This Sky (21 page)

    “Give me a good one! Smile!”

    CLICK.

    Through the slits of my fingers, I make out the dark, gleaming lens of the camera in front of me. Beside me. Everywhere.

   
This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

   
CLICK. He’s still chasing after me, acting like my best friend. “What do you have to say to the people wondering how your pregnancy is progressing?”

    CLICK.

    A sob forms in my throat.

    “What about the rumors of a threesome with Sierra Simms?” he wheezes. “Are they true?”

    CLICK.

    CLICK.

   
Threesome?
Beads of sweat are dripping down my neck, falling into the soft cottony cups of my bra. I want to scream. I want to gag on all the hot spittle pooling on the center my tongue. I want to fight. I want to wrench that camera from his stubby fingers, smash it into a thousand pieces and then scoop the craggy remains up, cram them into a blender, and grind them down to a gritty black pulp.

   
Is Ren a sex addict?

    CLICK.

   
Were the two of you secretly engaged?

    Are you going to couple’s counseling?

    You’re probably wondering why I don’t just hop into my car and speed off in a blaze of go-fuck-yourself glory. What you probably don’t realize—because I didn’t until just now—is that it’s a lot harder than you might think to walk thirty feet when you’ve got an overweight, perspiring gremlin boring down on you.

    I try to ignore him. I do. I look at the crunchy pavement below my feet, the shafts of sunlight pushing through the
low clouds, the slender acacias, and the enameled hoods of cars rising up in front of me.

    CLICK.

    CLICK.

    When he misses the curb and barely keeps himself from falling over, I don’t stop. I keep going.

    Pavement. Sunlight. Trees. My car.

    “Come on!” he hollers from behind me. “Give me something to work with, Gemma!”

    I do give him something. My middle finger.

    “Is that your response to Ren’s video apology?”

   
Ren’s what?

    “What?” The word is reflexive. Hard. It grabs ahold of the backs of my heels and freezes me in place.

   
“Is that your response to Ren’s video apology?” he repeats, moving closer, taking this opportunity to get some better shots of me.

    CLICK.

    I know I shouldn’t talk to this guy. I know the game—he’s paid to lie and see what he can drag out of me. I know all of this but the question is still there, yelping in the back of my skull, demanding to be heard. “What are you talking about?” 

    He doesn’t move the camera from his face. “The video Ren posted last night? After his arrest?”

    “I don’t—
what
?” Ren was arrested? When did this happen?

     The photographer’s laugh is raspy with condescension. “You haven’t heard any of this yet, have you?”

    I don’t get a chance to answer. Suddenly, there is a strong arm wrapping securely around my middle and a muscular chest pressing between my shoulder blades. A familiar hoodie. Grey skate shoes—unlaced. And three small words in my ear—
I’ve got you.

    When I don’t speak, Landon spins me
so that our bodies are parallel, touching from stomach to thigh. “Gemma?” His jaw is flexed. His large hands are making ellipses on my shoulders. He pulls me closer to his chest and drops one hand to the small of my back. “Are you okay?”

    “W-what are—
” I break off, too overwhelmed to make a coherent sentence.

    “Are you okay?” he repeats
, his voice knifelike this time. He tips my face up and his inky eyes search mine.

    “I’m—I’m…
”

    CLICK.

    Landon jerks his head to the side and scowls at the photographer.

    “I’m f-fine,” I manage this time.

    His eyes come back to me, skeptical. “You don’t look fine.”

    “I am.” I shake my head. Blink.

    “I looked out my window and saw this guy harassing you,” he says, quickly tucking me along his side and pulling me forward. He lifts his elbow to block the photographer’s shot.

    I don’t even know what to say. It fee
ls like everything is spiraling out of control. Like I’m outside myself and I am watching this all play out on a big screen.

    Do you see her? The
girl with the shit hair and black yoga pants on? Do you see the boy in the hoodie with his arm around her waist, holding her upright? Do you see that photographer chasing them through a parking lot? I know it all seems like a reality show, but it’s real. It’s actually happening to me right this minute.

   
Is this your new boyfriend?

    Does Ren know?

    CLICK.

    Landon presses closer. His warm breath is in my hair, keeping me focused.
He says, “Keep moving. You’re doing great. My car is right there.”

   
Gemma, is this guy the father of your baby? He looks familiar…

    CLICK.

    I glance up at Landon’s face and see his nostrils are flaring with each intake of air. Patches of red color his cheeks. He is furious.

    CLICK.

   
Come on, Gemma. Did we get the story wrong? Are you the cheater?

    In one quick movement, Landon unlocks his car, pushes me forward and shoves his hand in the photographer’s face.

    “Back off.” He’s not yelling but I can hear the unrelenting steel in his voice. “Come one step closer to her and I’ll—”

    CLICK.

  
The photographer takes a deliberate step forward. “And you’ll what?”

    Landon’s shoulders tense up. He balls his right hand into a fist and widens his stance like he’s bracing himself for an impact. 

    “No!” Horrified, I lunge forward and throw my arm across his middle.

    His chest rumbles beneath my touch. He is metal and concrete and the earth’s hard crust. He is a storm cloud moving across the sky, blocking out the sun. 

    “You piece of shit,” he’s saying as I pull at his clothes and slide my fingers around his clenched hand.

     I am moving my lips against his bicep, squeezing his arm until I’m sure he can feel the bi
te of my fingernails through the fabric of his sweatshirt.
Please. It’s not worth it.

    It seems like a million seconds pass by
, but really, it’s probably only a few skipped heartbeats that we’re like this: Landon—hot and panting and raging, and me—wrapped around him like an boneless octopus.

     I feel a shudder move through him. His fingers relax infinitesimally under mine.

    CLICK.

    “Let’s just…” I hesitate, my breaths coming out too fast. “He won’t follow us if we leave. Okay?”

    Landon gives a short nod as he draws away to the driver’s side of the car.

    CLICK

    Still trembling, still trying to rein back my emotions and quiet the winds roaring in my head, I slide into the passenger seat and grab hold of the dashboard. The camera is at the window. I can still hear the shutter firing but it’s softer now.

    Click.

    Click.

    Without a word, Landon starts the car, puts it in reverse and peels out of the parking lot.

Gemma

I rest my forehead against the glass and watch the photographer disappear from sight. My heavy sigh leaves a pearly circle on the window. “I am so sorry.”

     “What?” Landon is still flushed with anger. His hands are so tight on the steering wheel that I can see bands of white on his knuckles. “Why are you sorry?”

    “It’s my fault that guy is here.”

    “Your fault?” His eyes spark. He grinds his jaw so hard I can hear the clack of teeth on teeth. “It’s not your fault, Gemma. You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing.”

     I look down at my hands. They’re visibly shaking. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now. Relief? Humiliation? Fear? Everything is liquefying and going milky at the edges. I close my eyes and press my palms into the seat in an attempt
to steady myself. “That guy was…”

    “A piece of shit,” he finishes for me. “I swear that I thought I was going to kill him. I probably
should
have killed him.”

    “I’m glad you didn’t. The cops would have shown up and I would have been stuck answering their questions and filling out paperwork all afternoon. I hate paperwork.”

    Landon can’t pull off the smile he attempts. “I hate it too. It’s one of my pet peeves.”

    I give a choked laugh.

    “Gemma.”

    For a second, our eyes meet over the center console. “Yeah?”

    His gaze flickers—hot and restless—and he looks back to the road. “Was that normal for you? I know you don’t like to talk about it.” He lowers his face and clears his throat. “And we don’t have to get into the backstory about your ex-boyfriend if you don’t want to, but is that the kind of thing you’ve dealt with before?”

    “You mean, am I used to a photographer following me around?”

     “Yeah.” His eyes make an arc between the windshield and my face. “Was that your life? Before?”

    “No,” I say firmly, turning back to the window. “That’s not even close to what my life was like. When Ren and I first got together, he was answering phones at a Pilates studio. God, Landon, we could barely make our rent. And even over the last year since he’s been on the show—” I shake my head, words deserting me. “Ren isn’t at that level of fame.
He has a fan base but he’s not—”

    “Stalked?”

    “Exactly. No one followed us grocery shopping or took pictures of us while we walked around town. Before the video of Ren and that woman, my life was quiet. I went to work in the mornings and came home and made dinner and watched TV on the couch. Things were normal. At least, I thought they were.”

    “Then I don’t understand why that guy was here for
you
,” Landon says.

    “That photographer didn’t care about me,” I explain, bending to fish my phone from my purse. “He mentioned something about Ren getting arrested…” I trail off to type Ren’s name into the search bar of the browser. “And an apology or something? I have no idea what he was talking about.”

    When the results light up the phone screen, my pulse drops away.

Landon

“No,” she breathes out.

    “No
what
?” My heart rate is still cranked up to full throttle, my senses hovering around DEFCON 1. My whole body is still buzzing like a swarm of pissed-off hornets.

    “I don’t think…” Her voice fades away. She’s frowning at her phone. Her eyebrows are pulled together, drawing a crooked valley in the middle of her forehead.

    “What is it?” I’m more demanding this time.

    When Gemma doesn’t answer me, I check the rearview mirror
and steer my car into lot of an insurance agency, parking in the stippled shade of a palm tree. “What?”

    She’s still got her head down. Her expression isn’t sad or upset. It’s off. Really, this whole fucking day is off and I have no idea what to do about it. First Abby and now
this.

    
I’m as worked up as I’ve ever been. My insides are snarling. My heart is kicking me in the ribs. I should have punched that asshole photographer in the face when I had the chance. Actually, what I would really like to do is punch that asshole ex-boyfriend of hers in the face.

    “Say something.”

    When her voice finally comes, it’s smudgy and small like it’s traveling to me through a tunnel. “I haven’t heard from Ren in weeks. I-I honestly thought this was over but it looks like he was arrested yesterday. And last night he posted a video to his official website.”

    “And
?”

    She looks up. “It was
a video about me.”

    I’m so sick with tension that I don’t know what to say
to that. What kind of video? A sex tape? Ah, fuck. Please not that.

    
I lean closer, my arm touching hers. She’s got a celebrity site pulled up on her phone. At the top of the page, there’s a photo of her and the ex. They’re both smiling and he’s got his arm flung casually around her shoulders and I want to put my hand through the phone and rip that arm from his body.

    Shit, my pulse really does not need another jumpstart right now.

Inside Hollywood

WHAT’S NEXT?

Is Ren Parkhurst, better known as Hunter Digby to
Howl
fans, the next in a long line of celebrity train wrecks?

The actor is making headlines again. This time for drunk and disorderly conduct at an In-N-Out Burger on Monday afternoon. Onlookers report that police hauled Parkhurst off after he started slurring his speech and aggressively demanding that the manager bring him extra packets of ketchup and a chocolate ice cream sundae.

The actor was released last night on his own recognizance, but his strange behavior continued. Early this morning, Parkhurst posted a video he recorded for ex-girlfriend Gemma Sayers on his Facebook page. The video has since been removed, but not before it was copied and posted to YouTube.

An insider has indicated Parkhurst is struggling with fan backlash that has been plaguing him since a sex tape surfaced last month showing Sayers surprising the actor and an unnamed woman in a restaurant bathroom.

According to our source, Parkhurst hasn’t been sleeping and is distraught over the recent upheaval in his life.

   “Gemma.”

    Her eyes move to mine and I can tell that she’s about to cry. She has a hazy, pink look about her. She’s hurting and I can’t help but hurt with her.

    I say her name again and suddenly it’s like everything is pouring out of her into me. She’s tearing up and the air around us is unwinding. Unspooling. And all the wild thoughts I’ve kept trapped inside of me are fizzing to the surface.

    Thought number one is that I’m scared that Gemma isn’t feeling what I’m feeling.

    Thought two is about coming clean. It’s about explaining things and telling her that I don’t want to be just her rebound anymore. I never did.

    And thought three is about the past.
My
past. It’s about the two fucking years I’ve kept my head down and I’ve shuffled my feet, moving myself in circles. It’s about ignoring all of the angry memories that have been nipping at my insides because I’m too cowardly to try another way. And look where it’s gotten me.

    Of course, telling Gemma all of this while she’s melting down over her ex would be a dick move.

    I tilt my face to the car window and take a few breaths. When I turn back, her eyes have dropped and her thumb is hovering over a blue video link.

    “Don’t press it,” I warn her.

    She presses it anyway.

Gemma

Don’t press it.

    “How bad could it be?” I ask, trembling as the video loads and Ren’s face fills the screen.   

   
How bad could it be?

   
Okay, I know exactly what you’re thinking—famous last words, right?

    Hold on to that thought. You’re not wrong.

    The first thing I notice once the video starts to play is Ren’s messy hair. Then I see the tempest of wheat-colored stubble running over his chin and cheeks, his half-mast eyes and his droopy mouth. He looks artfully undone—like he was due for a shower and shave four days ago but decided to skip it and has been chilling at a Malibu beach bar ever since. It’s obvious from the angle and quality of the video that he’s using his phone to record himself.

     “Gemma,” he begins in a voice slurred with alcoho
l and who knows what else. “Babe, I know that I hurt you. I know that I don’t deserve your forgiveness but you have to know how much I miss you.”

    The camera rocks as Ren crashes backward. I see a pile of dirty clothes and a half-empty bottle of scotch on a small wooden table beside him. I recognize our house in the background—the dark grey granite of the kitchen counter, the edge of that cool art piece we found near Echo Park, the soft green leaves of the
arrowhead vine I bought last month. My eyes shift back to Ren and I suck in a painfully sharp breath.

    Oh. My. God.

    He’s in my fucking massage chair.

    Will you please just let that sink in for a minute?

    He’s in
my
massage chair. My ex-boyfriend—the guy who, quite literally, screwed me over in front of a worldwide audience—is sitting in my chair with my seat warmer and my two drink holders and all eight of my pressure settings. 

    “I can’t believe the nerve of him,” I mumble. And then I see his shirt and feel my eyes bug from my head. “And his shirt!”

    Beside me, Landon nods solemnly. “I know.”

    “What was
he thinking?” I read it again and again to make sure I’m putting the letters together properly and am not experiencing some sort of trauma-induced dyslexia.

    On a plain white t-shirt, Ren has written in thick black Sharpie:
FORGIVE ME GEMMA

    The camera shifts as Ren tries to set the phone down on the coffee table and ends up knocking it over twice. His movements are so jerky that I half expect him to fall on the floor.

     When he finally gets the phone upright and stable, he tilts his head back and howls, “I made a mistake. One stupid mistake!” He squeezes his eyes closed and grabs the back of his neck with both hands. “That waitress meant nothing to me—less than nothing, babe. Please don’t let one screw-up ruin what we had together.” When he opens his green eyes, I see tears. Actual tears. “I’m lost without you.”

   
He sighs as he bends to scoop up a guitar from the floor by my massage chair.

    Seriously? A guitar? I feel like I’m having an out of body experience.

    “No, no, no,” I hiss as he strums the first chords.

    Ren. A guitar. And Bruno Mars.

    I listen, in stunned silence, as he sings about changing his ways and being locked out of heaven.

   
Can you look around and tell me whether or not there are brains on the floor of Landon’s car? Because, I’m pretty sure my head just exploded.

    On the video, Ren’s eyes are half-closed. His face is turned up toward the ceiling and I have to admit that he’s beautiful as he sings, his high tenor crystal clear over the gentle sound of the guitar.

   He finishes the song, looks directly at the camera and says, “I love you, Gemma Sayers. Without you in my life, it’s like the sun has been extinguished.”

   
The screen goes black.

    A numb silence follows.

    Finally, in a hushed voice, Landon asks, “Are you okay?”

   
Am I okay?

   
This is when I start to laugh. And it’s not a soft, feminine chuckle. Nope, it’s the harsh cackle of a clinically insane woman or a crazed storybook witch
.

    Landon clears his throat. He looks miserable. “Gemma?”

    I’m laughing so hard that tears are streaming from my eyes and snot is running from my nose. Maybe it’s the adrenaline or maybe I really am losing it. I put my hand up to my chest as I gasp violently for air.

    “I’m s-sorry!” I wail. “I don’t know why I’m laughing like this but I don’t think I can make myself stop!”

    He waits, points to my phone. “You’re in shock. This is…”

    “Unbelievable!” I blubber, laughing and crying all at once. “First he cheats on me and basically tells me to get lost. Now he’s getting arrested over ketchup packets and posting musical tributes to me? What do you think he’s trying to prove?”