When It’s Real by Erin Watt

37

HIM

1doodlebug1@OakleyFord_stanNo1 this concert is so lit

OakleyFord_stanNo1@1doodlebug1 I’m dying

@OakleyFordI love you

@OakleyFordyour so beautiful

@OakleyFordplease like me back. It’s my birthday! Pls!!!!!

@OakleyFordyou slay king

There are fifty thousand screaming fans waiting for me, and the last thing I want to do is face them. I just want to lock myself in this green room and never come out. Or maybe take a page out of my mom’s book, throw on a crazy wig and sunglasses and sneak out altogether.

And go where?

The internal question makes me wince. Because really, where would I go? Back to LA? Back to Vaughn, the girl who doesn’t want to be with me?

Nah, I’m better off staying in New York. At least the fans here want to be around me. Hell, they’d sell their firstborns, cut off an arm, maybe both, just to breathe the same air as me.

Funny enough, I’d do all that, too, if it meant breathing the same air as Vaughn.

I miss her.

I miss her sarcastic remarks and her beach bum clothes and her rare but unbelievably contagious laughter. I can barely think about her without feeling like I’ve been sucker punched. Then again, it’s only been four days. Maybe in a week or two the pain won’t be as raw. Maybe the wound will start to heal and then I’ll be able to remember her without falling apart.

A part of me still can’t believe it’s over, though. Or that she broke up with me through Jim.

I couldn’t even understand what I was seeing when my manager slapped the terminated contract in my hand as I sat in the waiting room at the Van Nuys airport. At first I thought it was a joke. I’d just been about to call Vaughn to apologize for our argument, and to give her a head’s up about the “cheating scandal.” Claudia had sent me the links, which I’d laughed off. The Luke thing was old news to me. I didn’t give a shit if he wanted to run his mouth to the press. I figured Vaughn wouldn’t care about it, either.

But I figured wrong. Jim said she’d called him that morning and told him she wanted out. That she was humiliated. That my life was too much for her.

I texted her immediately. She didn’t respond. I called her. She didn’t pick up. And then, after hours of radio silence and about a hundred unanswered messages, she finally texted me back. Every word of that message is still branded in my mind.

I’m sorry, Oak, but I’m done. It’s too much for me.

I told her when we first met that not many women could handle my life. And I told her again after the paps ambushed us at my birthday party. I asked her not to tour with me, because I knew what she would encounter if she came along. The rabid fangirls who want to claw her eyes out. The constant questions from reporters. The bogus rumors and accusations in the tabloids. I didn’t want that for her.

I guess she decided she didn’t want that for herself.

She was egged, for crying out loud. I can’t blame her for bailing.

Yet I do.

Ty asks me what’s wrong, and I tell him to mind his own fucking business. Then, because I was a dickhead, I avoid him. Hell, I avoid everyone as much as possible.

The only person I want to be around is Vaughn.

The upside to my fucked-up heart is some good music. My misery has already given me inspiration for a new song, which I’ve been playing all week in my hotel suite. I’m playing it now, too, as a knock thuds on the door and King walks in without waiting for an invitation.

He wasn’t able to make it for the tour’s kick-off shows in New York, but luckily he managed to swing these Miami gigs. The tour has been a massive success so far. Not only that, but my new record is still topping the charts since its release. My fans love my new sound. I’ve gotten thousands of Tweets and emails from people saying it was one hundred percent worth the wait. I forwarded a few of those messages to Jim as an I told you so for his whole “two years with no album, everyone’s going to forget you!” spiel. This new album has already surpassed the sales of Ford, my highestselling record to date.

“Damn shame you wrote this after we finalized the album,” King says when he notices what I’m playing.

He took me out for a drink after the show last night because I didn’t feel like going to any of the parties, and afterward, the two of us hung out in his suite, where I played him the new song. He loved it.

Still does, apparently, because he whistles softly. “I think it’s the most brilliant thing you’ve ever done.”

“We can put it on the next record.” I slowly meet his eyes. “Will there be a next one or are you moving on?”

I hold my breath, anticipating the latter. Nobody stays in my life for longer than a heartbeat. Just ask Vaughn.

“You’re never getting rid of me now. But you will have to wait. I’ve got albums with three other artists to produce first.”

“But you’ll always make time for me, right?”

“Damn right.” He smiles.

I smile back, but it’s halfhearted and puts a strain on my facial muscles. But I do appreciate everything he’s done for me, and I make sure to tell him that. “Thanks for having patience with me, man,” I say awkwardly. “For believing that I was ready to…grow up, I guess.”

“No problem.” He raises a brow. “Except it seems like you’re relapsing, kid. Sitting here sulking when you’ve got thousands of fans waiting for you ain’t exactly a sign of growing up.”

He’s right. I set down the guitar and hop to my feet. I’m already decked out in my concert gear—ripped jeans, tight T-shirt, hair perfectly gelled and a little smudge of eyeliner under the eyes because the girls dig it. Speaking of girls, I know there are about fifty of them with backstage passes gathering outside the door. One tried to sneak in earlier, but Ty was quick to stop her.

Last night there were just as many chicks swarming the backstage area. To my surprise, April was one of them, but luckily she wasn’t there for me. Turns out she recently started dating the front man for the band that’s opening for me. They’re an up-and-coming group from Cali, and they play a mixture of surf/pop/punk/emo…actually, I’m not quite sure how to describe them, but their music isn’t bad.

I don’t know if April and the guy are dating for real or if it’s another made-for-media arrangement, but if it’s fake, then they’re awesome actors. They were all over each other last night.

I guess it’s nice to see her happy. God knows I made her miserable, though I refuse to take all the blame for that. April knew the deal. She never should’ve fallen for me.

Just like I never should’ve fallen for Vaughn.

It’s ironic. I’m April in this situation. I knew going into it that Vaughn was doing it for the money, and yet I still allowed myself to get lost in the illusion.

But…some of it had to be real, didn’t it? The way she looked at me, the way she kissed me. Was I imagining that?

Call her and find out.

I silence the voice. Nope, I’m not that pathetic. I refuse to chase after a girl who dumped me.

“You need to get out there. The promoter is starting to get antsy.” King gives a wry smile. “And I’m pretty certain the stage manager’s losing his mind.”

I nod and follow him to the door, where I pause to take a breath. I can hear the commotion out there and all I want to do is cloak myself in solitude. But I can’t. This is my life. This is what I’ve always dreamed of doing. Which means I can’t be a little bitch and complain about it. All I can do is go out there and sing my heart out.

Or rather, pretend to sing my heart out.

Because I’m pretty sure my heart is back in California with Vaughn Bennett.

HER

My pulse is racing as I’m ushered into the concert venue. My flight was delayed for thirty minutes because of some mechanical issue that I didn’t dare to ask about. The last thing I needed to know was that there might be something wrong with the plane I was boarding. But the pilot didn’t seem concerned about it, and eventually we took off.

I’ve got to admit, it was pretty sweet flying in a private jet. I was sharing it with another Diamond client, a songwriter who spent the five-hour flight raving about Oakley’s new album. Hearing him gush about the “purity” of the lyrics just made me sad. It reminded me of all the time I spent at the studio with Oak, watching him and King work together. Watching him write and rewrite and labor over every word. The whole process was…beautiful. I still don’t know what I want to do with my life, but I do know I want what Oak has. Something that completely captivates me. Something I love so much that I forget myself when I’m doing it. He’s so lucky. I wonder if he realizes that.

Since my flight landed a half hour late, the concert’s already started when I reach the venue. Ty arranged for some poor assistant to take me to Oakley’s dressing room, but Oak is already onstage and I’ve accepted that I’m going to have to talk to him after the show.

We’re halfway down the crowded hallway when I spot Ty. His eyebrows shoot up and then he breaks out in a huge grin. “Vaughn!” he calls out. “Paisley said you were coming but I didn’t believe it till just now.”

He surprises me by pulling me in for a big hug and swinging me around. I notice the curious stares around us, mostly coming from scantily clad girls with VIP lanyards around their necks. I gulp, wondering if any of them had been in Oakley’s dressing room. If they’d gone to the after-parties yesterday and spent time with him. I scan the crowd for April, but don’t see her.

I suddenly feel nervous. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Maybe Paisley’s wrong about the closure stuff. What if Oakley takes one look at me and orders me to get lost?

“Want to go out on the floor?” Ty offers. “I can get you out in the front row or the VIP area in front of the stage.”

I shake my head. I don’t think I want to be surrounded by Oak’s adoring fans. It’ll just be a reminder that I’m not the only one who’s in love with him. That millions of fangirls think he belongs to them.

But I don’t want to miss the show, either. “Is there a way for me to stand in the wings? Is that what you call it? The wings?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, you’re getting the lingo down. Come on.”

Ty takes my arm and leads me down the hall. It’s blistering hot in here, making me sweat under my tank top. And there are people everywhere. Carrying equipment, scribbling on clipboards, barking orders, talking into radios or cell phones. It’s a madhouse.

“Is Jim here?” I ask warily. I haven’t spoken to the man since he couriered the terminated contract to my house.

“Naw, he’s still in LA. He’s flying out for the rest of the East Coast dates. We should probably see him in Chicago.”

We.I don’t know if I should correct him or not. Ty just assumes I’ll be coming to Chicago, too, but it all depends on how Oak reacts when he sees me. Or how I’ll react when I see him. As much as I want him to throw himself at my feet, apologize for ending it and beg me to take him back, I’m not sure I can do that. He broke up with me through managers and paperwork and social media, for Pete’s sake. That’s unforgivable, right?

As we near the end of the hall, I begin to hear the music. My heart beats faster when I recognize that trademark Oakley Ford voice, deep and raspy and beautiful. He’s singing one of the up-tempo songs he and King were superenthusiastic about during the recording. It’s not my favorite track on the album, but it’s the one the label chose as the first single, and the crowd is loving it.

Ty opens a door and I’m nearly knocked over by a wave of sound. We climb up some metal steps. It’s dark and I have no idea where we’re going, but I know we’re close to the stage because the music gets louder and louder. I hear the band. The drums. The guitar. Oak’s voice. I love his voice.

We walk a few more steps and all of a sudden I can see the stage. There are two sets of huge stairs leading up to a second-floor balcony. The railing is made of lights that flash in sync with Oak’s beats. Behind the balcony is a screen so big I think the astronauts in space can see it.

And then I spot him at the tip of the stage that bisects one half of the stadium from the other.

My heart lodges in my throat. He’s so gorgeous that it almost hurts to look at him. Sweat from the lights and the heat dots his forehead. I can’t see the crowd, but I can hear them—it’s a never-ending wave of sound. No, of love. All the love these people, most of them strangers, feel for Oakley, rolling in his direction as he sings.

“Vaughn?” someone says shrilly.

I recognize that high pitch. It belongs to Claudia, who’s standing a few feet away next to a man holding a clipboard.

I turn toward her, not missing the way her entire face pales at the sight of me.

“What are you doing here?” she demands. Her voice is so shrieky I can hear her over the music.

“Hey, Claudia,” I answer, a bit tersely.

Her eyes are a tad wild as she glances at the stage then back at me. She hurries over and snaps, “You shouldn’t be here.”

I shrug. “Why? Because he doesn’t want to see me? Well, too bad. I have some things I want to say to him.”

“But—”

I push past her and step closer to the stage. I don’t care if Claudia’s mad that I’m here. Paisley was right. I need to talk to Oak. I need him to look me in the eye and tell me why it’s over.

I peer out again in time to hear Oak play the last chord of the song. When he’s done, he grins at the crowd. “You guys enjoyed that one, huh?” he jokes.

A deafening roar goes through the stadium.

He turns slightly, and I groan in disappointment because all I can see is the back of his head now. So I creep even farther out then sigh happily when my gaze makes out his profile. He’s still joking with the crowd, telling them a story about his time in the studio.

“My producer—Donovan King—you know him, right? He threw a pencil at my head during this jam session. Almost took an eye out.”

There’s a huge burst of laughter. I feel it vibrating under my feet.

Something tugs on my arm. No, someone. It’s Claudia, trying to yank me away from the stage. I shoot her a death glare and she promptly lets go of me. With a resigned look, she edges backward and begins typing rapidly on her phone.

“But it was worth it, all the fighting, ’cause we came up with something even better. This is one of the lesser-known tracks on the album, but I want you guys to give it a chance, ’kay? I almost sacrificed an eye for this sucker.”

Still grinning, Oak sets down his guitar then turns toward the stagehand who jumps forward to pass him another guitar.

And that’s when he spots me.

His jaw falls open, and he stands there for a moment, frozen in place.

He stares at me.

I stare back. I want to smile or wave or do something, anything, but what the heck am I supposed to do? He’s in the middle of a show. It’s not like he can—oh, my God, what is he doing? Is he actually walking toward me?

I watch, stunned, as he pauses to utter a hasty remark into the mic. “Gimme a sec, guys.”

And then—and then!—Oakley Ford, in the middle of the concert he’s headlining, rushes across the stage and runs in my direction.

“What are you doing here?” he demands when he reaches me. Rivulets of sweat trace down his neck, dampen his forehead. The aura of the stage surrounds him and he’s bigger, brighter, and more compelling than I’ve ever seen him.

“I don’t know,” I stammer. What kind of fool was I to believe that this guy, who not only has purpose in his life but inspires others, too, would want to be with me? He’s Oakley Ford. I’m Vaughn Bennett. Of course he broke up with me.

“Let me guess. You came for the gun show.” The line is delivered caustically, an accusation almost.

I lick my lips, stalling for time because I don’t know how to respond to this.

“Or wait—maybe you came to dump me in person.” Bitterness flashes in his eyes. “Well, you coulda saved yourself a trip. I got the message, Vaughn. Loud and clear.”

Confusion has me blurting out, “What the heck are you talking about?”

He frowns at me. “Are you kidding me?”

I just stare at him, anger rising inside me. “You’re the one who needs to dump me in person. And I got your message. Loud and clear,” I mimic.

Oak blinks. “What’s happening right now?”

“I don’t know!” I shout.

We stand there for a second, and I see my own bewilderment mirrored in his eyes. My mind is one jumbled ball of confusion, so I take a breath and force myself to slow down my thought process.

“You blocked my number,” is all I can think to say.

He looks startled. “No, I didn’t.”

We stare at each other some more.

“You broke up with me over text,” he says.

“No, I didn’t.”

More staring.

Then, as if we’re both struck by the same terrible thought at the same time, we spin toward Claudia.

“What did you do?” Oakley growls at his publicist.

Her flushed cheeks and guilty look say it all.

“Goddammit!” Oakley yells. Then he takes a breath as if trying to calm himself, but his voice is colder than ice when he addresses Claudia again. “The text from Vaughn…how did you do that?”

Claudia looks down at her expensive high heels. “We swapped out her number on your phone. Amy sent it.”

I gape at her. “Why?” I burst out. “Why would you make us think we broke up with each other?”

“Why else?” she shoots back, her voice dangerously high again. “You torpedoed his image, Vaughn! All the work we put into this, all the time we spent to make your relationship seem sweet and wholesome—you destroyed it with one stupid mistake! You cheated on him with his bassist!” Her breathing grows heavy. “Jim and I were doing damage control—”

“Jim?” Oak interrupts. His eyes are on fire. “He was in on this, too?”

Claudia huffs. “We were trying to protect you, Oak. We needed your fans to focus on your tour, not on your girlfriend scandal. We made a PR decision.”

“Screw your PR!” Oak glares at her. “You crossed the line, Claud. Both of you. You’re lucky I’m not firing you on the spot.”

Frankly, I don’t know why he isn’t. I can’t believe Jim and Claudia orchestrated a breakup behind our backs. I can’t believe I’ve spent four days cursing Oak and imagining sticking pins in his eyes when this whole time he thought I was the one who broke up with him.

“Go downstairs,” Oak barks at Claudia. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

Her face goes stricken. “Oakley,” she says softly.

“I mean it. We’ll talk about this later. And you better call Jim and prepare him, too.” He rakes both hands through his gelled hair, messing it up a little. “You crossed a line,” he repeats.

After a long, awkward moment, Claudia spins on her fancy heels and disappears down the staircase.

With another breath, Oak slowly turns back to me. “You didn’t break up with me,” he says, and there’s a note of awe in his voice.

“You didn’t break up with me,” I say, equally amazed.

Our eyes lock. I’m acutely aware of the crowd beyond the wings. From the wave of grumbles and screams, it sounds like they’re getting impatient. But Oakley makes no move to return to the stage.

“I’m sorry I was such an ass to you after the birthday party,” he says softly. “I know you were just trying to do something nice for me.”

“I’m sorry I invited your dad, Oak. I honestly didn’t think he’d act like that.”

“I know.” He pauses, still eyeing me, and then his expression blazes with emotion. “I missed you. So freaking much.”

And suddenly I know that I was right to come here. To see this moment of exhilaration on his face directed toward me? It doesn’t matter what the tabloids write about tomorrow. The thousands of mean Tweets telling me that I’m not pretty enough, smart enough, talented enough, for Oakley Ford…it all burns to ash under his smile.

I might not be able to play the guitar or sing a note. My future is cloudy for me. I don’t know what lies ahead. But what I do know is that I want to face the future with Oakley’s hand in mine.

I let my palm slide down his arm to grasp his hand. And then, in front of a dozen people I don’t know—including one who I think must be a journalist by the way she’s typing furiously into her phone—I tell him all the things I’ve been afraid to give voice to.

“I missed you, too. I was miserable without you. And I…” I swallow. “I…” Argh, why can’t I get the words out?

“You what?” he teases.

He’s not making this easy on me. But isn’t anything worth having worth an effort? Oakley is worth the effort. He’s worth everything and he doesn’t always know it.

“I’m glad we terminated the—” I lower my voice, because there are people all around us “—contract. You said that everything in your life was fake, but we’re not fake, Oak. We’re real. We’re so real.”

A smile lifts his lips.

Beyond him, the crowd is restless. I hear his name chanted in a discordant rhythm as if the crowd’s confused and can’t get it together. Sort of like me in this moment, searching for the right words to explain to him how I feel.

“I don’t know when it happened, but I’m not pretending anymore,” I say fiercely. “I can’t pretend that I don’t love you. That you don’t make my heart sing. That I don’t look forward to seeing you every day or reading a text from you or hearing your amazing voice say baby.” He grins and I feel my own smile stretch across my face. Maybe it isn’t so hard to be open, after all. “I know I’d be fine without you. I’d live a perfectly good life. But I don’t want a perfectly good life. I want a messy, exciting, happy, sad, emotionfilled, loud life with you.”

The screaming fans are starting to shout together, as one body. Everyone seems to hear it but him. In the near pitchblack of the side of the stage, his eyes burn into mine.

“Then that’s what you’re going to have, baby.”

“Oak, your fans…you need to get out there,” a brave lady murmurs in his ear.

“Go on. Sing for me,” I urge.

He hesitates as if he’s afraid I’m going to disappear.

“I’ll be right here,” I reassure him.

“Promise?”

“Forever.”

With a beaming smile, he runs back toward the front of the stage, grabbing his guitar from one of the roadies.

Ty comes up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. “Damn, girl. You’re inspiring me.”

“I hope so,” I say without taking my eyes off Oak. “Because if you aren’t as brave as my sister, you don’t deserve her.”

“I hear you. But that means I can’t body for Oak anymore. Conflict of interest.”

“You’re his friend, though, right? That’s all he wants.” I watch as Oak settles onto a stool and adjusts the microphone.

Ty squeezes my shoulder. “I’m always going to be his friend.”

“Think of it this way—you and Oak can play on the winning side of Ladder Golf now, as one of the Bennetts.”

“Why do you think I’m giving in? I hate losing.”

My laughter dies out as Oak starts talking over lightly strummed notes.

“As you all know, I haven’t put out a record in nearly three years, and it’s not because I wasn’t making music. It was because I was finding my voice again. Our world is full of filters, Photoshop, and, well—” he shrugs “—fakes.” He strums a few more chords. “And it’s because we want everyone to think we’re perfect. Problem is that no one’s perfect and the nonstop drive to appear that way crushes our voices. Or, at least, it crushed mine. It wasn’t until I stopped being afraid of facing my flaws that I found the music inside me. The music I wanted to make. And the only reason I’m here, sitting in front of you on this stage today, is because I met someone who gave me the courage to break out of that make-believe cage and just be real.”

The random chords morph into a melody and he starts singing. It’s not a song I’ve heard him sing before—not in any of the studio sessions, not in the impromptu jam sessions with my friends—but I recognize the lyrics.

They were the first ones he sang that ever gave me shivers. The ones about preferring to hide until he found the one person who made the masks unnecessary. The one who turned pretend into real.

He’s singing from his heart…and mine.