When It's Real

  The melted ice cream holds no answers. Sighing, I close all my web browsers and open my music library. I can either keep wallowing or I can follow this stupid course I’ve set for myself. I guess the latter is more productive, so I scroll until I find the album I’m looking for, click on the first track and then place the laptop beside me on the bed.

  As I rummage through the bottom drawer of my desk for a sketchbook, the intro to one of Oakley Ford’s most popular singles, “Hold On,” wafts out of the computer speakers. The moment it comes on, I’m suddenly transported back to my sophomore year of high school. I was obsessed with this album. Weirdly enough, it doesn’t remind me of Oakley, but of W.

  W and I started going out around the time Ford was released. He used to make fun of me for liking it, but then I heard him humming one of the songs once and got him to admit he liked it, too. Then I doodled two hands clasped together on my Vans to capture the moment.

  I find a sketchbook and a set of drawing pencils, but I don’t start sketching yet. First I go online again and look up pictures of Oakley, because I’m not sure I can draw him from memory.

  Okay, I’ll admit it. This guy is hot. Like ridiculously hot. That mussed-up blond hair, and those piercing green eyes, and his toned, muscular body always covered in ripped jeans and tight T-shirts. Goodness.

  I click through picture after picture of him. Live shots from his concerts. Paparazzi shots of him around LA. Shots of him and his mom at her movie premieres. Shots of him on the set of one of his dad’s films.

  Oakley Ford lives on a different planet, as far as I’m concerned. He’s a celebrity with a capital C. The only son of Katrina and Dustin Ford, a Hollywood power couple, or at least they used to be before their divorce. He’s won Grammys and People’s Choice Awards and he got green slime dumped on him after he performed at the Nickelodeon awards show when he was fourteen. He’s been on the covers of a zillion magazines, including that super sexy Vogue shoot I’m now looking at.

  I decide to pick a photo from that spread, the one where he’s sitting against a black backdrop, just staring at the camera. His gaze is so intense it actually gives me shivers.

  I start sketching to the sound of his beautiful, raspy voice singing to me in my bedroom.

  * * *

  A week after the fake breakup W comes over and we hang out in my bedroom. We fool around on my bed for hours before he reluctantly says he needs to leave.

  “It’s late. I should get back,” he announces around ten.

  I want to protest that it’s not late at all, but I’m not the one who has class in the morning. “’Kay.”

  My reluctance must show because he kisses me gently on the forehead. “At least we’re allowed to see each other, right? This isn’t so bad.”

  Not bad? This week without contact has been torture. I hung out with Kiki and Carrie a few times, and, in true BFF fashion, they spent the whole time assuring me that W is a jackass and I’m better off without him. I played along even though trashing the boy I’m still in love with was pure agony. But, again, I don’t want to be the clingy, childish girlfriend so I just smile and nod.

  “I hate this,” he mutters as we head downstairs.

  Relief wells up inside me. He’s feeling it, too, thank goodness. “Me, too.”

  We stand in the front hall and just hug for several moments, his forehead resting against mine, his arms around my waist. I think about all the hugs we’ve exchanged over these past two years. All the inside jokes and the random texts and the fact that I’ve never once gone to bed without W calling me to say goodnight.

  “Mark and I decided which episodes we think are the best,” he says, his warm breath tickling my nose. “He’s going to edit it all together this week and then I’ll email you the file.”

  I stiffen slightly, and hope he doesn’t notice.

  “I can’t wait to hear what that agent thinks about the show.”

  “Me, too,” I say with forced cheerfulness. Then I try to distract myself by breathing in the familiar scent of his lemony aftershave.

  After one last kiss, I watch with bleak eyes as he walks out to his car. It’s the same older-model SUV he drove in high school, and as he drives away, I think longingly of all the heart-pounding make-out sessions we had in that car.

  Upstairs, I flop onto my bed and Tweet about my heartache again.

  Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn

  Listening to Ford on repeat = best cure for a broken heart.

  I’m lying on both counts, because I’m not listening to Ford, and there isn’t a cure for a broken heart. Even a fake one.

  * * *

  “You need to post the drawing tonight,” Claudia announces when I take the phone from Paisley.

  Claudia isn’t calling my number...yet. I’m sure that will change once my relationship with Oakley is front-page news.

  It’s been two weeks since my “breakup,” so I’ve been expecting this request since the first deposit hit Paisley’s account, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been looking forward to it.

  Since I’m not allowed to quit my job yet, I worked four shifts waiting tables at Sharkey’s and looking suitably depressed about the breakup in front of my coworkers. That’s not a chore at all. Neither is depositing the twenty thousand dollar check—the first of many. It was decided that the checks would be made out to my sister just in case, because if it somehow leaked that Diamond Talent Management was writing me checks, the vultures would immediately start circling. If it’s under Paisley’s name, the agency can claim the payments are part of her salary.

  The lies they’re building seem complicated and unnecessary, but I haven’t ever done this before, whereas I get the sense that this is business as usual for Claudia.

  “Why tonight?” I grumble, mostly for the sake of being contrary. Since she’s technically my boss, I probably shouldn’t be grumbling at her, but this is the weirdest work relationship ever. A part of me is hoping I’ll get fired.

  “Because we need to move this along. Post the drawing. Oak will see it in a couple of hours. After he favorites the Tweet, be prepared for a barrage of messages. Respond only to a few of them.”

  “Maybe you should tell me which ones to respond to,” I murmur sarcastically.

  “Oh, no. This should all be organic,” Claudia objects, choosing to ignore my snappishness. “But you’re going to be getting so many, you won’t be able to answer them all. By tomorrow morning, you’ll be a social media star! Just remember that not everyone will love you. The fans are possessive of Oak, so ignore the mean ones and focus on the ones that are encouraging. Don’t forget that they all wish they were you, no matter what they post!”

  After giving that questionable piece of encouragement, she hangs up. I pull out the drawing I finally got around to finishing a couple of days ago. I wonder what Oakley will think of it. It’s not bad, but I’m not in love with it, and not simply because his face isn’t exactly how I wanted it to be. I worked on his eyes for a long time, but it was hard to capture their liveliness in black-and-white. He has good eyes, I think as I trace my finger over them.

  No, it’s not my technical mistakes, but something else that’s missing. Something about Oakley Ford that I can’t put on the page.

  I wiggle my lips back and forth in indecision. I don’t like that a piece of my art is going up on social media for millions of people to gawk at and criticize. But this is what I signed up for.

  I pick up my phone, snap a quick pic, and then Tweet it out.

  Vaughn Bennett @VeryVaughn

  Breakups are a little easier when you’re imagining this face next to yours.

  It takes only three hours from the time Oakley faves the drawing before the first response shows up in my stream. Less than a minute later, I get a text from Carrie.

  Did u see Oakley Ford faved your pic?!


  I play dumb and text back He did??

  Yes! Get on Twitter. Your timeline is blowing up! U should get his snap!

  I’m not getting his snap bc he liked a pic.

  Never know! Slide into his DMs like a pro, girl!

  And then I can’t respond to her anymore, because every second—or maybe it’s every millisecond—I get a new notification.

  @pledo5514 @1doodlebug1 @caryneo @paulyn_N just followed @VeryVaughn

  Did @OakleyFord just fave some girl’s pic @VeryVaughn

  @OakleyFord follow me back. Pls. I luv u. @VeryVaughn

  @luv_oakley_hands @VeryVaughn This pic is sooooo amazing. Need 1 in my locker.

  @VeryVaughn God, basic pic or what? Go back to art school, btch

  @OakleyFord_stanNo1 @VeryVaughn Preach. Looked at her history. Not even a fan let alone a stan. Get out.

  @VeryVaughn your not even cute. @OakleyFord ur hot af

  @selleuni5 @OakFordHeart @unicornio @wammalamma @ magg1e_han50n and 244 more just followed @VeryVaughn

  Oh, wow. I racked up more than two hundred new followers in the span of ten seconds. That’s nuts.

  Paisley pokes her head in my room. “Claudia called. She thinks you should start replying. Apparently you’re getting hundreds of responses.”

  “I know.” I hold up my phone, a tad dazed. “They’re pretty much about how basic and not cute I am and how he can do so much better than me.”

  My sister gives me a wry grin. “It’s the internet. People say stupid stuff all the time on the internet. Want some help with that?”

  I shake my head. I signed a contract and it’s time to do my part, so I spend the next hour answering random Tweets with the appropriate OMGs and !!!!! while ignoring the “your so ugly” comments. The insulters have one thing in common. They’re not good with homophones and that provides me with the tiniest bit of pleasure.

  The last text I get before I go to bed is from W.

  What the fuck V! Call me.

  8

  HIM

  “Why didn’t I see this picture before it went out?” I ask Jim.

  It’s past ten, the house is dead again and I’m staring at a pencil sketch of my face on Ty’s phone. He’s in the front room trying to hide his laughter from me.

  “You don’t like it?” Jim says, his surprise echoing through the line. “I think it’s good. Actually, it’s better than I thought it was going to be. Your fans are loving it.”

  I zoom in on my mouth. Is that how she sees me? Pouty and sullen? I look like a little boy who got his favorite toy taken away. But I’ll sound even more childish complaining about it to Jim, so I latch on to a different excuse.

  “Have you seen all the shit that other girls are sending? Doesn’t Twitter have some kind of rules?” I don’t know why I’m shocked. I’m used to getting private naked pics all the time, but some of these girls look...young. Way too young for even me.

  When Jim signed me up for Snapchat, I got about a thousand nudes before I uploaded my first snap. I accidentally responded to one of them, which led to a weird stalker experience. Having four fourteen-year-old girls follow you around on their bicycles is scary.

  “Ignore them,” Jim advises. “In fact, you can ignore all of this. Claudia will handle your responses.”

  Tired of looking at myself, I toss Tyrese’s phone onto the marble kitchen counter. “What’s our timeline on King?” I demand, because getting my music made is the only reason I’m going through with this crap.

  “Nothing’s going to happen with him for a while. Put it out of your mind. Why don’t you use this time to write new music? Maybe your new girlfriend will give you some inspiration.”

  “Hardeeharhar.” Since Vaughn doesn’t like me much, all my songs would be about irrational girls and their incorrect snap judgments.

  And what did I ever do to her, anyway? Traffic in LA is bad, and Jim knows better than to schedule a meeting before noon. I’m a night owl.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m going to stay in my house this entire year,” I mutter.

  “No, I realize a bored Oak is a dangerous one. Frankly, I don’t care what you do all year, other than keep your nose clean. King will come around. You let me worry about that. Now I’m going home to my pretty wife.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or scolding me.”

  “It’s both, kid,” Jim says cheerfully before he hangs up.

  The picture on Ty’s phone keeps taunting me. I want to write something back to Vaughn, but I have no idea how to log in to my own Twitter account. Social media is a total time suck. When I first went on, I was shocked by the number of people who sent messages that they’d never have the balls to say to me in person. I argued with a few of them.

  That’s when Claudia stepped in and took over my account—all of them. And after the gang of four, as I like to refer to them, I was happy enough to let her take the wheel.

  I pick up Ty’s phone when it buzzes. Some girl just snapped him a dirty message. I swipe it away.

  “Ty, why do you have a Twitter account?”

  “Football, brother.” He wanders into the kitchen, apparently done with his laughing fit. “Lots of pros on Twitter.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, see here.” He pulls the phone out of my hand and taps on something before setting it back in front of me. “I’ve got my fantasy follows and then a bunch of athletes.”

  I read his timeline. It’s full of stats, links to football videos and articles. “No wonder you kick my ass in fantasy football.”

  “You need a secret Twitter account.”

  “Yeah, that’d go over well with Claudia.” I hop off the bar stool and rummage around in the fridge for something to eat. I pass over the veggies, cheese, health drinks, and grab a beer. “Wanna play some FIFA?”

  “Sure. You ready for an ass-kicking?”

  “Bring it on.”

  I toss him a beer and we make our way to the living room. Ty slips on the headset with the mic while I don my headphones. I’m not allowed to have a mic attached to mine. One time I was bellowing out curses and someone figured out that I sounded a helluvalot like Oakley Ford. They recorded me, put the sound bite up on the internet and I got a bunch of people mad because I cursed too much at the age of sixteen.

  Hell, do any of these parents even listen to their kids? I swear, ninety-nine percent of the I’m going to bang your mother insults are delivered by preteens.

  Ty and I play for a couple of hours, and he does proceed to kick my ass. I soothe my ego by playing some random on the internet and finally log a win.

  Once we’re done playing, my eyes stray to his phone again.

  “Can you log in?” I ask.

  “To your account?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. I don’t know your deets. I can call Claudia, though.”

  I toss Ty’s phone back and forth between my hands. As far as I can tell, Vaughn hasn’t responded to “my” fave’ing of her picture. She couldn’t be less interested in my attention. She reminds me of my parents.

  I scowl. “No.”

  I end up going to bed early again.

  * * *

  When I wake up, it’s morning. I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and flip the switch that turns the glass from opaque to see-through. Outside there are birds chirping and I see a couple of people running on the beach. One of these days I’m going back to that private island Jim booked after the Ford tour. I could leave the house there without a security detail.

  I shove away from the windows. Big D isn’t scheduled to arrive until noon, because that’s normally about the time I roll out of bed. It’s been two weeks since I’ve had anyone in this place except me, the housekeeper and my bodyguards.

&n
bsp; I kind of miss that asshole Luke. He wasn’t that bad. After all, maybe if I was in his shoes, I’d be doing the same thing...trying to leverage my friend’s success into something more for me.

  I’ve never had to do that. I didn’t have to play a thousand gigs on the road before getting some A/R guy to notice me. Mom sent a phone video to her friend, who shared it with a friend, and I was signed to a label at thirteen. My first album was released with a huge marketing push before I turned fifteen. I churned out three more successful albums before I hit my current block.

  I wasn’t ever in Luke’s position—or, hell, Vaughn’s—where I had to cozy up to someone in exchange for money.

  Gotta admit, my attitude toward Vaughn when we met was kinda shitty. In my defense, I wasn’t exactly open-minded going into that meeting, because I’d already had one made-for-the-media relationship and that was a complete disaster. Only a star-fucker would agree to this nonsense, especially when she already has a boyfriend.

  But Vaughn hadn’t come off as stuck-up or fame-obsessed in any way. She was hot, but she wore almost no makeup. She didn’t dress up, and she’d argued hard that she didn’t want a new look. She had a confidence about her appearance that my last fake girlfriend never had.

  And she didn’t try to impress me. There were no hair flips, lip bites or eye flutters in my direction. The picture she drew is good, but it looks like it was drawn by someone who thought I was an April Showers—ego-driven and assholic.

  Yeah, Vaughn definitely wasn’t impressed with me at the meeting. And while I hate admitting this, her attitude bothers me. I mean, I don’t expect everyone I meet to like me. It’s just that she was so...openly hostile.

  I pick up my phone and download the Twitter app. I want to see what she said in reply. Only...crap. I can’t log in without a username and password.

  I don’t want to, but I end up calling Jim.

  “Have you seen the news?” he crows when he answers.

  Our world’s a little sick when what I fave on Twitter is considered news. A mass killing in Africa doesn’t get as many eyeballs as me liking some random girl’s art. “I need to log in to my Twitter account.”