds.” The scanned attachments were standard releases, signed by Jimmy Standish and Benny Walker, making it even more explicit that I could sell the images I’d taken of the two of them together. Hope’s message above was brief: What do you have???

I sent back an email with a few of the best images. About three seconds after I hit send, my phone rang.

“Holy fucking shit. How long have you had these? Do you realize what you’ve been sitting on?”

“Hi, Hope.”

“Are you crying?”

I cleared my throat. “I’m fine.”

“There’s a Benny Walker story you haven’t told me,” she said. “I’m no leg expert, but I suspect those are your thighs those boys are between. Am I right?”

I felt my cheeks get warm. “Does it matter?”

“Not to me. You should come in and meet with Ken. I’m not the one who told you this but aim high. If he doesn’t make you a good offer, shop them somewhere else. You have more?”

“Yeah. I have a lot.”

“More of Jimmy?”

“More of all three of them. Jimmy, Eric. Oliver.” I started to tell her I didn’t have the right to those photos, then I realized I did. The contract was backdated—I owned the pictures I’d taken.

I owned every one of them.

“This is just off the top of my head,” Hope said, “but Ken might want to run a feature on it. ‘On the Road with Corporate,’ or something. Pitch it to him. Aim for a special off-cycle edition, but don’t settle for less than an eight-page insert.” The dollar amount she named made my throat go dry.

I tossed back my whiskey when we hung up, then emailed Uncle Ken and scheduled a time to meet with him. Head spinning, I returned my attention to my bills and statements.

Then I got yet another shock.

My statements for the house, my second mortgage, both credit cards, and my car all showed lump payments and a zero balance. On top of that, my bank statement showed continuing weekly payments from Corporate. There must be a mistake because there were only the regular, smaller bills to pay—our phones, the electric bill, water, wireless internet. Even after I’d paid them, I was going to have a balance.

All those loans were through the same bank. They must have had a systems failure. The devil on my shoulder told me to run with it, but I wouldn’t have any peace if I did. I was going to have to call and get it fixed, no matter how much I didn’t want to.

Twenty minutes later, I had an answer. Sort of. It wasn’t a mistake. Every cent of debt was paid. The guy I talked to on the phone wasn’t able to tell me who, but he said I could come in next week and meet with the manager, who could possibly give me more information.

There was no need to meet with the manager. I had a pretty good idea of what had happened.

I did the math. It would be near the close of business hours in England. I searched for the number and dialed before I lost my nerve. I needed to tell Hawk to stop paying me, first of all. Jimmy must not have hired a new assistant yet to take care of those details.

When he answered, I said, “Hawk, it’s Willa Reynolds. I need to tell you—”

“Hello, love. Feeling a bit better, are you?”

I was wrong-footed already. “Uh, yes?”

“I’ve been worried sick.” He was oozing sarcasm. “You might want to get yourself checked out. It’s unusual to get dysentery on a tour of the United States. Crabs, maybe. Herpes is a guarantee. Dysentery is a first.”

“Oh. Um—”

“Imagine how worried I was when Jimmy said you’d been hit so hard with it,” he said. “Every time I called, you were back in the toilet.”

I decided not to mention the salary; it seemed safest to play along for now. “Crazy, right? All kinds of things are coming back now that people don’t vaccinate, ha ha.”

“Why did you call?”

“I wanted to thank you for updating my contract.”

“Mmhm.” The skepticism was thick in his voice. “It’s a bad idea, and I didn’t want to do it, but Jimmy wouldn’t shut up until I did. Whatever you kids are up to, get it sorted. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I had no idea what was happening tomorrow, but my only strategy now was to get off the damn phone as fast as I could. “Have a great day, Hawk, byeeeee!”

I hung up before he could say anything else.

Leave it. Let it go. I didn’t last for even a full minute.

I opened my laptop and went to their Instagram, ignoring the bills that slid off the table and onto the floor. I needed to see the boys. I expected to find the kind of casual, candid things they took with their phones. I wasn’t prepared for what I found.

The first picture loaded slowly. There was Eric, in a mirror putting his own makeup on, in what must have been a deliberate recreation of the picture I’d taken of Jimmy in Hope’s bathroom. Then I saw it: on the inside of Eric’s wrist reflected in the mirror, printed in tiny backward letters: “Willa.”

The next one was Jimmy at the table with a disposable white coffee cup. Once I could take my gaze off him, I noticed my name written on the cup. What the hell? What did it mean? Were they sending me a message? If so, what was the message? Writing my name was a weird way to prove they’d forgotten about me.

The next picture was Oliver. It was a close-up of him giving the camera side-eye and embodying the word “ornery.” My name was nowhere to be seen. Okay. Whatever the message was, he was abstaining. Maybe he was angry. Or maybe not even. Oliver and I weren’t from the same world. Not even the same universe. Our few stolen kisses meant a lot to me, but I had to be honest with myself. There was a lot less kissing in my past than his. What loomed large in my world might barely register in his. I couldn’t tell what hurt more—him being angry with me or the idea that he didn’t even care enough to be angry.­

Next photo: Jimmy onstage with his arms open, embracing the crowd. His shirt was gaping open, hanging off his shoulders. “Willa” in large letters on his stomach.

There was one of the three of them sitting on a couch for an interview. Through the ripped-out hole of Eric’s jeans, I spied my name written on his knee.

I kept scrolling. There were about twenty pictures of them with my name written on Jimmy or Eric or on something in the scene.

There were zero pictures of Oliver with my name anywhere near him. I didn’t want to take it as a sign, but… it definitely felt like a sign.

It was a relief to get my eyes on them, but pictures weren’t enough. I opened a search engine and clicked on a link to a news article announcing their social media was nominated for a major, well-publicized internet award, with me named as head artist. I was too frantic to react, but I stored it away. This award would get my name in front of industry people.

I found a headline that said they were going to be on a late-night show tomorrow in New York. I clicked on a link to an interview they’d done to promote it.

They were sitting in a row, wearing black jeans and shirts I recognized from having washed and folded them many times myself.

“I understand you guys are huge overseas,” the reporter was saying. “Tell me how long you’ve been together and how you got—”

Jimmy took the microphone from her. “Listen, Mary,” he said. “Can I call you Mary? Let’s not worry about those boilerplate questions. Everyone already knows that anyway. Let’s chat about whatever is on our minds. I’ll go first. Hm, let’s see. Oh, here’s something. Have you ever met someone, like a new friend, say, and told them that once you make a decision, you never go back on it? Maybe she sees you write off a relationship completely and without regret, and then she reckons she can predict how you’ll react in the future if the two of you have a row and get separated?”

“Um—”

Eric was to Jimmy’s left, following along and nodding. Oliver was to his right, arms over his chest, eyes focused on something offscreen. I leaned closer to my screen.

“And maybe,” Jimmy continued, elbowing Eric in the side, “maybe one of your best mates told her you’d write her off if things went wrong, even though he was not right to speak on your behalf about metaphysical connections he doesn’t understand. Maybe he even took it upon himself to tell this new friend something from your past that has nothing to do with anything and was better off buried with everything else you don’t like to think about.”

Eric leaned toward the microphone. “I underestimated someone’s ‘personal growth.’” He didn’t physically make air quotes, but they were implied.

Oliver hadn’t moved apart from a twitch in his jaw.

Jimmy continued, “Perhaps the permanent break with a certain Frenchwoman who used to be your assistant only happened because she wasn’t important to you anyway, and it was different because it was only sexual in nature and utterly trivial. Perhaps with this new person, this grown-ass woman who doesn’t belong to you, and you know that, you may have taken advantage of her, and put yourself first and refused to listen when she was trying to tell you something important. If all that happened, you might understand now that you were an absolute selfish shit. Maybe you’re infinitely sorry, but you’re struggling not to use the stalkerware on her phone to track her down because you mean to show her you’re a new man who won’t even attempt to control her, and also those apps smack of desperation, don’t they? You shouldn’t even use them on your siblings, in my personal opinion, which I have expressed previously. But if this friend wanted to call you, like right away please God, she should know she’s very, very welcome to. Immediately upon seeing this interview, or any other interviews with similar content, because no matter how hard you’re trying to respect her, give her the room to be her own grown-ass woman, you miss her terribly and won’t be able to hold out forever. She could consider herself literally begged, at this point, to please, please call so you can apologize to her properly.”

Mary blinked at him.

“Anyway, back to you. Yes, darling. Like you said. Massive in England, breaking in here in the States. Thanks so much for asking.” He dazzled her with a smile, handed the microphone back to her, and mimed “call me” into the camera. Oliver gave a tiny sigh before the clip ended.

I immediately dialed my brother. When he answered, I said in a rush, “I want to go back. Do you mind, and can you check the house at least every few days? I’m going to fly out tonight if I can get a flight—”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down. What is happening?”

I told him everything. Amended contract. Publishable, sellable photos. Money in the bank. Apologetic Jimmy. “They haven’t even fired me. He’s treading water with Hawk, hoping I’ll come back, and I want to go back. I miss them, and he needs me. He hasn’t even shaved his own face since I left. He has visible facial hair, Toby, and it takes him like three weeks to grow a five o’clock shadow, even. He’s a wreck.”

“Who?”

“Jimmy!” I shrieked.

“Okay, okay! What about your career?” he asked. “One job, photography, all that?”

“I don’t know! I’ll figure something out later,” I promised. “Eric and Jimmy want me back! I need you to tell me you’ll be okay if I go,” I said. “Because—”

“That’s two. What about the third?”

Oh, yes. The third.

The tall, gorgeous one with arms crossed over his chest, his expression stony.

I’d spent enough time studying Oliver’s body language to read what he was trying to hide—he was furious. Absolutely seething. The clenched jaw, the tense muscles, his hands curled into fists. He couldn’t even bring himself to be nice to the interviewer, and he was always nice to strangers.

Maybe I’d exaggerated what was between us. Maybe it mattered more to me than it did to him.

Or maybe it did matter to him—so much that he couldn’t even bring himself to play nice for an interview on national television. It was an awful lot of anger for a woman who didn’t mean anything to you.

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll handle it. I’m going, okay?”

“Yes. Yes. Go if you want to. I’ll watch the house. Go.” Toby paused. “If you’re sure it’s what you want. It’s a real about-face, Willa. You’ve been so impulsive lately.”

He was wrong. I’d been the opposite of impulsive. I’d been trying to convince myself to want what I thought I should want, and I’d almost missed this chance.

They weren’t even my family. Why did taking care of them seem like the most important thing in the world?

I shrugged mentally. I didn’t know why it did.

It just did.

“I’m sure, Toby,” I said. “I’m sure, sure, sure. This is what I need to do.”

“Okay, then. Get it. I’ll keep an eye on the house. Call me when you get there.”

I was shoving things in a bag while we talked. Just the basics because I’d left almost everything there.

I left as soon as I got off the phone with Toby. I was in a car on my way to the airport before I dialed the number for the band phone.

“Hello?”

My heart stopped. It was Oliver. That voice.

“Hi, um… it’s me.”

There was a long pause. “Who?”

“Willa.”

Nothing.

“Willa Reynolds.” He was an obnoxious man, and I couldn’t believe I’d made it this long without his beautiful voice in my ear.

Sounding bored, he said, “Jimmy’s not here.”

“Oh, um, I was going to… where is he? Should I call his phone?”

“No. He’s doing interviews. Then we’re in rehearsals tonight. He won’t be able to talk.”

“Will you stop talking to me like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know me.”

He made a scoffing sound. “I don’t know you. I was wrong when I imagined I did.”

“You weren’t. You weren’t wrong.”

“It’s fine. Not the first time I’ve misread someone. Not a mistake I’ll make again, at least not with the same person.”

It felt like a slap. It occurred to me maybe there was such a thing as too angry. Like, angry meant he cared. Then again, what if he wouldn’t give me a chance to try to fix it? “I’m coming back. I’ll be there before you go on tomorrow. I promise.”

Silence.

He had hung up.

On me.

Oh, hell no. He wasn’t going to shut me out. Maybe I’d—okay, for sure I’d made a mistake by walking away from him. I had to fix it. I needed to put myself in front of him. Try to avoid me when I’m standing right there, Oliver.

I wasn’t sure he heard me say I was on my way, but I wasn’t going to risk calling him again. I considered texting Jimmy, but it was probably better to show up. I was afraid he might have changed his mind.

If he didn’t want me, I’d deal with it when I got there. I was going to face this head-on because I wasn’t my mom. When things got hard, I would work to fix them instead of disappearing.

Everyone and their favorite inspirational throw pillow said the key was to “follow your dreams,” and I had. I’d dreamed of being a photographer, and I’d set everything aside to make it happen. Now I was on my way. My work was going to be on the cover of a major magazine. I was probably going to get an insert or a special edition. I could take a job with Uncle Ken now because I’d proved myself to myself.

It wasn’t enough.

I wanted to be an artist, and I wanted to take care of those boys. Was I going to be able to juggle it all? Maybe not. I hadn’t managed it yet. I was going to give it a shot anyway. My work mattered to me. So did they. I’d built something with them that mattered, and I was going to go pick it back up if they’d let me.

First, I had to get there.

Drive faster.

~ * ~

When you need get somewhere immediately, you have to take whatever flights they can get you on. The first flight was fine, but when I got to the airport, my second flight was delayed.

Then delayed again.

It was delayed a third time. I sat in an uncomfortable airport chair, drinking sugary soda and doing the math in my head. If I was on a plane within twenty-five minutes and took the world’s fastest cab and there was no New York traffic, I’d make it.

Finally, my plane was boarding. I rushed to the bathroom to pee one more time before getting on, and that’s when it happened. As I was zipping my jeans, a splash came from behind me.

Oh God no. Please no.

I looked down.

At my phone.

In the toilet.

I almost went in after it; I really did. Then I decided I’d rather not have my fictional dysentery become real dysentery contracted from an airport toilet.

I got on the plane with no phone and only a long shot at making it to New York in time to keep my word to Oliver and start making things up to him.

Poor Jimmy was out there, probably assuming I’d seen those interviews, and I was ignoring him.

I crammed into a seat against the inside of the airplane wall. Not a window seat because people who get on last-minute flights don’t get window seats.

The young woman who dropped into the seat next to me could have been nineteen, maybe, or twenty. She had blue hair, a triple-pierced nose, and a pink leather jacket. She also had a phone, because hers wasn’t in a toilet.

“Hi.” I gave her a hopeful smile. “This is going to sound weird from a random stranger, but I wonder if you could help me. I need directions for how to get somewhere when we land, and I dropped my phone in the—I mean, my phone doesn’t have a charge. Could I possibly trouble you for a favor?”

She gave me a bland stare. “I know who you are. That’s why I traded seats with the guy who was going to sit here.”

“Um, what?”

“You’re Jimmy Standish’s assistant and Oliver Everett’s girlfriend.”

“Um, okay, this is weird. You’re right about the first one. I’m Jimmy’s assistant, but—”

“I’m right about both.” Something about the way she chewed her gum came across as reproachful. “I saw you guys making out by the tour bus in the middle of the day. He’d been running and was sweaty but still gorgeous. He was wearing gray athletic pants, black Adidas, and a tour shirt from the tour before last. You were… there. Ringing a bell?”

“My name is Willa. It’s nice to meet you, and also, it’s rude to spy on someone’s private moments.”

She tilted her head and closed one eye. “Is it private? The outside of a tour bus?”

I needed her on my side. “Fair point.”

“So tell me what happened. Why are you here instead of there?”

“It’s complicated.” I dropped my head back on the seat.

She made a point of checking the time. “We aren’t going anywhere soon.”

“If I tell you, will you let me borrow your phone?”

“I could maybe be persuaded if it’s a good enough story,” she said.

“You’d have to keep it to yourself.”

“You’ll have to trust me. The one with the cellphone is the one with the power.” She waved her phone at me.

So I unloaded my tale of woe. When I got to the part about having to leave, I kept it high level. The last thing I needed was for the fandom to decide I’d betrayed Jimmy. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for him. I didn’t want to tell her anything to put him in a bad light. We deserve to keep our heroes pure in our minds. Or spectacularly impure, but in a good way.

When I was done, she held her hand out to shake. “I’m Zoe,” she said, “and I’m happy to meet you, even though you must be insane. I can’t believe you left the most brilliant songwriter of our generation, and I don’t say that just because he’s hot.”

“Don’t tell him this because his ego will get even more swollen than it already is, but he’s luminous. He practically glows.”

“It’s true.” She studied me for what seemed like a very long time, then said decisively, “I like you. Nobody’s more surprised than I am, but there it is. I’m going to find someone who can pick you up at the airport because you’ll never make it in a cab. I assume you’re going to the studio where they’re filming the Late Show, right?”

“How did you—”

“Number one fan. Of course I know where they are.”

“Yeah, it’s getting creepy again.”

“So creepy you don’t want me to help you?”

I shook my head. “No. Nope, not that creepy.”

As soon as we landed and could reconnect to cell service, she went to work. I waited, impressed.

“Okay,” she said when she surfaced. “A guy named Finn is going to meet you at baggage check. He’ll take you to his girlfriend’s car. She’s Cate. She’s going to rush you to the building. Seriously, you’re going to have to haul ass. They go on in like fifty minutes. When you get there, they’re not going to let you in just because you say you’re Jimmy’s assistant. Believe me, I’ve attempted it. But we found a guy who works there. Cate will take you to the back entrance, and he’ll meet you there with a pass.”

I put my hand on her arm. “Thank you so much. What strangely organized fans they have.”

“Best fandom in the business,” she said.

When we landed, she called out, “I got a puker back here, guys. Get her off the plane before she hurls.”

I tried to look green as I shouldered my way to the front and dashed out in search of a guy named Finn and his girlfriend, Cate, who were going to take me to some rando at the back entrance of a venue in New York.

What could go wrong?