More Than Anything (14 page)

The lasagna is all that and more, and I take a picture of it for Melody, who’s going to give me huge rations of grief for having dinner with
her
producer. First ice cream and now dinner, and I’m not naked yet. I can already hear the disappointment.

When we get done with the food, I feel like I swallowed a bowling ball. Sebastian looks like he just got back from the gym. A part of me thinks about what I’d be doing if I wasn’t with Derek, but I shut that off. I am. While it’s flattering to have Sebastian flirt with me, there’s only one Derek.

I can practically see Melody sticking her finger down her throat.

Which is fine. When she comes down, I’ll introduce her to Sebastian and watch her do her best black widow act. A part of me feels a little sorry for Sebastian. He doesn’t stand a chance against bombshell Latina jailbait on the prowl. My money’s on Melody every time. I have yet to see it fail.

Except with Derek.

I smile to myself, and Sebastian mistakes the smile as being directed at him, and returns it. I clear my throat as he finishes his wine.

“Wow, Sebastian. That was too much. I’ll never forget it.”

“We can come back as often as you want.”

I shake my head. “This will last me for quite some time.” I check the time on my phone. “Sorry. I’m just tired. Not much fun, am I?”

“I’m having a great time.”

He pays the bill, and we exit the restaurant. I’m surprised by a flash, and then a thin man in a windbreaker with a camera around his neck darts off down the street to where a car’s waiting. I look at Sebastian.

“What was that?”

He shakes his head. “Paparazzi. They’re like cockroaches here. You’re news, Sage, so you can expect more of this.”

“How do you know they weren’t after you?”

“I come here a couple of times a month. That’s the first time it’s happened. Three guesses.”

“Really?”

“Sure. A busboy gets fifty bucks for making a phone call. It’s how things work. Don’t sweat it. It’s worse when they don’t show up, because it means that nobody cares.”

I think about his comment all the way home.

What a weird business.

No, what a weird day.

My second day of preproduction with Sebastian runs ten hours. I had no idea that listening to songs could be so draining, but it is. They all start to sound the same after a while, and I’m in awe of how Sebastian can sit there, soldiering on, when my ears are fried.

He gives me a ride home, no offer of dinner this time because he’s going back to work, and when I get to the apartment building, I see there’s mail in my box – a postcard with a picture of one of the carriages in Central Park. On the reverse side are three handwritten lines that break my heart:

Sage. It doesn’t matter how long it took to find you or to figure out we belong together. What matters is that I want you more than anything and miss you so much it hurts.

I stand in the lobby, rereading the simple message from Derek, my hand trembling and a tightness in my chest. So few words, yet each one tugs at my heart as I remember his unruly hair and flashing green eyes as he grinned at me on our first visit to the park, what now seems like years ago, but was only a few months. Of all the things he could have done, this was perfect.

I make my way to the elevator and hardly notice when the door slides open. I step into it and press the button for my floor, holding the postcard to my chest. I feel both embarrassed for my sudden unexpected sentimentality and elated that Derek was obviously thinking about me as much as I’ve been thinking about him.

When I enter the apartment, I walk to the dining room table and retrieve my cell. One of Sebastian’s rules is no phones at the studio. He’s got hysterical stories about phones ruining takes, and believes they dilute the artist’s focus, checking messages and chatting while he wants them fully absorbed in the project.

I can’t argue. Sebastian’s system works.

I’ve got at least twenty text messages from Melody, ten from Jeremy, and three missed calls from Derek’s phone. I scan the messages first, and the latest one from Melody has the URL of a gossip site listed, with the cryptic message, “Check it out.”

I’m easy to bait, so I go to my tablet and tap in the URL.

And just about have a stroke.

There’s a special feature, titled, “Where Are They Now?” The first photo is of Sebastian and me outside the restaurant, looking admittedly friendly, with a short blurb about how teen sensation Sage has been having intimate dinners with her highly eligible bachelor producer. There’s enough leering innuendo to paint a house with, and I swallow dryly as I read it.

Then I scroll down, and there’s Derek, looking like ten million bucks…with singing sensation Serena on his arm, coming out of a club.

WTFF?

I read the blurb, and it says that club-goers were treated to the sizzling chemistry between America’s hottest pop star and its up-and-coming heartthrob. That would be Derek, I guess. It goes on to share in breathless terms Serena’s bad-girl reputation for pushing the envelope on sex in videos, and speculates what their love child might look like.

I see red for a few moments and then talk myself down. I return my attention to the phone, while staring at the photo of my guy and some total slut. The smirk on his face has the same effect on me as waving a red cape in front of a bull. Even though I know the media likes to distort to get attention, it’s pretty damaging no matter how you slice it.

The messages from Derek are short.

“Sage. Call me when you get a chance. Phone’s on.” “Are you there?” “Do me a favor and call, will you?”

I press redial and listen as his line rings. When he picks up, he sounds out of breath.

“Sage.”

“Derek.” I try not to sound pissed.

“How’s it going?”

“Oh, you know. Working all day. No phones allowed.” I hesitate, considering how to ask my question, and settle for, “How about you?”

“Same here. Why no phones on your end?”

“Sebastian doesn’t want them in the studio. He’s the boss.”

“Some boss.” The tone’s ugly. I close my eyes and count to three. I’m not sure it does any good.

“What does that mean?”

“I saw the photo of you and him having dinner, Sage.”

“Is it illegal to eat now?” I snap. Way too harsh, but I can’t stop myself.

“In a lot of states, depends on what you’re having as the main course.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not. I’m joking,” he says, his tone making it clear that nothing about the situation is funny.

“Ha, ha. You must be developing a good sense of humor. I guess you have to have one to date Serena.”

“That? Sage, that’s nothing. I can explain.”

“Derek, I had dinner with my producer. Completely innocent. You’re spotted at a nightclub in New Jersey with the poster girl for Whores R Us. It’s not the same thing.”

“Sage–”

“Spare me, Derek. It’s a long way from California to New York, I know. And I’m sure you’re only human.”

“Sage, she’s working in the other studio. There are two control rooms here. We got to talking. She suggested we go have a drink. It was nothing.”

“Right. You’re out boozing with Ms. Teen Sex USA. But it’s innocent.” I’m building a big head of steam, but I can’t help it.

“You know the media. They were just looking for something to spice up the photo – it’s all an invention.” He pauses. “I had a drink with her. That doesn’t mean anything else happened.”

“Yet.”

“Sage–”

“I can’t believe all I’ve been doing is thinking about you every day. Apparently my idea of being together is different than yours. I’m not out partying with porn stars and trying to explain it away when I get caught.”

“She’s not a porn star.”

“Close enough. Probably doesn’t have the talent. She sure as hell can’t sing.”

“And I didn’t ‘get caught.’”

“Derek, you were busted by a photog. That’s totally getting caught. It doesn’t get more caught than that. Were you even going to tell me about it if it wasn’t all over the web?”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. I flush with victory. My logic is unassailable.

When he does speak, his voice is softer. “You haven’t read your messages, have you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I texted you last night. Before we went out. Telling you I was going to the club with her.”

I hold the phone away from my face and scroll through the messages. There’s one from last night, delayed delivery due to technical problems, received at three a.m. California time. From Derek. It says, “Met Serena working in studio next door. Going out for an hour. Miss U.”

I want to die.

“That doesn’t change anything,” I start to say, but my tone’s defeated. Of course it does. He made full disclosure before he went out with her. I’m still not happy about it, but he’s not a snake.

“Uh-huh. I missed where you texted me to let me know you were having dinner with Superman.”

What I should do is take two or three deep breaths, think, and be reasonable. That’s not how the next words come out.

“Am I supposed to text you whenever I eat?”

“Sage, come on. Lighten up. I didn’t do anything wrong. We both know it.” The unspoken part being that I did.

“Neither did I.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You hinted at it.”

“I’m not happy you’re spending every moment with Sebastian, but I didn’t think you were doing anything more than having dinner.”

“Could have fooled me.” Now I’m just baiting him because I feel guilty. I’m defensive. I don’t do contrite well.

“Maybe we should talk later,” he says – the first sensible words out of his mouth. But I’m not going to let him have it. That’s not my way.

“Fine!” I snap and hang up.

Grrrrr.

It takes a few seconds, and then I feel petty for being so harsh, because he was in the right.

Which I’ll never admit.

At least not now.

I go into the bathroom and draw a bath while reading all Melody’s messages, focusing on how big Sebastian’s lasagna is, asking me whether I had a problem handling his super-sized portion, and so on. She can be funny, but I’m not in the mood.

Half an hour later I’ve calmed down, and I’m debating how long I should wait to call Derek and apologize for being a complete brat. Melody would say never apologize, never flinch, never let them see you sweat – but then again, Melody plays by different rules.

I wonder how much of my anger is due to the flashback I had while Derek and I were talking, of him drunk, passed out, his fists bleeding, his hand in a cast. I thought I’d moved past that, but it jumped front and center when I got angry, so maybe I’ve been kidding myself. Apparently I’m still plenty pissed at him for ruining everything, even if it resulted in me winning the contest and getting the shot of a lifetime.

Because I don’t see it that way, deep down.

I see it as Derek failing me due to alcohol issues and fighting, which brings Ralph and my mom into the mix – a potent combo. And even if I want him as badly as I’ve ever imagined wanting anyone, I obviously haven’t let that go.

But I’m going to have to find a way to do that, unless I want to ruin what we have. I know that as clearly as I know my mom won’t live out the year. And I’m scared, because I feel powerless to make the anger go away. Which makes me as bad as Derek, in a way, who’s grappling with his own anger from the past.

I need a lift, so I call Jeremy.

“T minus three and counting,” I say, referring to the number of days until he arrives.

“I know! I’m so jazzed. I’m going to the fake bake places daily so I don’t look like a beached fish when I get to Lala Land.”

We talk for a while about nothing and everything, and then he broaches the topic of the tabloid site.

“I see you and lover man have been busy.”

“That’s all BS. They’re trying to make news out of nothing.”

“Derek hanging all over Miss Thang didn’t look like nothing to me.”

I explain what happened and tell him about my argument with Derek, and at the end of it he’s quiet for a long beat.

“Girl, I can’t tell you how to play this one, but if he’s not in the wrong, don’t play him for a fool.”

That’s not what I want to hear. I want support, validation that I’m right, or at least have some valid points.

We talk for a few more minutes, and I sign off. I know I’m procrastinating, putting off calling Derek back, but I can’t help it. Times like this I wish I had someone level-headed to talk to – Melody doesn’t qualify. And then I remember Helen, from our trip to New York.

I scroll through my contacts until I get to her number. After hesitating, I press call and listen as the phone rings and rings. I’m about to hang up when she answers. I hear engine noise in the background. She’s on the road.