Chapter Two TMZ Will Break Your Heart #3
“Yet,” he says, which makes me laugh even though I feel like my stomach is about to come up my throat.
“Yet,” she amends when she finally gets a chance to look at me. I don’t miss her wince. I rub my hand over my eyes, embarrassed,
as she yanks me into a tight hug. It’s true. I may have cried a little, or a lot, in the ten minutes or so it took them to
come over. I’m sure I look like garbage and I’m probably giving them flashbacks to when we first met.
Regan leads me over the big armchair in the living room and sits me down so Johnny can get to work gently dissolving the superglue.
He’s exceedingly careful to avoid the actual injury, and if someone doesn’t say something soon, that alone is going to start
up the waterworks again.
“You guys want to see?” I ask, holding up the iPad with my free hand and pushing play before either of them answers. They
watch obediently, Johnny’s jaw clenched and Regan letting out a sigh as the clip finishes. I drop into my chair, my head hanging
back in defeat as Johnny wipes my hands down and goes to the kitchen to put everything away.
“Well, damn,” he says, returning quickly with another beer.
“Well, damn,” I agree, clinking my bottle against his in the most depressing cheers I’ve ever been a part of. At least my
fingers are unstuck now.
“Maybe this won’t change anything,” Regan says, trying to be logical, trying to keep me from losing it.
“If that wink means what I think it means, I don’t see how it couldn’t.”
“No one knows you’re here.”
I shake my head. “You really believe that?”
Johnny takes a sip of his beer. “What do you mean?”
“You really think you two are the only ones who live here who’ve ever recognized me? Because I think people eventually did
but have just kept it quiet because nobody really cared about me anymore. That woman at the flower shop is going to realize
I’m not a distant cousin once my face is back on TMZ all the time. Nikki’s about to send a lot of eyes in my direction, and
I’m sure one of the gossip sites will pay good money for someone to sell me out.”
“So what?” Regan says. “Let them look. Who cares? You’re doing good. You’re making a solid life for yourself with your floral
designs. Forget all the noise, Annie. It doesn’t matter.”
She’s right, I know she’s right . . . or rather I know that she should be. But I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for any
of it. It feels too much like the first time, like when everyone found out their favorite child actors were actually queer—long
before Nikki and I were ready to come out. Only this time it’s not just my sexuality being exposed, but my entire freaking
life.
And yeah, maybe I told myself—and keep telling myself—that this was a fresh start, a new life; that I’m not hiding here but
rebuilding . . . but the truth of the matter is that I am hiding.
I have been for a long time, and just like years and years ago, when reporters came around set desperate to expose my private life, I’m not ready.
I’m not ready to reconcile that Andy was a part of Annie and vice versa—and I shouldn’t have to just because Nikki decides it’s time.
“You know we have your back, right?” Johnny says, stuffing a second slice of pizza into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.
“Whatever you want to do, however you want to handle this.”
“Yeah,” Regan agrees. “Always.”
“Especially if it involves ending you-know-who,” he adds with a cheeky little smile. Regan smacks his arm, and he grabs her
in a gentle headlock as I look away. Normally, I bask in their warmth, enjoying watching them skate around the idea of being
in love, inching toward it instead of barreling. It almost makes me believe in it all over again. But not today.
Today their warmth only highlights how cold I feel. Forget love. Forget all of this.
I finish my second beer, my head comfortably buzzing, as I grab a slice of pizza for myself. I don’t drink all that often.
Nikki scared me away from all of that, the way it took over her life—because the better parties always brought with them the better booze, the better pills, the better fun. But I have to admit that tonight, I don’t really care
about unhealthy coping mechanisms. I just want to forget for a little while that Nikki put my whole life in a blender with
her bullshit memoir. Forget the wink and the smiles and the laugh tracks. Forget her warm skin and her cold heart and what
she did to me.
Regan puts on my favorite trashy reality show and drags me over to the couch so she can rest her head on my shoulder as Johnny clears our plates.
He covers us with my fuzziest blanket when he comes back, not even complaining that I stole his place on the couch, just settling into my old spot on the chair and passing me another beer and another and another, until I can finally breathe for a second.
Until I can believe that in some universe, this might all end up okay.
Of course, that only lasts until the room starts to spin and I commandeer the TV again, drunkenly casting TikToks and reels
to the fifty-five-inch screen. I make them sit through countless clips of my old show and interviews, as well as ones I’ve
found of people ripping into Nikki for her various scandals over the years.
I punctuate each one by saying things like “See, she’s evil, right?” and “Don’t you think I should’ve gotten an Oscar instead
of her?” until Regan declares it’s bedtime and Johnny, the traitor that he is, agrees.
I begin my forced march to brush my teeth and apply my night serums, skincare being the one habit I’ve never given up from
my Hollywood days. I’m interrupted only briefly by a quick visit to the porcelain gods, my stomach rebelling from too many
bad beers and greasy slices of pizza while Johnny paces outside of the bathroom and Regan holds my hair. Normally, this would
bother me, but I’m past the point of caring about anything right now.
“You know what?” I announce, dropping on top of my comforter after brushing my teeth for the second time. “I’m gonna call
Nikki and tell her exactly what I think about her doing this. Put her right in her place for once.”
“No, you’re not,” Johnny says gently, helping Regan tuck me into bed properly. She’s careful to pull my phone from my hand, placing it on the charger across the room—the one I put there in an effort to spend less nights googling.
“You’re going to get some rest, and when you wake up, I’m going to have a fresh bottle of water and some ibuprofen waiting
for you and your hangover.” Regan smiles. “Now sleep.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “S’probably not her number anymore anyway.” I pull my blankets up to my chin and let my eyes slip shut.
“Love you guys,” I say, like we always do before leaving.
“Love you too,” Regan says, shutting the door to my bedroom once she’s satisfied I’m not getting up.
I hear the hall closet door open and shut as I start to drift off and I smile to myself, knowing that sound means one, if
not both of them, will be in my living room when I wake up, snuggled under one of the countless blankets I keep in there.
Maybe I can even convince them we have time for a quick breakfast at our favorite diner before we all leave to open up our
respective shops.
It’s almost enough. Almost.
But right before I fully tip over into dreamland, it hits me—Nikki probably has changed her number. God knows she changed it all the time when were together, especially whenever her more . . . passionate . . .
fans got ahold of it. So, what’s the harm in texting her to tell her off? It’s not like she’d see it anyway, and whoever owns
the number now will probably just delete it assuming it’s a wrong number.
I could get a little closure for my own benefit, no harm, no foul.
Sure, maybe it’s the epitome of drunk logic, but doesn’t it, on some level, make absolute perfect sense?
I roll over to my side, taking a minute to think this through.
One single sober brain cell tries to argue that it’s a bad idea, but the rest of me, especially my heart, decides that it does, in fact, make perfect sense to tell a random wrong number to get wrecked in the name of closure.
Pleased with my “perfect” plan, I creep out of bed, careful not to make a sound. I don’t want Regan or Johnny to come check
on me and blow the whole thing. I get just close enough to reach it, and then snatch my phone off the charger, rushing back
under my covers dramatically, like a kid sneaking screen time after curfew.
I scroll to the name I haven’t dared touch in years and blow out the longest, deepest breath. My finger hesitates just for
a second as I hit unblock, but it’s far, far too late to back out now.
Me: I doubt this is still your number but fuck you and your book
The perfect opening volley, and pretty much all I have to say. Three dots instantly appear, and I grin, expecting them to
say something like “Who is this?” or “Wrong number” or “Fuck you too, whoever you are.”
But then the words from the reply flash across my screen. A frown yanks my lips down as I struggle to process what I’m reading.
Nikki: Holy shit Andy???? Where are you??? Where have you been?!!!
No. No, no, no, this is not the closure I promised myself. This is the opposite of closure. This isn’t drunk logic, this is
a drunk fucking fuckup for the ages. I flop back on my pillow. What the hell do I do now? I shouldn’t write back. I can’t write back.
I have to, though, right? I mean, I can’t let her know she upset me, even though she did. I mean, yes, I wanted her to know,
sure, but not really. Now I just look pathetic. I can fix this. I have to fix this. Okay, I just need to make it sound like I’m doing great without
her. Because I am. Aren’t I? I am! Right? I’m living the goddamn dream. I am doing the thing. Like Regan said, I have a great
life! And I’m going to tell her just that.
Me: Living the dream obvs
I don’t wait for the dots to appear. I don’t even wait for it to say delivered. Instead, I turn my phone off and pull the
blankets tight under my chin, feeling prouder of myself than I have any right to.
I finally got the last word with her after all.