This Sky

  I regard him with suspicion. “Okay.”

  “Gemma,” he persists, “the show is great.”

  “But?” I ask, sensing there’s more he’s going to say.

  “But I want to be someone more. Someone bigger. Not just a television star, but someone who has real box office draw. I know it’s within reach but I’ve needed something to happen. A moment, if you will.” Now, his green eyes are gleaming with a rush of excitement. “Before the first video went viral, I was lucky if the press cared whether or not I got a haircut. But lately? They’re showing up in front of the studio where we film. And they camp out at the house at night. It’s amazing! People are salivating for more, Gemma. They’re literally sorting through my garbage so they can figure out what I ate for breakfast.” He chuckles, pleased with himself.

  “What are you—” I stop, a slow, sick feeling swelling in my belly. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying that this is the moment. And you and I are standing on a precipice.”

  “A precipice,” I repeat slowly.

  “Right.” He smiles now, glad that I’m getting it. “My agent and I have spent a lot of time talking to consultants and PR people and the general feeling is that, in Hollywood, unless you’re a Scientologist or a pedophile, there is no such a thing as bad press.”

  My skin tingles with a damp heat that makes my bangs stick to my face. “Ren, you can’t be serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious. Do you realize how many people in the industry would give their first born for the kind of attention we’ve gotten since our breakup?”

  “I don’t…” I feel sick to my stomach, like I just swallowed a gallon of swirling cooking oil. “What are you proposing?”

  “A business arrangement. I see now that I can’t get you to forgive me. I’m disappointed but I think we can still make this work.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t…”

  “You can,” he says, not understanding me. “You’re totally relatable and that’s why people love you. It’s why we need you, Gemma! And, trust me, it’s not rocket science. I caused one little scene at an In-n-Out Burger, recorded a sappy serenade for you and we have an offer for our own reality show on the table.”

  My heart is kicking my ribs. My brain is pounding like it’s trying to squash itself against my skull. I’m not sure where to start. Deep breath. “Are you telling me that you faked your arrest?”

  “No,” he says, taking a bite out of a croissant. “The arrest was legit.” Chew. Swallow. “There was no way around that if I wanted to make a splash in the tabloids. But, come on, babe.” More chewing. Little flakes of the croissant are sticking to his chin and his lips are glistening with honey. “You didn’t actually think I’d lose my cool over a bunch of ketchup packets, did you?”

  A sliver of disgust slides down my spine. “And the song? Were you even drunk when you made that recording and posted it? Do you care at all or were your emotions fabricated too?”

  He uses a small white napkin to wipe at his mouth. “Gemma, I don’t think you’re hearing this the right way.”

  I hitch my body forward until the ends of my hair tickle the tabletop. “What the hell does that mean? I’m hearing it the way that you’re saying it.”

  He makes a calm down motion and looks nervously over his shoulder. It’s too late. We now have the attention of every single person in the coffee shop.

  “I know that you probably need some time to digest everything, so take a day or two,” he says. “My agent mentioned a talk show opportunity, but we can always postpone it until next week. If you want, I’ll have her send over the non-disclosure agreement and a few other forms. You can use this time to look them over.”

  “Forms?”

  He nods and takes another bite of his croissant. “Standard stuff. And don’t worry—I already have your address.”

  Still dazed from his proposition, I ask, “How do you have Julie’s address?”

  With his mouth full, he says, “That’s how I found you today. Don’t you remember that you gave me her address so I could send some of your things?”

  Folding my arms on the edge of the table, I make myself speak. “You mean my massage chair? The one you were supposed to ship to me but decided to steal instead?”

  Ren laughs and I picture myself picking up my untouched hazel macchiato and pouring it over his head.

  “Don’t be upset,” he cajoles, finally understanding the heated look on my face. “If this all goes well, you can buy yourself a dozen massage chairs.”

  “What would I do with a dozen massage chairs?”

  Ren lifts his shoulders and fans his fingers. There are crumbs on his chin. “I don’t know, Gemma. But you’ll have options and options are good. As is free publicity.”

  A new thought enters my head. A bad thought.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Ren, you had Julie’s address but tell me you didn’t have anything to do with sending a tabloid photographer after me yesterday. Tell me I’m being paranoid.”

  I hear the hesitation before he gives his answer and I know I’ve landed on the truth. I know Ren was the one who sent that photographer to stake out the parking lot for me. I know he has orchestrated all of this like some dickhead puppet master.

  “You did!” I put my hand over my mouth and suck in a sharp breath. Un-fucking-believable.

  “It sounds bad, but you have to understand what this could mean for your career as well,” he says, looking chagrinned. “No more shit jobs or dead-end auditions. And it’s not a life sentence, babe. We would only have to be together for the cameras—put in public appearances and show up at events appearing to be happy.” He reaches under the table to brush my leg. “If you wanted to see other people on the side, I’m sure we could work out something as long as you were discreet.”

  “Discreet?” I murmur somewhere between tears and rage. My throat is closing up and I’m starting to shake.

  “Yes.”

  He pauses and in the silence of the moment, my mind swings to Landon. I think of his piercing dark eyes, his low voice, the tremors I feel whenever he touches me. Everything connects and hits me at once. Julie was right. Jane Austen was right. Emily Brontë was right. Love is real. It’s dangerous and fragile and scary, but it’s worth it. Anything less is a waste of time.

  And what’s more, I realize I don’t have to sit here for one more second. I don’t have to listen to anything else Ren Parkhurst has to say. I don’t owe him a single thing because I may have shared my life with him, but I never shared my whole heart with him.

  “You can finally be somebody, Gemma.”

  I wrench my leg away from him. “Ren, I already am somebody. But the entire time we were together, you never bothered to notice. You never asked me to explain about my brother’s death or why I don’t have a relationship with my parents. You never made me feel special. You never even tried to understand me or figure out what makes me tick. And to be fair, I didn’t do that for you either. The truth is that were never right for each other. We were a convenience.”

  Ren’s forehead breaks into narrow pleats. He looks down at the table and shakes his head. “Look, let’s not get sidetracked by the past.”

  But I’m not listening anymore. I’m too high on my own anger. I shove out from the table so hard that our coffee cups rattle and the squeezable honey bear container topples onto the remaining croissants.

  Ren’s hands go out to steady the table. “Jesus Christ, sit down! People are watching.”

  “Oh you want me to be discreet?” I gulp for air.

  “Yes,” he whispers hotly.

  “Forget it. Let them all watch!” I shout, throwing my arm out to indicate the onlookers in the coffee shop. God, I am so crazy right now. My heart is thudding in my ears and I can’t even feel my legs. “The whole world saw you having sex up against a bathroom stall. What do you really care if they see you have a fight with your ex-girlfriend? Isn’t this the kind of atte
ntion you wanted? Isn’t this exactly what you crave? Isn’t this free publicity?”

  He starts to stand. “Don’t do this.”

  “Oh, I’m doing it,” I say quickly as I sling my purse strap over my shoulder and shake my head. “I don’t want to sit here with you for one more second. You’re an asshole.”

  The statement sticks to my tongue. I stop moving and look back, pinning Ren in place with wide eyes. I laugh like I’ve been struck by inspiration. “You really are an asshole.”

  He gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind. “Gemma—stop it.”

  But I’m done listening. I’m done being this boxed-up girl afraid of her own shadow. Before Ren can say another word, I grab the honey and I flip that little golden bear upside down and I squeeze. Right over his head.

  “Are you crazy?” he shrieks, his face going from red to purple. His hands fly up to block me but it’s too late. Ren’s perfect hair is goopy and matted to his skull. “Stop, Gemma!”

  “You’re an asshole,” I whoop, my determination skyrocketing and my fingers tightening around the bottle.

  All around us, I hear gasping and muffled laughter. It might as well be a standing ovation.

  “Stop it!” This time his scream comes out louder. Honey drips over the tip of his nose into his open mouth.

  I don’t care. I’m not afraid of what people are thinking right now. I’m not afraid of Ren or what will happen tomorrow or the day after that. I know I can handle it. I know I’m strong.

  So, I move the honey bear over his crotch and squeeze the rest the bottle over his pale cotton pants. I watch the honey pool over the silver zipper and seep into the thin fabric. And when the bottle is completely empty, I toss it back to the table and with my finger pointed straight at Ren’s heart, I say very deliberately, “By the way, Captain Skinny-Dick, I want my massage chair.”

  No. Fucking. Mercy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Landon

  There’s a nasty, barbed feeling twisting up my insides.

  I know what it is. I used to face it every single day. It’s a raging animal—a howling thing baying at the shadows, popping under my skin in a wet, stinging rush like a blister of fiery adrenaline. And I know what comes next. The anger will rip and chew through muscle and sinew and bone until there’s nothing left of me to look at but a pile of bloody pulp.

  I can’t take it.

  I push my foot down harder on the gas pedal and wipe my sleeve across my eyes. Even though the air conditioning is pumping hard, I can still feel the sweat starting on my forehead, dripping down my temples and flattening my hair to my skin. Beside me, the phone goes off. I’ve got the music turned up as high as it will go but it can’t quite drown out the ringer. Without looking to see if it’s Claudia calling again, I reach over and power it off with my thumb.

  I ditched my sister and Smith and the whole fucked-up scene at the hospital without a word and here I am, in my car, flying south on the freeway. Cottony clouds are whisking by my head. Streaks of dusty sunshine polish the windshield and bounce off my irises. Any other day, this could be nice. But today it’s wrong. Today my mother is dead from a drug overdose.

  I blink, trying to focus my brain on that unbaked thought. My mother is dead.

  After all of it, I can’t believe it ended like this: in the middle of the night on a cold tile floor with pills and powder scattered around her head like a halo of spangled snow.

  What a waste.

  What a fucking life.

  My hands are starting to shake again. I thump them on the steering wheel until my palms are red and everything below my wrists rattles with the dull ache of numbness. I’m on autopilot. I don’t realize where I’m going until I’m there, pulling the car in, not even bothering to get straight in the parking spot. I duck my face against the dashboard and exhale hard, sounding a lot like an elephant trying to catch its breath.

  I pull the key from the ignition and move my legs. As I get out, the slam of the car door vibrates up my arm and jangles in my ears. I walk fast, listening to the sound my feet make as they strike the steps. When I get to the door, my hand makes a fist. I drop my head and knock twice, my knuckles scraping the wood.

  I don’t know what I’m going to say. I just know I need to be with Gemma right now. I need to see her face and feel her skin against mine and make sure that she’s at least real.

  I wait as the lock slips from the catch, the knob rolls, and the door jiggles with effort. Then Julie is standing in front of me and I can hear the TV going behind her. With one hand on her hip, she says, “Prepare yourself.”

  “What?” Prepare myself for my mother’s death? Prepare myself for the twin needles of guilt and relief stabbing between my ribs? I think it’s too-little, too-late.

  Julie makes a face. “She’s with the Anti-Christ.”

  I want to know and I don’t want to know. “Ren?”

  Her mouth flattens. She pulls her gaze from me and nods her head.

  My mind is locking up, going thick and soupy like hardening concrete. I don’t know what to say. Actually, there isn’t anything to say, is there? Abby is dead and gone forever. Gemma is with her ex-boyfriend. I can’t be pissed or hurt about this. I don’t have the right. I don’t have anything, do I?

  “They’re talking,” she tells me in a benign voice.

  Talking? The word hits me as softly as the swing of a sledgehammer. I stumble and shards of red and purple and indigo light cleave my vision. I close my eyes and wait a moment while the colors saturate the thin skin of my eyelids and trickle into my brain. When I open them, the world looks different—bruised and almost sleepy in front of me. Like when a thick shroud of clouds lumbers in and blocks the sun.

  Without speaking, I scrub my face blank and turn on weak legs to leave. Julie stops me.

  “Landon,” she calls out, coming up behind me, placing two fingers on my back just below my shoulder joint.

  Sucking in a harsh breath, I spin around to face her. “Yeah?”

  Her blue eyes are soft with sympathy. Her lips are curled. “Don’t worry about this, okay? Gemma’s not going to fall for whatever he tries to feed her. She knows better.” Her voice lowers. “She likes you.”

  Images bolt around my head—a faded black Typhoon shirt, pink cheeks, soft blue fabric brushing creamy thighs, freckled skin burnished with blurry sunlight, glossy brown hair catching my fingers, bare hips outlined by cool, silky sheets, and those eyes—two silver stars on her face.

  “Will you tell her…?”

  I trail off, my voice swallowed by dust. Julie waits.

  My heart is sinking in my chest, dropping fast and hard like a heavy stone tearing through black waves. I think of Abby’s face the last time I saw her. I think of tiny white pills crushed into fairy dust between my teeth. I think of Gemma’s hand in mine, the foamy tide touching our toes, her words in my ear. And it all seems so far away. In the beginning there was only water.

  “Anything,” Julie says, drawing me back to the here and now.

  “Tell her thanks for oblivion.”

  Gemma

  After leaving Ren, I probably don’t even need to tell you that I was on the high to end all highs. I felt like my skin had been connected to a live wire, rendering me a temporary superhero.

  The whole walk home, I bounced on my tippy-toes and laughed the squealy kind of laugh that little kids get during summer afternoons spent blowing soap bubbles and running through sprinklers.

  It’s quite possible that I karate chopped the air with a “hiya!” once or twice. I pictured myself taking a flying leap off a tall building (in a good way). Next up: saving babies from burning buildings and stopping a bullet train with my bare hands.

  But as soon as I walked in the apartment, Julie gave me Landon’s cryptic message and I thought, something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

  As Julie explained more, my stomach bottomed with dread.

  Landon couldn’t think I was getting back together with Ren, could he? br />
  The answer was simple.

  Of course he could.

  Landon could think anything he wanted to think. And last night, when he’d asked me what I wanted, I hadn’t exactly declared myself, had I?

  For a minute, I panicked hardcore. I considered bolting—just packing up a change of clothes and Weebit and looking into the circus for real this time.

  Then I snapped out of it, remembering everything I’d learned over the past couple of weeks and I tried to call him. The phone rang and rang. My texts were ignored. Landon wasn’t answering his phone but Claudia was answering hers. She told me about their mother.

  That was two hours ago.

  Since then I’ve been driving, checking every place I can think of. Aunt Zola’s. Point Loma. The waffle restaurant. The skate park near Ocean Beach because he mentioned it once. The Target in Clairemont because I saw a receipt on his kitchen counter three days ago.

  After turning up empty at the pier, I debate where to go next. I tap my fingers on the center of the steering wheel, focusing on the tinny sound they make in the vicious quiet of my car. I bite my lip until paper-thin shreds of skin peel away between my clenched teeth.

  Think. Think. Think.

  My brain is pushing through the time I’ve spent with Landon at warp speed, fusing together the minutes, the days and nights, until they form one dense picture for me to examine. It’s all laid before me: the gas station, falling off the stool at Aunt Zola’s, the storeroom where we almost kissed, the first morning in the courtyard. I remember what he’d said to me that day—you look a little lost. I think about the sky, swollen purple with the impending dawn, and the edgy brightness of his eyes. And I think how, even then, things were changing between us. We just didn’t know it yet.

  So flashing a quick look in my mirrors, I make a left and start driving north. I drive and I drive. I drive until the world ends, dropping over the side of a sandy cliff into the agitated Pacific.