Chapter 20 Stevie
Stevie
Less than a week later, I am the trending headline on every social media outlet. Practically a household name.
While Lex changed my name to Sylvia Simmons in the series—played by his radiant costar, Willa Farrow—it wasn’t hard for greedy reporters to track down the real Sylvia.
Lex made it easy for them. He detailed our high school story, the Moulin Rouge!
performance, and even the car accident, in which he tweaked the true events to fit his narrative.
All it took was a few blabbermouths from my hometown to spill the beans after his show skyrocketed to number one on the streaming platform.
“I went to school with them!”
“Stevie St. James was my best friend!”
“I always knew she and Lex were secretly a couple!”
I feel sick.
I can’t keep up with the tags, texts, and phone calls from obscure numbers. And while I’ve managed to block as many as I can, they keep coming. It’s an endless invasion of privacy.
I’m mid–panic attack when Misty comes barreling through my apartment door with Joplin on her heels as I’m getting ready for my shift at the piano bar.
“Oh my God, Stevie. You’re famous!”
I poke my head out of the box-size bathroom, all the blinds drawn closed, the handmade curtains blocking out any trace of light. Running a flat iron through my hair, I blink at the two faces staring back at me from the hallway.
Misty’s nose scrunches up. “You look like you’re going to puke.”
Ugh.
“Thanks. And here I thought this was a step up from my prior look of cattle pajamas, ice cream stains, and simmering depression.”
Joplin shoves Misty aside and skips over to me. “She was pounding down the apartment door outside. You’ve been dodging everyone’s calls and messages. I had no choice but to let her in before she filed a missing person’s report.” She sends me a look of apology. “Sorry.”
I pull the cord from the outlet and smooth out my baby hairs. “Are there reporters outside? Did they find me?”
“You’re in the clear for now.”
Misty flips a section of red hair over her shoulder, immediately zipping around the apartment to straighten and organize. “I’ll happily sign autographs for you. Oh! Can I be your assistant? Best friends turned business partners in the wake of fame and fortune. It has a catchy ring.”
Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I accept that I do look pukey, despite the makeup and freshly blow-dried hair, and flip off the bathroom light. “You’re talking like this is a good thing. My big break or something.”
“Isn’t it?” Misty finds a mysterious duster underneath the couch and starts cleaning ledges and random surfaces. “This is what you’ve always wanted.”
My face burns.
No , it’s not.
And it kills me because I did want this life; I dreamed about it, every day.
But I never wanted it like this.
This is a sham, a mockery of everything I’ve held dear. This is the residual side effect of something I never got to experience myself—something Lex stole from me and used without my consent—and that hurts more than I can say.
Acting was an art form for me. A beautiful expression of beauty and truth. I wanted to conquer Hollywood because I was meant for it, because people wanted to hear that truth, not because someone exploited me and twisted a story I cherished into a charade.
A lie.
A paycheck .
And now they want to turn me into their little PR puppet to play a role in their next game.
The audacity.
Joplin can see the heat climbing up my neck and gracefully pivots the conversation. “You know, Stevie has a really good set tonight at the piano bar. We should go to support her.”
“I’m down.” Misty flits into the kitchen and starts rummaging around the pantry for snacks. “Oh, maybe I can be your bodyguard? That sounds even cooler.”
Blowing out a sigh, I traipse into the kitchen and pull a bag of chips off the counter. “You have zero upper body strength.”
“It’s not my fault I never grew out of my toddler muscles. I’m effective with sharp objects though. Quick on my feet.”
I crunch a chip and lick my fingers. “Honestly, if I had the extra cash, I’d pay you just to screen my phone calls. I’m even getting harassed by Lex’s people now.”
Her eyes bug out. “Wait, his people? Like his entourage? His celebrity besties?” She gasps. “Did Jacob Elordi call you?”
Joplin actually looks intrigued by this.
“What? No. Just some guy.” I shrug, brushing crumbs off my skirt. “Rudy Sinclair.”
“Did he sound important?”
“He sounded hyper. Said he was Lex’s agent or something. Or someone moonlighting as his agent anyway.”
Another gasp, followed by rapid face fanning. “Dear God, woman. What did he say?”
My cheeks heat, which isn’t a bad thing, considering I could use the added color. “He said we have a common interest, he represents Lexington Hall, and that if I kept an open mind, he wanted me to consider a ‘fabulous opportunity.’” The air quotes are in full swing.
Misty and Joplin gawk at me, unblinking, awaiting the big reveal.
I turn away and pretend to be immersed in everything but this conversation, rushing out, all in one breath, “There’s some charity ball next month, so he offered me an all-expenses-paid trip to LA to attend this very high-profile event as Lex’s date for the evening, which would be a great chance to reconnect with an old friend and boost my public profile, yada yada, but I basically hung up on him so it’s not even—”
“ What ?” they both demand in perfect unison.
My shoulders slump. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Right,” Misty squeaks out. “Just like that one time you accidentally set your bedroom on fire with aromatherapy candles. That wasn’t a big deal either.”
“It was only a slight blaze.”
They both go silent, and I move over to the decorative mirror in the entryway, double-checking my appearance. My newfound style. Joplin calls it “whimsy goth”—an eclectic mix of dark and vintage elements, edgy and feminine.
Black ankle boots pair with a long plaid skirt that flares over sheer tights, and a fitted, deep-purple top with lace trim at the collar and cuffs tucks into the skirt, accentuating my hourglass shape.
A choker with an ornate pendant, the color of shallow ocean waters, hangs at my neck, while dark eyeliner and deep-red lipstick hopefully counter my ghostly complexion.
Speaking of ghosts…
I glance over my shoulder at Joplin and Misty as they stand shoulder to shoulder beside the kitchen table. “What?”
Misty tosses her own bag of chips aside, sighing dramatically.
“Man, Stevie, I admire your willpower, but I really think you should reconsider. An all-expenses-paid trip to Hollywood to attend a glamorous event with famous people?” She shakes her head and tsks her tongue.
“You should put your pride on the back burner for one night and live it up. You deserve it.”
My nose wrinkles.
It’s more than pride. It’s about reclaiming my sense of self after being used as fodder for someone else’s benefit.
Joplin pushes off the table, approaching me. “You know I’m all for holding on to grudges, but Misty does have a point. Maybe you can make some connections while you’re out there.” Her eyes are soft. A dark-green forest of empathy and encouragement. “Get a jump start on your dreams.”
I sigh.
Lex’s agent has tried calling me three more times. Two voicemails pleading his case. But I refuse to show up at that gala, grinning for the cameras, while Lex sits back and basks in the glory of his so-called redemption.
I’m done being part of his narrative. I’m done letting him dictate my story. If he wants to make amends, he’ll have to find another way.
Still, I throw them a bone to end the interrogation. “I’ll think about it,” I lie.
The three of us gather our purses and belongings, and an hour later, I’m in my happy place.
Mr. Hamlin greets me with a warm smile, his silver hair catching the low amber light as he hands me a glass of water. “Stevie!”
“Hey, Mr. Hamlin.” I take a sip of water, and it feels like a boulder slogging down my throat.
“What will it take to get you to call me Henry after all these years?”
I chuckle. “My parents would never approve.”
“I do appreciate good manners.” He swivels away from me in his lime-green suspenders, readjusting a pair of wire-framed glasses. “Very lively crowd tonight. It’s extra packed.”
My eyes dart around the bustling space. It is busier, and I can’t help but wonder if the added turnout has something to do with my sudden notoriety. I take another drink of water, forcing my nerves to settle into something quieter, warmer. “Is it weird that I’m nervous?”
“Not at all.” He shuffles behind the bar, assisting his wife with an order on the register. His glasses dip down his nose as he squints at the screen. “Nerves are the heart’s way of reminding you that you care. If you weren’t nervous, then we’d have something to worry about.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, pursing my lips. “Tonight just feels…different. Like something is about to change.”
He peers up at me. “I suppose this may have something to do with Lexington’s television show, yes?”
My stomach pitches. “Perchance.”
“Take it as a compliment, my dear. Let it roll off you. Clearly, you made an impact on his life, and he turned that connection into a story that touched the world. He immortalized you with art.”
“Did you see the ending?”
“I did,” he says. “I thought it was beautiful and poetic.”
“It was dark and depressing.”
“Perhaps he was projecting, Stevie. I saw it as his way of telling the world he doesn’t think he deserves you.”
My jaw clamps, an emotion-fueled response fizzling out on my tongue. I know Mr. Hamlin means well, but we will never see eye to eye on this.
I glance down at my red-tipped fingernails. “Sure.”
Mr. Hamlin goes quiet, finishing the transaction with a pleasant nod to the customer before turning toward me and pressing forward on the bar top. “You don’t agree.”
A shrug.
“Well, what are you going to do about it then?”
“Keep going, I guess. Move on.”
“Precisely.”