7. Octavia
Chapter 7
Octavia
T he hospital has these little charts.
They used to have numbers on them from one to ten. Now they have little smiley faces that are green, and then a bunch of other faces, changing colors as they go all the way down to a bright red angry face. When you present in the ER or your doctor’s office for some complaint, they always ask you how you’re feeling. You can point at the chart and let them know if you’re green or red or something in between. Part of their job these days is supposed to be to manage your pain.
Maybe it’s because it happened a long time ago. Maybe it’s because our insurance sucked, so I was pretty much always a charity case. But when I was small, during the months I spent in the hospital after my burn, they didn’t ask me about my pain level, not even when they were debriding the wound. They just threatened to sedate me if I screamed too loud.
Being sedated, the way they said it, felt like a terrible threat.
Now, I realize I should have insisted on it. Because their little scales that went from one to ten were insufficient. Even now, with the faces? They’d need a drawing of someone writhing in agony to represent how I felt when they scraped the burned flesh off of my face, my neck, and my arm.
If you’d asked me for a number, it was a twenty-seven.
During those weeks, I got really, really good at ignoring pain.
Even so, there was one pain I couldn’t ignore. During my first weeks at the hospital, my mom never came. She didn’t hold my hand. She didn’t lie next to me and tell me stories. She didn’t tell me that my hair would grow back where it had melted off, or that everything would be okay.
She wasn’t there at all.
Only my dad came.
He’s the one who held my hand when they did grafts from other places to get the hair back. He’s the one who held my hand. He’s the one who told me it was going to be okay. When I begged him to get my mom, he told me that she’d come as soon as My Fair Lady was over. She had finally gotten the part she wanted, and she wasn’t going to let that chance pass her by, wasted.
I wished I hadn’t ever made the dumb deal.
If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have worn the wig and gotten burned. And I wouldn’t have been sitting in here alone all day while my dad went to work. Unlike me, my mom never seemed to struggle with regret. She took her shot, no matter what. But at the time, it felt like she cared more about that cursed play than she did about her daughter.
That thought hurt.
It hurt more than the pain of debridement.
And it hurt more than the looks of pity I got from the hospital staff while they worked on my face. It even hurt more than the recovery from repeated surgeries, including the one that failed after they tried to expand my existing flesh.
I learned that it hurts to feel like you don’t matter.
I knew then and there, I never wanted to feel like that again.
So when Jake kissed me—I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more special than I did in that moment, but that was terrifying.
Jake Priest—when I first met him, I was absolutely starstruck.
The Jake Priest.
Then I became friends with his sister, and I realized he was a real person, like any other. Even so, the more time I spent with him, the more I realized that he is a person, but he’s also like a walking Adonis kind of person.
He’s handsome.
He’s hilarious.
He’s clever.
He’s brave and he defends what he thinks is right.
And he can act.
He sings pretty darn well, too.
When his mouth presses against mine, and it feels like that scene in every single romance I’ve ever read, I realize that I’m not just starstruck.
I like Jake Priest.
Like, I really, really like him.
And that’s bad, bad, bad. The reason it hurt me so much when my mom didn’t come to the hospital is that I cared, deeply, about what she thought. I cared whether she loved me. I cared whether she was willing to sacrifice for me.
So when she wasn’t. . .
When Jake Priest releases me, my entire body’s trembling. My hopes are soaring, and my heart is hammering, and my whole body cries out for just one more touch. Which is the most terrifying thing I’ve experienced in more than a decade.
There are some things in this world that just are.
Gravity keeps us all grounded.
The earth rotates around the sun.
And Jake Priest will wind up with some kind of goddess.
I don’t hate myself. I’m an exceptionally talented vocalist. I’m smart, too. But a goddess, I will never be. No surgery, no magical mask, and no amount of makeup will ever make me someone who can walk alongside Jake Priest without causing the entire world to laugh.
Plus, he just lied to protect me.
We haven’t been dating.
He threw me a bone—a charity bone to a pathetic stray. That’s what this kiss was, and I need a nice bucket of ice water, pronto, so I remember that. “I have to go,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Jake’s brow furrows and his mouth dangles open, but Bea catches my eye and nods, and then she practically drags me out like I’m Princess Diana. We’re crashing past crew, actors, and onlookers alike, and then we’re out the door and she’s waving at the driver who brought us.
“Octavia’s sick. We need to go straight back.”
It’s not strictly a lie. I do feel pretty lousy. When we hop in the van, I notice people trailing us—with their phones out.
Bea swears under her breath. “Step on it.” She drops a hand over mine, but she doesn’t say another word.
I’m not sure how she always knows the right thing to do. Maybe it’s a gift from those amazing foster parents she’s always going on about. When we get to our hotel, Bea goes right to the room, points at the bathroom, and says, “Pajamas.”
“It’s barely noon.”
She shrugs.
Once I have the makeup washed off and I’m in pajamas as ordered, Bea’s ready for me. She’s got six pints of ice cream on a tray and her laptop’s perched on the end of the bed.
“We’re watching a movie and having a contest.”
“Contest?”
She quirks her brow. “A taste test?”
I can’t help smiling. “That sounds better than a contest. What flavors did you get?”
“Rocky road, mint chocolate chip, cookies and cream, peaches and cream, strawberry, and fudge ripple.”
“Shoot, you already missed the boat.”
She frowns.
I cross to the freezer in the corner of the room and pull out my secret stash item. “If you’ve never tried gooey butter cake, you’ve never lived.”
Bea straightens so fast she nearly knocks the tray over. “Butter cake?”
“It’s a Southern flavor my dad showed me—Blue Bell ice cream makes it, and it’s hard to find here, but Walgreens will get it if you request it. It’s the best southern ice cream company, and it’s about to change your life.”
“A little like that kiss just did?” She smirks.
My hands wobble, but I don’t drop the ice cream.
She pats the bed. “We don’t have to talk about it.” She scootches over as I get on. But then she whispers, “But I swear, I’ve never seen a kiss on the screen that looked that hot.” She bites her lip and her eyes dance.
“Hot?” I hate that now my voice is wobbling.
Bea’s nose scrunches. “ Hot .”
“Well, I’m sure that’s just Jake’s version of charitable outreach, but even so, it wasn’t bad.” I cough. “Not bad at all.”
“Then why are we binging ice cream?” Bea’s lip curls. “Should we be celebrating instead?” Her eyes light up. “Because I’ve known Jake for a very long time, and I’ve never seen him do anything charitable.” She leans forward. “Never ever.”
I laugh. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“No.” Bea shakes her head. “It is true. Jake’s many things, but charitable isn’t among them. And he also only kisses someone he doesn’t want to kiss if they’re paying him a lot of money.” Now her smirk is one hundred percent back in place.
So she’s saying that if he kissed me, and no one was paying him. . .he wanted to do it? Now my hands are wobbling again as I set the ice cream next to the others on the tray. “It’s different for me,” I say. “Because I’m your friend. He wanted to help me because of you.”
“Maybe.” Bea stares at me for a second, and then she spins on her toe and grabs the laptop to pull up Netflix.
“The Kissing Booth ?” I can’t help my snort. “Really?”
“It has a great kiss scene,” she says. “And I want to see whether it’s better than what I just saw. . .”
We’re both laughing as we try the different ice creams. The show’s worse than I remember it being, but strangely compelling, too. We both have a good time making fun of it. And I can’t help noticing that the couple in the show gets their start with a kiss that isn’t quite the normal ‘post-date-lip-mash’ that most things start with.
Just like the kiss I just had.
My fingers brush against my lips.
And my phone rings.
It’s an unknown number.
“Who is it?” Bea peers over the tray of melting ice cream. “Is it. . .” Her eyes widen and she whistles. “First he kissed you, and now he’s calling you?”
“Wait.” I wave the phone at her, because it’s displaying a number I don’t have saved. “Is this Jake?”
Bea rolls her eyes. “Of course it is.”
My heart accelerates. Do I answer it? Do I ignore it? Right before it can go to voicemail, I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, there,” a man with a pronounced Southern accent says. “My name’s Roy, and boy do I have a great offer for you.”
My heart sinks.
“Today only, I can offer you fifty percent off on an auto-warranty extension.”
“Um, that’s okay,” I say. “My warranty’s fine.”
The accent disappears. “I’m kidding,” Jake says. “It’s me.”
I choke a little, but I hope he can’t hear it through the phone. “I knew that.”
“You did?”
“I mean, I—well.”
“Bea gave me your number. I hope that’s okay.”
I glare at her and mouth, “A little heads up next time.” Next time she gives a movie star my number at his request? Breathe, Octavia, breathe. “Well, since we’re dating now, I guess it’s fine.” I snort.
“About that.”
There’s a knock at the door of our room. “Shoot,” I say. “There’s someone here. I have to go. Should I call you back so we can work out some kind of story to get out of this?”
“Sure,” he says. “Call me back.”
I hang up the phone and point at the door. “You get it,” I hiss.
Bea shakes her head. “Not a chance. I’m in pajamas here.”
“So am I!” I protest. “But you look lovely in yours.”
“Lovely?” Bea squeaks, and then she disappears into the bathroom. Her voice is muffled when she shouts, “You look adorable. You can do it!”
“Coward,” I shout.
It’s probably just housekeeping running late or something. It’s only three in the afternoon. I check my pajamas to make sure they’re not too appalling. I’m wearing a pink t-shirt and blue plaid pants. Other than an ice-cream blob on my left boob, I’m fine. And really, is anyone from housekeeping going to care? Let’s hope not.
I yank the door open. “We don’t really need any—” My mouth dangles open.
Jake’s holding a box and smiling at me. “Surprise.”
I am going to kill Bea. She had to know.
“I know you didn’t say I could come over, but I thought after the shock I gave you earlier, you might want some sugar, and. . .” His eyes cut past me and widen as he notices the multitude of empty ice cream cartons.
“Your sister had the same idea.” I smile. “But that was very nice.”
“I’m sorry.” Jake’s hands droop, the box with the words ‘Cake Monkey’ emblazoned on the top tilting a little.
“You’re sorry?” I can’t keep my lip from twitching a little. “For what, exactly?”
“All of it,” he says. “Kissing you without warning. Telling people we were dating. I shouldn’t have just done that, but Patty was being so annoying, and I just thought?—”
“You didn’t think at all.” Bea storms out of the bathroom. “You’re such an idiot.”
Jake’s gorgeous face flushes. “Like you think things through before you do stuff.”
“This isn’t about me, though.” Bea drops her hands on her hips. “And what you did was rude . Octavia can defend herself.”
“Only, she doesn’t,” Jake says. “I watched you just say ‘okay’ when they were shafting you, and Patrice should have known what she was doing was wrong, but she didn’t. So I thought that if Octavia could get a little boost on social from?—”
“A boost from you kissing her?” Bea’s really on a roll now. Her eyes are flashing, and she tosses her hair, which is tantamount to pressing the big red button for her. “As if you’re God’s gift.”
“You gave me her number,” Jake says, his hands waving in response. “You said I should come over and try to make things right.” The box is now totally sideways.
I know it’s strange, but I’ve become almost fixated on the dessert box. What did he get? Nothing from a bakery is ever better for being turned sideways. If it’s cookies, maybe they’ll survive, but a cake?
It’s a goner.
The two of them have totally forgotten about the small, peace-offering cake, and I feel a little like it must.
Superfluous.
“What is that?” Bea follows my eyes to the box, finally noticing it.
“Oh.” Jake’s eyes widen and he rights it. “Cake Monkey makes the best cakes in LA, I swear. I had a gluten free one once, which is usually code for ‘tastes nasty,’ but I had no idea it was even gluten free. Like your singing, they’re the very best at what they do, so, anyway.” He holds it out to me again.
“Uh, thanks,” I say. “But for the record, I’m not upset. You don’t need to apologize. I get it—you were just trying to lend a hand.”
“Or a mouth , you dirty slut,” Bea mutters.
“Sure,” I say. “A mouth, and I appreciated the sentiment.”
“You did?” Jake’s grinning now.
I take the box. “I like cake, too. Even if I can’t eat it right now, having recently consumed half a gallon of ice cream.”
“And does taking my peace offering indicate that you’re not mad at me?” Jake arches one eyebrow.
“Sure,” I say. “I’m not angry. I think I understand why you did it, and?—”
“Actually, that’s why I came by, really.” Jake steps closer.
Bea inhales sharply.
“To tell me you were defending me.” I nod. “I get it, believe me. And I appreciate what you were trying to do, but you don’t have to do it anymore. We can say whatever you want—break it off officially whenever is best for you.”
Jake shakes his head. “I did get mad at Precious Patty and the studio, and I did want to protect you, and when I said we were dating, I thought maybe. . .” He sighs.
“See?” I say. “It’s fine.”
Jake steps closer still, his broad chest awfully close to my face. “It’s not that, though. Because when I kissed you. . .” His eyes trail up, up, up until he’s looking right at me. “I liked it, a lot. More than I thought I. . .” He swallows. “It was surprising.”
I have no idea what to say.
“And when I thought about how I wasn’t really dating you. . .” He shakes his head. “I wanted it to be true. So I came over to see if maybe you would want to go on a date.”
“Right now?” Bea’s voice sounds a little choked.
“Not now, idiot,” Jake says. “I have to go in to film a scene in an hour.” He clears his throat. “But tomorrow night, I’m off.” He lifts both eyebrows. “We could maybe go somewhere and talk without my sister’s commentary.” The side of his mouth curls up.
My stomach lurches, and I can’t believe it when I say, “Sure. I’d like that.”
As if the idea of me dating Jake Priest for real isn’t the most ludicrous thing in the world. As if the kiss we shared really meant something. As if it’s not really just an extension of a publicity stunt.
Probably to protect me.
If we do go on a few fun dates, it’s definitely going to hurt more when reality really sets in. There’s no way someone like Jake really likes someone like me. And there’s no way America will ever accept it. And and and.
But he is standing right in front of me, and that was the singular best kiss of my entire life. It was better than I ever imagined a kiss might be. So. . . Instead of being smart and telling him it’s a bad idea, instead of calling off the insanity, instead of making the smart move, I just smile as he leaves, and I keep right on smiling as Bea squeals. And then, after I go to sleep, I dream of kissing him again. And again. And again.