5. 5
Isit in the hot tub of my Airbnb—no television in sight. Though my phone won’t stop its buzzing. I should have left it inside the house. I am so tempted to drown it in this tub and buy a new one tomorrow. Instead, I glance down at the names lighting up my smart screen.
Mom.
Mom.
Mom.
And Eryn.
But I can’t answer. I know what’s happening right now. Yes, they’re watching it. But I lived it.
I walked down that beach, trying to be a good human, doing what felt right inside. I went to say my goodbyes, to wish them both good luck. To tell them they deserved to be loved—a kind of love that I couldn’t give them. I wanted to do what was right, not easy.
Instead, Patrick and Broc stood united against me. They each told me how they never loved me, how they could never be with someone as selfish and out of touch as me. Instead of allowing me to say goodbye and God bless, they each rejected me on a very personal level—rejection with a capital R.
Such an intimate attack on my character and integrity hurt. But I didn’t love them either. I didn’t want a life with either of them. I think I could have lived with the jabs and rejection with peace had it not been for the plotting, the scheming, the lies. I tried to tell them both sooner—neither allowed it. I wasn’t trying to humiliate them or ruin their lives. I was just trying to be honest with myself and with them.
I am certain that after tonight, Patrick will have killed his own image. The world—at least, anyone decent—will find him as repulsive as I do. However, he took me down with him.
My image is scarred—and possibly for life. If my job and passion didn’t put me in the spotlight, it might blow over. But the world is watching, and this… I have no idea how I’ll recover.
Unfortunately, in the world of fame, loving yourself and wanting yourself isn’t enough to make the world want you too.
I sit in the torrid water and steamy air for another half an hour before I’m brave enough to listen to my voicemails.
“Delaney,” my sister says, her tone thick with worry. “Are you there? Are you okay? Why didn’t you say anything? Call me back, sis.”
I sigh. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t face another human, not even my sister. Not with this.
And then my mother’s voice sounds through the speaker of my phone. “You couldn’t have just married one of them, Delaney Sage?”
And another— “Do you know what you’ve done to our family image? Does your selfishness have no limits? That boy may have been right about you. You should have given him a chance.”
A third message begins, but I dunk my head beneath the hot water and shut out all of Claire Jones’ words. I hold my breath as long as I can, as long as humanly possible. And when I come up for air, Mom’s voice has left the building. Her lecture is over and I can breathe.
Crap. And double crap.
Thank you sooo much, Rizzy—my airport friend.
You just had to take that far-away photo of me. You just had to share it on social media. You just had to tag your location.
The Judys exploded during our first two years as artists. We toured, we hired stylists and bodyguards. We stayed on top of the charts for four years. But the last two years have been—well, slower. Steady, but fixed. Our original fans still like our original stuff. But the new stuff, in my opinion, has no heart. It’s the old stuff worked over and half our fans aren’t buying it. Why would they? I’m not buying it.
Still, sales are steady—but no longer increasing.
With the slower pace, we stopped needing certain things—like those helpful men called bodyguards.
Until today.
It’s the day after my fabulous Celebrity Wife finale and Rizzy has led the media right to me. Somehow right to my Airbnb welcome mat.
Once again, new friend—thanks for that.
I feel like a mouse trapped in a box with a dozen cats surrounding me. Really, there’s a guy with a camera on my front porch, and I swear I saw one in the backyard, though I booked a house with a six-foot fence. I’m not surrounded by a hoard. But I won’t stay in this trap. I’m growing claustrophobic by the second.
I need out.
Stepping out of the shower, I throw on my ripped jeans, a short-sleeved, mint-green tunic top, and my cross-strap wedge sandals. I don’t bother drying my long hair; instead, I gather it to the side and weave the thick mane into an ash-blonde braid. I throw on a baseball cap and find my shades before making my escape.
I watch secretly, waiting for the vulture out front to cross to the sideyard, and then I slip out the door, closing it as if there were a newborn infant sleeping on the other side. I knew I should have gotten a house with a garage. I had to choose—garage or hot tub—and I chose the tub.
I almost make it to my rental before vulture number one spots me. Thankfully, it’s just the two vultures on the prowl today. A hoard would make it hard to escape at all.
The windows of this car are dark, but not dark enough. I lock the doors, but he’s still trying the handle, and that makes me jumpy. With my pulse thrumming a thousand miles a minute, I peek in the rear, like someone might be waiting for me in the backseat. I wouldn’t put it past the media.
“Lane!” I hear him yell through the safety of the vehicle. “Just a few questions!”
Again, the lack of a crowd is encouraging. The slime at my window has his camera out and flashing, but at least there’s no one behind me. I can back out.
I do, just as vulture number two finds his way to the front of the house. The first man waves a hand at him—they must be together.
Good, because while he’s getting his partner to hurry to the car, I will be gone. I hit the gas, and take off like a bullet in this quiet residential area.
I make my way around the lake twice when my stomach starts to growl. There was that sandwich place right next to the gallery I went to the other day, and it had a back parking lot. My car wouldn’t be visible from the main road for everyone to spy.
After another lap around the lake, I decide that no one around me looks suspicious, and no one is following me. We are in Idaho, after all. I drive to the sandwich shop and google before I get out of the car to see if they have an online ordering system. They don’t. So, I sit another minute before donning my darkest pair of sunglasses and stuffing my giveaway hair up into my ball cap. It isn’t an easy task with my thick hair, but I get most of it stuffed inside of the L.A. Dodgers cap. I throw on a jacket, though it’s seventy degrees out. I’m feeling pretty smothered between the cap and coat on this sunny May day.
I head into the shop, but it’s packed. Is this the only place to eat in this town? Instinct has me turning right back around. Chances are at least one person in that room watched Celebrity Wife last night. And I don’t want to be anywhere near them.
Ugh. Is that dumb show going to haunt me for the rest of eternity?
So much for Ash’s brilliant plan. Still, I can’t blame her. I’m not looking for love. I know that. I knew that going in. I went in without the right intentions, so of course it came back and bit me in the butt.
There”s a man with a camera across the street. Not a phone or a Polaroid, but a big-man camera. I can”t tell if he”s the man who hid in my backyard, but it”s enough to send me to the closest, quietest place available.