When It's Real

  25

  HER

  @OakleyFord @OakleyFord_No1Stan @sabaataani @vogue @VeryVaughn please follow me

  @OakleyFord I wanna bite you

  @OakleyFord be my VALENTINE!

  “So,” Oakley says in a conversational tone, “is this the best Valentine’s Day you’ve ever had, or the worst?”

  Those two measly words—Valentine’s Day—bring a sharp ache to my heart. I know Oakley is simply trying to lighten the mood, but the reminder just hurts. I never in a million years thought I’d be spending Valentine’s Day this year without my boyfriend.

  But I am. Because I don’t have a boyfriend. Not anymore.

  It’s still surreal every time I think about the breakup. It’s been two weeks since W stormed out of my house. Two weeks with no contact, no text messages or make-out sessions, no...tears. Not a single tear, and that’s what bothers me the most. W and I were together for so long, and yet after that first sob-fest the night he ended it, I haven’t cried over him at all.

  Sure, I get a pang in my chest when he crosses my thoughts, and I might have been swallowing repeatedly when I forced myself to delete some of the pictures on my laptop. But for the most part, I’m just...numb.

  And...

  Relieved.

  God. I feel awful every time that sensation of relief washes over me, but I can’t seem to stop it. And every time I experience it, I think back to my conversation with Paisley when she told me I hadn’t truly loved W.

  “Purse your lips together.”

  The command jolts me from my troubling thoughts. It comes from Belinda, a five-foot tall, blue-haired terror who gives me a stern look and makes a circle in front of her lips.

  I roll my eyes but do as I’m told. According to Claudia, Belinda’s in charge of me this morning.

  “No. That’s too much like a fish,” she chides. “We want you pouty, not like you belong in a koi pond.”

  Next to me, Oakley laughs so hard the entire sofa shakes.

  “This is insane,” I mutter. “And to answer your question, this V-Day is neither good nor bad. It’s just weird.”

  “What? Your Instagrams aren’t all staged and posed?”

  There’s a note in his voice, a warm, affectionate one that causes my breath to hitch, and once again I’m struck by the inappropriate response I’m having toward Oakley. I’ve spent the past two weeks reminding myself that he’s not my real boyfriend, but he’s making it hard to remember that.

  Like, with his texts. The ones that come directly to my phone and not by way of Twitter or an Instagram message. Ones that sound suspiciously like his flirty Tweets.

  I’m too chicken to ask if it was him on the other end of our public exchanges, but surely he doesn’t have Claudia’s team text me things like:

  I woke up at nine this morning. I didn’t realize the sun was up this early.

  And:

  I’m at the music store, fondling guitars. I need another one like I need another tat. This is why I shouldn’t get up early. Come and entertain me.

  That was the first of his offhanded requests to spend time with him. And I wanted to. Boy, did I ever. But the idea of spending nonwork time with Oakley freaks me out a little. My breakup with W isn’t even a month old. I’m scared Oak’s magnetism might suck me in, lure me into some kind of rebound thing I’m not sure I’m ready for. So I’ve been making up excuses.

  Can’t. Cooking dinner right now.

  Can’t. Trying to find a good recipe for tiramisu.

  Can’t. Picking up twins from lessons.

  With the new influx of cash, Paisley was able to pay for the twins to attend a basketball camp—something they’ve always wanted but we’ve never been able to afford before.

  The day after my last excuse, I got a video from Oak.

  Whaddaya think?

  He was playing music again, toying with the arrangements of his old songs. Nothing new lyrically, but the sound was definitely different. It had an older, more rock sound than his previous three albums.

  It’s good.

  Good is a devil’s word. It’s lukewarm, like day-old coffee. No one wants that.

  I’m not a singer. I can’t play an instrument. I can only tell u if I like it or don’t like it. I like it.

  Am I giving u shivers?

  Every time I read a text, I wanted to type back. Every time I hear my phone buzz.

  But he was asking about my response to his music, not to him, so I said

  Not yet.

  Making me work for it?

  Being honest? I like it.

  I want u to love it.

  I didn’t love it, though. It sounded good. It sounded different. But there were no shivers and I wasn’t going to lie to him.

  Then, yeah, making u work for it.

  He didn’t text me until several hours later and I wondered if I’d offended him.

  Thanks for being straight with me. Someday I’ll rock your world.

  I hoped not. I don’t know if there are defenses strong enough to resist an Oakley Ford determined to rock a girl’s world. I wanted to text back, Please don’t. I can’t handle that.

  Instead, I texted

  We’ll see.

  Which, in hindsight, might’ve been worse. It sounded superflirty, especially when Oak’s reply was

  Challenge accepted.

  And it was worse the following day when the only text I received was an ice cream cone pic along with the message

  Went back. Ice cream didn’t taste as good this time. Just FYI.

  I wanted to Tweet out to the world of fangirls who message me on Twitter daily that FYI, Oakley Ford is too charming for his own good and I need someone to save me from myself.

  Keeping an emotional distance from a guy you have to pretend to be dating is the realest struggle ever. And it’s not helped by the fact that I’m currently lying next to his muscled frame on a cozy sofa, his arm cushioning my head and his famous green eyes sweeping my face.

  “You don’t like having our first Valentine’s Day as a couple being recorded by—” he squints at the group hovering at the end of his giant sectional “—five individuals?”

  “I think that’s five too many.”

  The muscle under my head bunches. “I agree.”

  I gulp, and a knowing smile tips up the corners of his lips. His head dips lower and his body shifts so that he’s all but shielding me from the others in the room. I know what’s coming and I remind myself it’s all for show, but the gleam in his eyes tells a different story,

  “Don’t touch her!”

  Oak closes his eyes in frustration and then slumps against the cushion. Suddenly, I’m in love with Belinda. She saved me from what I know would’ve been a toe-curling, butterfly-rousing kiss that I would be thinking about for far too long.

  When Claudia called me this morning to inform me we would be taking a romantic Valentine’s Day photo for social media, I had no idea it was going to be one so...personal. She declared it was time for Oakley to make a public declaration. It wasn’t enough that I’d been photographed eating lunch with his mom or that there were numerous grainy photos of Oakley at the beach with my family.

  Oakley needs to make a statement. And that statement requires us to be together, legs tangled up, faces close.

  “The lighting is too bright,” Claudia complains. “We want this picture to say ‘late night watching a movie together’ and not ‘just woke up in bed.’”

  “You can get all that with lighting?”

  Oakley props his head up on his hand and peers down. “You’d be amazed at what people read into one photograph. I remember when I was on a break from the Ford tour. I went to a club in Germany with my friend, Trevor David, you know, the drummer from Twenty Four
Seven?”

  I nod. Twenty Four Seven is an older rock band that’s been around for probably a decade. I’ve never loved their stuff.

  “Anyway, he was dating this Vic’s Secret model from London. She had some weird name. Biblical name. Ezrah? Hezbollah—”

  “Bathsheba?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. So we were all at this club and someone bumps into her. I put my arm around her to make sure she doesn’t fall. In the process, a schmuck takes about five shots and sells them to a German tabloid. Those five shots made it seem like I’d been hugging her all night, and the next morning the headlines were that she was cheating on her man with one of his best friends. Trevor’s standing right next to her. In one of the photos, you can even see the edge of his arm.” He shakes his head. “They cropped him out.”

  “That really sucks.”

  “It does.”

  “What about...” I trail off.

  “What about what?” he prompts.

  Oh, heck, I might as well ask. “What about the Brazilian supermodel?”

  He grins. “Which one?”

  I reach up and pinch his side.

  He yelps and catches my hand. And doesn’t let it go. And for once, I don’t pull away. He pulls me closer.

  “You mean Izabella Duarte? You do stalk me.”

  I look down at our clasped hands, more than a little embarrassed. “I may, at one time, have been tremendously interested in all celebrity things,” I hedge. The Izzy/April scandal was what put me off Oakley, and then my parents died. I think my emotions were frozen at that point.

  “This is why publicists drum up fake relationships. You wouldn’t have been half as interested in me if I was single. Relationships make the world go ’round.”

  “Maybe, but I’m no April Showers.”

  “No, you’re Vaughn Bennett. I like Vaughn Bennett.”

  My heart flutters wildly. To cover up my feelings, I bring up April again. “Don’t you ever get jealous when you see her on the cover of a magazine?” April is on a cover every other month.

  “You do realize she doesn’t look like that in real life, right? Those pictures are airbrushed and Photoshopped so much that I think it’s hard for her own mother to recognize her.”

  “So is that a yes?”

  “If you’re asking me if I’m pining over her, then no. April and I were two teenagers whose handlers thought a relationship like ours would spur more publicity, and they were right. It did help, but it wasn’t anything more on my part than a media thing. So, yeah, I might’ve had some fun with Izzy, but she never got my phone number.” His voice drops low. “I’m not a cheater, if that’s what you’re asking. If April and I had a real relationship, I wouldn’t have looked twice at another girl. I’m a one-woman man, babe.”

  I swallow hard. He has no idea what it does to me when he calls me babe.

  “Come to the studio with me today,” he says.

  And because I can’t talk, I nod. He smiles brilliantly at me, and I almost miss Belinda ordering me to move.

  “Let’s switch it up. Let’s put Oak’s head in her lap,” Belinda suggests.

  I heave a sigh of relief and sit up immediately. Oakley takes a bit longer to uncurl his body from mine. We move into position, but having his head in my lap doesn’t make it easier on me. My fingers itch to brush the hair away from his forehead. I shudder a tiny bit, but Oak catches it.

  His eyes sparkle as he asks, “Cold?”

  Belinda hears him and snaps her fingers. “A blanket. That would be perfect.”

  Someone runs to find a blanket.

  “Relax,” he murmurs.

  How can I? I don’t think anyone could relax in this position.

  “Darla, smudge the eyeliner under her eyes. It looks too precise,” Belinda orders. The makeup artist leans over with a brush and dabs under my eyes.

  “A lot of work for these pictures.”

  “One. Singular,” Oak says.

  “Who knows. We might do a collage,” Claudia suggests. Beside her, Belinda’s blue hair bobs in agreement. “Oak, reach up and touch her neck.”

  His long fingers curve around my neck, lightly pressing against my skin, reminding me of the way he pressed the frets of his guitar. He has beautiful, talented fingers that are capable of pulling so much emotion from six little metal strings.

  “I’m never going to believe another thing I see on the internet,” I whisper.

  His thumb brushes my cheek. “This isn’t the internet.”

  * * *

  Once the photos are finally taken, Oak whisks me into his SUV before Belinda can suggest another pose. Claudia and her assistants are arguing about the caption as we’re leaving. I have no idea what they settle on, although it seemed they’d narrowed it down to either just a heart emoji or the hashtag “feels”.

  In the backseat, Oakley reaches into his pocket. His hand emerges with something, but I can’t tell what. The look on his face is weirdly awkward, though.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, raising a brow.

  “Yeah. Uh. I got you something.”

  My other eyebrow shoots up to join its pair. “Like, a present?”

  He gives an adorable little shrug. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Figured I should get you something. But I didn’t want to give it to you in front of the PR peeps, otherwise they would’ve tried to incorporate it into the pictures, and, ah, I didn’t want that.”

  I can’t hide my surprise. Or my guilt, because it sounds like he bought me something without Claudia ordering him to, while I didn’t get him a single thing. Not even a Valentine’s Day card. Should I have?

  “Anyway...” Another shrug. “Here.”

  He hands me a square of paper. I stare at it, because, well, I wasn’t expecting a folded-up piece of paper. Did he write me a letter? My heart speeds up. Or maybe a song?

  My confusion returns once I unfold the sheet and see what’s written on it. It’s a list of ingredients, followed by instructions like stir and mix and dust with cocoa. It takes me a second to realize it’s a recipe for tiramisu.

  “Oh,” is all I can think to say.

  “You said you were looking for a good tiramisu recipe, so...” Oakley shifts in his seat, looking slightly uncomfortable. “So I called Francisco Bello—you’ve heard of him, right? He’s on—”

  “Cast-Iron Cookoff!” I finish, naming one of the most popular cooking competition shows currently on TV. Excitement builds in my tummy. “Are you saying he gave you his recipe? His secret recipe?”

  “Yup.” He offers a half smile. “It pays to know Oakley Ford, huh?”

  I can’t even believe this. Francisco Bello is notoriously tight-lipped about his dishes. Outsiders aren’t allowed into the kitchens of any of his restaurants, and on the show they blur out some of the things he does so that the audience can’t guess the recipe.

  “Oh, my God. This is...” I shake my head in astonishment. “So cool. I can’t wait to make this!”

  That gets me another smile. “Thought you’d like it.”

  Like it? I love it. Except, it’s just another gesture on Oakley’s part that fills me with pure and utter confusion. Why is he giving me gifts? And why won’t my heart stop racing every time he’s around?

  I swallow hard, wishing I had answers, but it seems like lately all I have is more questions.

  “Thank you,” I tell him.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Our gazes lock for a beat. I think Oak wants to say something more, but the car comes to a stop, and we abruptly break eye contact.

  “We’re here,” Big D announces.

  “You been to a studio before?” Oak asks as we wait for a gate to open. The moment between us has passed, but my chest still feels warm and gooey as I tuck the prized recipe into my canv
as purse.

  “No, never,” I admit.

  “It’s not very fancy. Soundproof rooms, a lot of equipment. Want a tour?”

  Outside the gate, a few photographers who must camp out at the studio waiting for artists to show up yell for Oak to turn his head. Some of them even yell my name. Big D positions himself between Oak and the street, and Oak ignores them as he pulls the door open.

  “Sure.”

  The studio is two stories. “Offices are up top, three sound studios down here and one upstairs.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Depends on if your band is getting along.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.” He throws one door open and gestures for me to go in. “If you’re all getting along then you record together. Otherwise, you have a session band record the melody and then each band member comes in and lays down their individual tracks. The sound engineers put them all together and then everyone comes back to do their vocals.”

  “That sounds complicated.”

  “No question it’s a lot easier when the band is a big happy family.”

  In the room, there are black leather sofas sitting at an L, a couple of stools, guitar stands and a synthesizer. “No drums?” I ask.

  “Nah, drummers are the worst. Each guy has his own kit. The best ones refuse to work on anything but their own.”

  Oak lets me poke at a few of the instruments before opening the door to another room—this one with a ton of machines with dials and levers, three huge computer screens and more sofas. It’s littered with empty beer bottles and reeks of cigarette smoke.

  “Stinks, doesn’t it? This is Ren Jacobs’s mixing room. He’s a genius with the computer, but smokes like a chimney. If he wasn’t so talented, they’d have kicked his ass out a long time ago.”

  “You don’t record here?”

  “Nope. Thankfully, these pipes don’t need Auto-Tuning.” He taps his throat.

  “What is that exactly?”

  “It’s a computer software program that allows a sound guy to nudge a note up or down the scale, making sure everything’s in tune. I prefer to sing until it’s perfect and my engineer splices the recordings together. More time-consuming, but at least I know it’s all me. Okay, so here we have the different mixers—analog and digital for the multitracks—”