When It’s Real by Erin Watt
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.
@MandiHunt343OMG, W! What happened to ur bio?? Did u and V break up??
@CarrieCarebearDawesYOU AND W BROKE UP?
@KikiSimpsonomg vaughn. when did this happen?
@Tracyloves1Dif 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 sympathy.
“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?
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_Njust followed @VeryVaughn
Did @OakleyFord just fave some girl’s pic @VeryVaughn
@OakleyFordfollow me back. Pls. I luv u. @VeryVaughn
@luv_oakley_hands @VeryVaughnThis pic is sooooo amazing. Need 1 in my locker.
@VeryVaughnGod, basic pic or what? Go back to art school, btch
@OakleyFord_stanNo1 @VeryVaughnPreach. Looked at her history. Not even a fan let alone a stan. Get out.
@VeryVaughnyour not even cute. @OakleyFord ur hot af
@selleuni5 @OakFordHeart @unicornio @wammalamma @ magg1e_han50nand 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.