When It’s Real by Erin Watt

26

HER

@VeryVaughnBest day I had in a long time. Thx for sharing it w me

@OakleyFordIt was amazing

@VeryVaughnGood thing I can have V-day whenever I want

@OakleyFord

@1doodlebug1Did u see the insta messages???

@OakleyFord_stanNo1I’m shipping this so hard.

Was in the studio until four a.m. Gotta be back here at nine. Kill me. But I wrote this song and need your opinion.

I stare at my phone, alternating between reluctance and curiosity. My finger hovers over the audio attachment that Oakley included in his text. I want so badly to click on it, but I’m kind of scared to hear his voice. In the week since Valentine’s Day, he’s sent me half a dozen songs, and every time I listened to one, his raspy voice had me melting into a puddle on the floor.

I’m having trouble with the whole pretend thing again. Even though Oak and I haven’t kissed since the day at the studio, I think about it all the time. No, I obsess about it. When we went on a public date to the aquarium a few days ago, I spent the entire time staring at his mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss him without anyone watching us. No cameras, no smirks from his bandmates. Kissing him just for me.

And last night I tossed and turned for hours, because he sent me some pictures from the magazine shoot he did earlier that day and he looked so gorgeous in them that my eyes nearly popped out of the sockets.

I think I might be crushing on Oakley Ford…and it freaks me out.

My phone pings again.

That bad? Or so good you’re listening to it on repeat? Pro tip—another word musicians like is “mesmerizing.”

I give in and play the song, because whatever my confused feelings are, he doesn’t deserve to be left hanging. Then I find myself gaping at my phone, because everything Oak is saying in this song is exactly how I feel. Confused, disoriented, wondering why I even got up from bed this morning. He’s the voice of my head.

* * *

      I prefer the night

      The dark, the shadows

      The corners and the shallows

      Where no one knows you

      Where we all pretend

      The mask is all we see

      All we see

      Until the end.

      I play the song again.

Vaughn, you’re killing me. I’m literally dying here. There’s blood on the floor. The crime scene techs aren’t gonna be able to figure this one out.

It’s good, I text back.

Good? Is that the only word in your vocabulary? I already suggested two alternatives. Shiver-inducing or mesmerizing. U could also use awesome, bodacious, crackalicious, devastating, entertaining, fantastic, great…

I’m impressed by your vocab. Do you have a thesaurus?

I’m a songwriter. Words are my weapon. Give me something here.

Oak is something else. At his most vulnerable, he’s the strongest. When I was fifteen, his music made me happy, but I don’t think he spoke to me in the way that his lyrics do in this song. He’s opening up, showing people what he really feels.

And all he’s asking from me is whether I like the song. I can’t hold that back from him.

The song was amazing.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Shivers?

I smile at the screen.

I’ll need an in-person performance first before I can confirm any shivering.

Done. Done. Done. And…oh crap. King is here. I gotta run. But we’re meeting later today and I’m singing this to u.

Now that sends shivers down my spine that have little to do with Oak’s music and everything to do with Oak. I play the song again and listen to him tell me that he’s lived a short time but it feels too long, how nobody can see through the mask he shows to the world. And how, despite everything he’s seen and done, he’s still lonely. The vision of his future is a cold, shapeless fog.

And isn’t that how I feel? In my family, lost without my parents, wondering what my next step in life is?

But unlike him, I’ve never laid myself out there like that—confessing my wrongs, pleading for forgiveness, admitting my ignorance. I’ve never taken off my mask and made myself this vulnerable in front of someone else. Not even W. Or maybe especially not W.

Paisley bursts into my room, jolting me from my thoughts. She’s dressed for work, and I’m surprised she’s still home. The twins already left for school.

“Have you seen this?” she asks grimly, holding out her phone.

“Seen what?”

Her cheeks are bright red, and I can see that she’s struggling to…to what? Keep her anger in check?

“Just read it.”

I catch the phone she tosses me. When I look at the screen, I instantly feel all the color drain from my face.

The ex’s response to Oakley Ford’s apology: “Enjoy my sloppy seconds!”

“Oh, my God,” I whisper, sick to my stomach. “This…can’t be real.”

It can’t be. W would never say something like that, and especially not to a reporter. He signed an NDA that forbids him from…crap, from saying anything about my fake relationship with Oak. As far as I can recall, the agreement didn’t say he couldn’t talk about Oak in general.

But this awful comment…It’s not even about Oak. It’s about me. I’m the sloppy seconds. How could he do this?

“Paisley.”

She eyes me in concern. “What is it?”

“Can you give me a minute? I need to call W.” I’m amazed by how calm I sound.

“Sure. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

She closes the door quietly but I’m not paying any attention. This is a mistake, I decide. Something a blogger made up to gather hits. W and I might be over, but he’d never call me a slut to the national media.

“What part of ‘I’m done with you’ didn’t you understand?” he snaps into the phone without even a hello.

I gasp into the phone. Did he really just say that?

“Don’t worry,” I snap back, fighting to contain my anger. “This won’t take long.”

“You’ve got five seconds before I hang up.”

Sickness swirls in my belly. How on earth did it come to this? W used to love me. How could he speak to me so cruelly and viciously? Did our relationship mean nothing to him?

“Did you talk to the press this morning?” I demand, and a part of me prays he’ll deny it. Or, in the very least, that whatever he said was taken out of context.

W is silent for a beat. Then he bursts out with, “Yeah, I did! What the hell else was I supposed to do? I’ve had reporters hanging around the dorm for a week now. Today a guy showed up outside my psych lecture hall asking me to comment on that jackass’s apology. I’m supposed to say nothing?”

I stand up and clench the phone tight in my fist. “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do!”

“Tough shit. He can say stuff about me and I can’t say anything back? That apology was a joke—he didn’t mean it. He was just trying to look good to the reporters. You said so yourself. It’s all about his image. What about mine?”

“What about mine?” I screech. “You called me sloppy seconds! You pretty much told the entire country I was a slut! How could you do that?”

There’s another pause. W clears his throat. “I didn’t call you a slut. But…I’m sorry I said what I did, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I swallow a lump of pain. This is the difference between W and Oak. When he publicly apologized for trash-talking W, Oak meant it. He was open and honest about his mistake, even if it meant making himself vulnerable.

Whereas W won’t even tell me the truth when we’re alone. He did mean to hurt me. He meant to hurt me more than he meant to hurt Oakley, otherwise his comment wouldn’t have been about what a whore I am. It would have been something like Oakley Ford’s music sucks and he doesn’t know how anyone would want to date a washed-up pop star.

“Whatever, W,” I mumble. “I guess the two years we were together didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” he shouts in my ear. “I’m not the one who threw our relationship away. You did that. You’re the one who took a job that hurt us. You’re the one who made out with that asshole. You’re the one who lied to me about giving the agency my tape. You, Vaughn!”

A wave of exhaustion crashes over me. I can’t do this anymore. Not again.

But W isn’t done twisting the knife deeper. “We’re not going out anymore. I don’t owe you shit, and I can talk to whoever I want and say whatever I want about you.” Heavy breathing echoes on the line. “Stop calling me. I don’t want to see your name on my phone anymore. Actually, I’m deleting your number, how about that?”

My bottom lip starts trembling. No. I refuse to cry over him again.

“By the way, I saw those Instagram pictures of you and your has-been boyfriend—sweet and cozy and boring, huh, V? Made me even happier that I dumped your boring ass.” He laughs harshly. “Oh, and in case you were wondering, yes, I did get laid on Valentine’s Day. And I enjoyed every goddamn second of it.”

With that final stab of the knife, my ex-boyfriend hangs up on me.