When It's Real

  “No, it’s nothing like that.” I rub my forehead. “It’s...this job requires me to do something you’re not going to like.”

  “Are you starring in a porno?” His eyebrows are all the way to his hairline.

  “No, W, God.”

  “Just spit it out, V.”

  I release a frustrated breath. “I can’t say more until you sign this.” I hand him the one-page contract that states W can be told some but not all of the particulars.

  He pushes the paper to the side. “I’m not signing anything. What the hell, Vaughn?”

  “Don’t swear,” I say automatically.

  “Don’t channel your sister,” he grouses. He and Paisley aren’t fans of each other. She thinks he pressures me, and he thinks she’s too uptight.

  “I know this sounds crazy, but if you don’t sign it, I can’t tell you any details and it sounds worse without the details, trust me.”

  “Then trust me.” W grabs the paper and tosses it on the bed behind him. “You can tell me anything. You know I’m a vault.”

  It’s not that I don’t trust W, but this is my entire family’s future on the line.

  “If it was just me, then yeah, I’d tell you, but I already promised the agency I wouldn’t say anything unless you sign this.”

  His eyes narrow. “What agency?”

  “Where Paisley works. Diamond Tal—”

  “Diamond Talent Management?” he exclaims. “They’re the ones giving you this job? Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Of course I’ll sign it. Where do you need my signature?”

  I watch as W rushes to his desk to grab a pen. He’s practically buzzing with excitement.

  He doesn’t look up as he scrawls his name across all the lines, even the ones I think Jim is supposed to sign on behalf of Oakley. He dots the last i in his last name with a flourish. “All right. Lay it on me.”

  I get up and drag W back to the bed so I can sit beside him and hold his hand while I explain this bit of insanity to him. “Okay, this is all I can say—I’m doing something for the agency, sort of like a social media campaign.” It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but that’s all the NDA allows me to reveal. “They know that you and I are dating, and—”

  “They know about me?” His eyes are shiny and eager. “Did Paisley tell them about the show? I thought she hated it! Which episode did they like? The one where we rated the end zone celebrations? Or the one where we dressed up and pretended to be the dogs playing poker picture? We got so many hits for that one even though it’s not on brand.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “Uh, no, it’s not about the show.”

  “It’s not? But you mentioned it, right?”

  “Not exactly.” I wince. It hadn’t occurred to me that W’s first thought would go to his show, and now I feel bad I hadn’t brought it up to Jim Tolson.

  “Why not?”

  There’s a note of betrayal in his tone. W and his roommates started up a YouTube channel back in September, where they post videos of themselves talking about sports highlights. Their show is called the Bro Hards, and it’s...argh, okay, it’s kind of dumb.

  But because I’m a supportive girlfriend, I diligently watch every video and make sure to leave an encouraging comment even though I don’t find it at all entertaining.

  “I don’t know. It didn’t come up,” I answer, suddenly wishing I’d bargained for that.

  After all, it would’ve been easy enough and it would go a long way toward making W more comfortable with my deal with Oakley. I make a mental note to talk to Jim the next time I see him.

  “Anyway, our relationship is a bit of a problem for the agency. It interferes with some of my...duties. I can’t have a boyfriend that people know about, so they want us to break up publicly—” when he frowns, I hurry on “—but not for real. For real, we’ll still date. Except...” I grimace. “We can’t be seen together in public.”

  W stares at me blankly. “You want me to break up with you but not really?”

  “Yes.” Oh, gosh. It sounds monumentally stupid.

  “Is this you wanting to break up with me, V? Because I didn’t even know we were having problems. If you don’t want to go out anymore, just tell me.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like breaking up wouldn’t kill him.

  It would kill me, though. “Do you want to break up with me?” I blurt out, frantic with worry.

  W’s my anchor. We started dating before my parents died, and through that grief-stricken summer, he’d stood by me the whole time, despite my tendency to burst out in tears at random moments. Like when we were at the mall and I saw the Father’s Day advertisement in the Hallmark store window. I’d gone home that night and resolved to be the fun girlfriend again, and I haven’t cried in front of him since.

  I was so worried he’d break up with me once he started college without me, but he didn’t. He told me he loved me and that he was going to stick with me, even if it meant dialing back some of the plans he’d made for both of us.

  “Of course not.” He pulls me down on his lap, another frown creasing his face. “But how’s this supposed to work?” His hands run up under my shirt. “We’re supposed to be having fun together this year.”

  “I know,” I say miserably. “But it’s a lot of money.”

  W frowns. “You and Paisley are doing fine. Didn’t you say she earns enough now not to have to work two jobs?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And didn’t you delay coming to school this year because you had to work?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then you don’t need this one,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s never worried about a bill in his life.

  W’s family has money. They even sprang for him to have a dorm room at De Neve Plaza, where he has a two-room suite and a private bathroom he shares with only three other guys. When I looked up how much this suite costs each semester, I nearly swallowed my gum.

  “I do, W. I need this job. My family needs it.” I take his hands, the ones he’s using to try to take my shirt off, and press them between mine.

  “Is this Paisley’s idea? Because you know she hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  W grunts in disbelief. His fingers brush the top of the waistband of my jeans and I force myself not to flinch away. This is W. I love W. Therefore I should love his touch, not tense up when I see it moving toward me.

  My sister hasn’t ever flat-out said I shouldn’t have sex with W, but I know she thinks I’m too young. Part of her reluctance comes from her own first time, which she willingly—and vocally—says was terrible. After our parents’ funeral, Paisley was lonely, depressed and worried about how she was going to take care of us. So she ended up sleeping with someone she didn’t know very well because she needed some comfort. And it was so horrible, I found her crying the next day. I’m not saying that scarred me, but I definitely didn’t want to rush into things with W after that.

  “Fine, let’s pretend I go along with it,” W says slowly. “Who would be doing the breaking up?”

  His complete one-eighty startles me. I guess I should be relieved that W is agreeable to this, but instead, his casual attitude rubs me the wrong way. One of the great things about W is that he’s so easygoing. He never hassles me about my lack of ambition or the fact that I have zero clue what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. If I can’t make a date because I want to be with my family or I’m working extra shifts, he never complains. I tell myself that’s healthy and good. In the months after my parents’ deaths, his laid-back attitude was just what I needed.

  And since I need him to be cool with this, it shouldn’t irritate me that he’s asking about how our fake breakup is going to shake down as casually as if he’s checking on the weather.

  “How do y
ou want it to happen?” I counter.

  He shrugs. “I should probably do it, but I don’t want any of your friends accusing me of cheating. We’ll just say that it wasn’t working out anymore.”

  Cheating? Do I tell him now or later that I’m supposed to kiss Oakley Ford? Not that either option is available to me, because I’m forbidden from telling W that Oakley is involved. Obviously he’ll find out soon enough, but the agreement I signed forbids me from saying Oakley’s name.

  This is all so screwed up.

  “I’ll make sure everyone knows that you didn’t do anything wrong,” I promise, all the while fighting my growing unease.

  “Good.” He pauses. “And...we can still see each other in secret?”

  I get the feeling that’s not the question he wanted to ask—he hesitated too long before voicing it. But I nod anyway. “It’ll have to be at my house, though. And we’re not allowed to text at all during the breakup. We can talk on the phone, but there can’t be any paper trails. So no texts, Snapchats, Instagram comments, all that stuff.”

  “That’s like some real James Bond shit right there.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “So I’ll be having a secret affair with my girlfriend? That’s kinda hot.”

  I swallow my relief. This is good. He’s joking about it already, and for some reason, that tells me we’re going to be okay.

  “Sneaking around will totally be hot,” I say enticingly.

  That gets me a devilish grin in response. “What else?”

  Crap. This is the hard part. “I might be photographed with certain celebrities—”

  His eyes light up. “Like who?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I lie. “But if you do see any pictures of me on the internet, you need to know they’re not real.” I throw in another lie. “Most of them will probably be Photoshopped. Seriously, anything I do this year will not be real. It’ll all be staged, like...think of it as a reality TV show that Diamond is producing.”

  He nods. “Speaking of television shows...”

  My uneasiness grows as I wait for him to continue.

  “If I give you, like, a clip reel of my show, can you pass it along to one of the agents?” he asks hopefully. “I never asked Paisley because we both know she won’t do it, but now her contacts are your contacts, too, right?”

  The request rubs me the wrong way, even though I’d already made up my mind to mention it to Jim. I force myself to swallow my annoyance.

  “I mean, you’re going to be spending a lot of time with all these Hollywood types, industry people, and you know how hard the boys and I work on this show.” There’s something defiant in his eyes now. “This is a chance for us to get our foot in the door. And you said so yourself—you could totally see us getting our own TV show.”

  I rue the day I ever wrote that YouTube comment. “Don’t you want to concentrate on getting your communications degree?” I point out, hoping the reminder will derail him.

  But W waves his hand dismissively. “The only reason I’m a comm major is to get into broadcasting. I want to be a sportscaster. You know that. So if I can fast-track that goal, why not?” When I don’t answer, he flattens his lips unhappily. “Are you saying you don’t want to do this for me?”

  “That’s not what—”

  “I don’t think it’s asking for too much,” he interrupts. “Because if I’m going to be without my girlfriend for a few months—”

  “A year,” I whisper.

  His jaw falls open. “A year? This fake breakup is going to last a year?” He throws up his hands in astonishment. “See? This is a huge sacrifice on my part! It’ll be way easier to deal with all this if I at least get a career opportunity out of it.”

  And knowing you’d be helping me support my family isn’t enough?

  I bite my tongue before the angry words can escape. I see his point, I guess. A year is a long time, and I’m pretty sure we’ll both get tired of sneaking around sooner rather than later. Besides, it’s not like Diamond is going to sign him, so maybe if he receives some constructive criticism from an actual authority, he’ll finally realize that this YouTube thing is a total waste of time.

  “You’re right,” I agree. “We can’t pass up any career opportunities.”

  His expression brightens.

  “Email me whatever you want and I’ll give it to the right people.”

  “Fuck yeah, baby! You’re the best!” He tugs me into his arms and kisses me until I’m breathless, and we’re both laughing when we finally pull apart.

  Well, he’s laughing, and I’m faking it. Story of my life, I guess.

  7

  HER

  On Friday night, forty-eight hours after my trip to USC, W and I “break up.” Before I left his dorm that day, he kissed me, said he loved me, and promised to send me his clip reel as soon as possible. While I don’t feel entirely comfortable vouching for W’s stupid show to Jim Tolson, I’m worried that if I don’t, W won’t be on board with this Oakley job anymore and will break up with me for real. And I’m desperate for him to support me on this.

  Since we don’t go on Facebook very often, our breakup is fed to the masses in two ways.

  1) W removes my Twitter and Instagram handle from his bios. Both used to say “Madly in love with @VeryVaughn.” Now they say nothing.

  2) I Tweet thirty-one characters of pure misery:

  Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn

  Breakups SUCK #heartbroken #fml

  Within minutes, Tweets and Instagram DMs come pouring in from our friends. I sit on my bed with a carton of chocolate chip ice cream in my lap and a spoon sticking out the corner of my mouth, fighting back tears as I stare at my laptop screen.

  @MandiHunt343 OMG, W! What happened to ur bio?? Did u and V break up??

  @CarrieCarebearDawes YOU AND W BROKE UP?

  @KikiSimpson omg vaughn. when did this happen?

  @Tracyloves1D if that asshole W cheated on you, I am gonna KICK HIS ASSSSSS!

  Carrie, Kiki and Tracy are friends of mine from high school. I’m closest with Carrie, so I shoot her a return message confirming that yes, W and I broke up. She instantly responds and offers to come over with some ice cream. I tell her I’m already good on the ice cream front and we agree to meet up for lunch on Sunday.

  Since Oakley’s publicist told me I have to respond to any Tweets regarding the breakup, I force myself to answer Kiki and Tracy, but I don’t offer any details. W was adamant that he didn’t want to look (a) weak or (b) like a bad guy. Thus, the breakup was his idea and I’m not allowed to accuse him of any wrongdoing.

  Our official story is that he dumped me because he didn’t want to be in a long-term relationship now that he’s in college. I make sure to tell Tracy there was no cheating involved. Then I shove another spoonful of chocolaty goodness in my mouth and force myself not to cry.

  It’s not a real breakup, I remind myself, but it doesn’t ease the huge ball of pain in my stomach. I want so badly to text W. No, I want to call him and hear his voice assuring me that all these Tweets are just honest responses to a phony situation.

  But I can’t. Claudia forbade any contact between the two of us for at least a week—“to give the breakup time to settle”—so I can’t pick up the phone and call him for reassurance. She claimed she was monitoring us closely. I don’t know what that means, but I’m a little afraid of her and Jim, so I don’t call him even though I’m dying to.

  “Vaughn?” My sister knocks softly on my bedroom door.

  “Yeah?” I call out in a shaky voice. The fake breakup feels all too real.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Paisley walks inside, takes one look at the ice cream and my teary expression and joins me on the bed. Her brown eyes peer at the computer screen then fill with sympath
y.

  “I’m so sorry. I know this must be awful for you.” She bites her lip. “It’s not too late to back out.”

  “Yeah, it is.” I can’t stop thinking about the money. “But the year will go by fast, right?”

  Paisley nods.

  I swallow another mouthful of ice cream. “You know what the worst part is? Well, the second worst part, because not being able to talk to W is the first one. But Oakley Ford is such a jerk. He wouldn’t even shake my hand at the meeting. How’s he going to bring himself to touch me in public?”

  “He noticed you were hungry and got you food. That’s something. Plus, he’s pretty to look at,” Paisley points out.

  Yeah, at least there’s that.

  My sister slides off the bed. “I’m taking the twins to see a movie tonight. You wanna come?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I’m just going to stay home and wallow in my misery. I plan on gaining at least five pounds of ice cream weight.”

  “Don’t gain too much,” she teases. “Otherwise Oakley Ford might change his mind about dating you.”

  That doesn’t sound too bad, actually. Maybe I should open another carton of Ben & Jerry’s.

  Paisley leans down to kiss my cheek. “You’re doing a good thing here. Seriously. This is going to help us more than you know.”

  I do know. But that doesn’t mean I have to pretend to be happy about it. I miss W already, and it’s only been two days since I spoke to him.

  After Paisley leaves I give myself over to ice cream therapy. I eat it slowly. So slowly that it’s sort of a soupy mess by the time I reach the bottom. I swirl the remains around as I rethink this Oakley plan for the hundredth time.

  Did Paisley come to me because she knows, deep down, that I’m unprepared to face the real world? That I have no plans for myself? That unlike every other kid I went to school with, I’m hopelessly lost about my future and that playing make-believe with some random celebrity is right up my plastic existence?