The problem is, it doesn’t matter what part of the country you’re in. The US has a toxic celebrity culture that’s only gotten worse with the proliferation of social media and parasocial relationships. People think they’re entitled to know every detailabout your life, simply because you’re famous or famous-person adjacent. And they can be invasive.
“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Lola nods. “Exactly. But you may want to give Sebastian a heads-up. Just in case.”
“Right.” I pull my phone out of my pocket with trembling hands. “Just in case.”
“Hey. It’s going to be okay. And you know attention is inevitable once your publisher reveals your identity.” Lola gives my hand a squeeze.
“Yeah, I know. But that will be on my terms. This…”
“This isn’t.”
I nod.
“It will all work out.”
I hope she’s right.
It takes a few tries to type out my text to Bash because my unsteady fingers keep hitting the wrong keys, and I have to keep deleting and retyping the message. He won’t be able to answer right away, because he’s in practice, but even typing it all out and knowing he’s in this with me makes me feel marginally better.
The urge to take my phone out and search for photos of Bash and me is intense, but I have words to write and deadlines to meet. I can’t let something silly like this derail me. So I take a deep, slow breath, hold it for ten seconds, release it to a count of six, then I begin to write.
The words don’t flow as easily as they did the other day, but eventually I block out the intrusive thoughts trying to override my creativity, and by the time we leave The Bean House, I’ve written a chapter and a half.
When a few people glance our way on the walk home, I tell myself it’s because of my pink hair or Lola’s extreme shortness. It has nothing to do with the photos of Sebastian and me onlineor the fact that my parents are world-famous movie stars going through a very public divorce.
Bash is well known in NHL circles, but he’s no movie star or rock star. I doubt people will care who he’s dating. I’m nervous about nothing.
Still, I keep my head down for the rest of the walk home and only breathe deeply once we’re safely shut inside.
thirty-four
INDIGO
Don’t be a little bitch,Indie.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans while Lola watches me pace outside the family box and tries not to laugh. I’m going to punch her in the boob.
“Girl, it’s not like you’re meeting them for the first time. Just walk in, sayhi, Mr. and Mrs. Navarro, give them hugs, and ask how they’ve been. It’s really not a big deal.”
It is, though. These are the people I thought would be my in-laws one day.
The people I still secretly hope could be.
And ten years ago, I ditched their son without a word of explanation.
I know Sebastian said they don’t hate me and that they’re asking about grandchildren, but he’s basically obligated to say that to make me feel better. I’m not naïve enough to believe it. Ten years ago, I hurt their son, and it seems very unlikely they’re not holding a grudge.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Lola shoves me, and I stumble into the family box with a squawk of protest.
My face must be a brilliant shade of red, because my cheeks are hot to the touch. And it gets worse when a whole room full of people turn to watch me almost face-plant onto the carpet.
“Nice entrance,” Mira says, trying not to laugh. “Very dramatic. Ten out of ten.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter as I scan the room. The girls all smile and wave at me while a few people I’ve never met chuckle, but I suck in a breath, going still, when my eyes fall on two people who used to be so comfortingly familiar.
Victor and Luz Navarro haven’t changed much in the past decade. Their hair is peppered with gray, the laugh lines that always accentuated their jovial expressions are deeper, and they both have wrinkles that weren’t there before, but the alterations are superficial. Sebastian’s parents still radiate the same warmth as they always did. The kind of warmth that draws you in and makes you feel like family from the very first moment.