Chapter Five
“Pop-Tart?” Cash called out from the hall. “Can I come in?”
Poppy stared morosely at the bedroom door. “If you want.”
The door opened, and Cash slipped inside the room, hair still wet from his shower. “I, uh, made your favorite.” He lifted
the glass in his hand, showing off the smoothie he’d made. “Strawberry matcha, which I stand by tasting like dirt, but you
like it, so . . .”
“You didn’t need to do that.” She held out a hand for the smoothie. “But thank you.”
Cash hovered awkwardly beside the bed. “I just got off the phone with my folks. They’ll be at the game. They’re on board.”
Part one of Rosaline’s master plan to hard launch Lyric and Cash’s relationship was in motion. If they couldn’t stop people
from talking, the next best strategy would be to make sure they were talking about Lyric and Cash’s relationship the way they—Rosaline—wanted.
By hard launching at an NFL game, not only would their relationship automatically have an international spotlight shined on
it, but so would Lyric’s upcoming album. And if Lyric was seen publicly interacting with Cash’s parents, the relationship
wouldn’t look like some rebound; Lyric wouldn’t look like a girlfriend—she’d look like potential daughter-in-law material.
She’d have to be blind not to see the plan’s positives, but there were also a boatload of cons, most of which would befall Cash should the relationship go south.
How was it Rosaline had put it? The higher you climb, the harder you fall?
The more serious the relationship appeared, the more Lyric’s fans would be crushed for her if they split.
The blame would fall squarely on Cash’s shoulders, and he’d have to face the fallout of breaking the heart of America’s sweetheart pop star.
She couldn’t help but worry.
Cash took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re upset. That article blindsided all of us, but we talked, Lyric and
I, and she’s on board with this new plan. She doesn’t want to hide—not me, not this, not any of it. And honestly? Neither
do I. She’s amazing, Poppy, and she deserves someone who isn’t afraid to be all in with her. To—to walk in the sun with her.”
Walk in the sun? “Have you been listening to Cyndi Lauper?” she teased.
He ducked his head, trying to hide the blush that crept up his jaw and turned his ears red. “Lyric likes her.”
Her heart squeezed, affection swelling up inside her. Listening to new-wave pop? He really must be smitten.
“That’s sweet.” She squeezed his fingers. “And I’m not trying to discredit either of your feelings. I’m just nervous? It’s—it’s
been less than a month, Cash, and you’re already planning on going public.”
He tugged his hand free and scowled petulantly. “It’s a football game, not a marriage proposal. Would you be telling me I
was moving too fast if some regular girl was coming to one of my games?”
“But that’s just it. She’s not a regular girl. She’s Lyric Adair. A football game isn’t just a football game—it’s a declaration. You’re going to be inviting the whole world into your brand-new
relationship,” she warned. “Are you ready for that?”
“This isn’t a game to me,” he swore. “Or if it is? I’m playing for keeps.
I appreciate the concern, I do, but this is something Lyric and I need to figure out.
Together. Because you’re right about one thing—she’s not a regular girl.
This is her life and if I want to be a part of it, I need to get used to everything that entails, the good and the bad, the hard and the messy.
Our relationship won’t be real if we build it in a bubble.
If we’re gonna make it, we’ve got to learn how to drown out the noise. ”
When Cash put his mind to something, there was no deterring him. She knew better than to try. “If you say so.”
“I do.” He gave her a chuck on the chin and smiled. “Chin up, Pop-Tart. And don’t let Rosaline Sinclair get in your head.”
She rubbed her eyes and groaned. “You didn’t hear the way she spoke to me on the phone. She thinks I’m a total hack.”
A strange look passed over his face, his mouth opening and closing without saying a word.
She straightened and frowned. Nothing good ever came from a quiet Cash. He was kind of like a cat or a toddler that way. Silence
usually spelled trouble. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, too breezy to be unfeigned.
“Cash.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Okay, I didn’t want to make it weird, but you work for me, Poppy. Not Rosaline. And for what it’s worth, I couldn’t be happier with your performance.”
She snorted. “Right, sure. My inability to protect your privacy and keep your relationship hidden from the press really screams capable.”
“I know you’re not apologizing for something we both know damn well wasn’t your fault. What’s this really about?”
She gave her smoothie a stir, jabbing the straw through a piece of fruit that hadn’t been totally obliterated by the blender’s blades. “It’s stupid.”
“Lucky for you I’m fluent in dumbass.” He gave her a lopsided smile and bumped her shoulder, jostling her lightly. “Come on.
Lay it on me.”
Can’t say she didn’t warn him. “I just wanted her to be impressed, you know?”
“Rosaline?”
“No, the Easter Bunny.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Rosaline.”
His brow furrowed. “Since when is the Easter Bunny a girl?”
She stared. “God love you, Cash, but when you said you were fluent in dumbass, I didn’t need you to prove it.”
“Off topic, right.” He winced. “I can’t say I love this, Pop. You twisting yourself in knots to win someone’s approval.”
She looked away, fiddling with her straw.
No one had ever taught her how to make friends and she’d definitely not been a natural at it. Eventually, she’d learned a
cheat code, a way to fake it until she made it: mimicry. All she had to do was look around and imitate the people around her,
do what they did. Watch the same shows, feign interest in the same silly gossip, shop at the same stores, and wear the same
clothes. After a while, it wasn’t too hard to secure invitations to the same parties where she learned to drink the same beer
and play the same drinking games and fool around in the same closets. She’d learned how to fit in, but it had required constant
vigilance. Poppy had never not been thinking, never not analyzing the behaviors of everyone around her and weighing her own
against them. She could never drop her guard, never be herself and, after a while, she’d forgotten what being herself even
looked like.
Who was Poppy Peterson anyway?
College had been a breath of fresh air, granting her the freedom to figure out who she was without all the bullshit artifice getting in her way, without worrying constantly what everyone thought of her.
Classes had been challenging, work-study jobs had kept her busy, and the campus had offered a plethora of clubs, all opportunities for her to discover the beat of her own drum and learn to dance to it.
Life had been good, and she had been happy, and then she’d graduated and got a job working at a midsize PR firm in Portland, which had been fine, and reconnected with a few old classmates, which had been .
. . less fine. Overnight, it had been like all the work she’d done on herself was erased and she was right back in high school, feeling wrongfooted and second-guessing her every move.
Only this time, she had all the responsibilities that came with being an adult. All the stress.
Suddenly, Poppy had been unmoored. Cash, her best friend and the only person she’d never felt like she had to fake it around,
was in Seattle, playing for the Seahawks. She was lonely and—it wasn’t an excuse—she fell into some really terrible habits.
A glass of wine to unwind after work all too easily became a bottle, and a beer with friends meant blacking out. Soon, she
hadn’t been able to function without a drink, a little something to take the edge off and relieve the near constant stress
she was under. Stress that, in hindsight, was mostly of her own making.
The after-work and weekend drinks turned into a splash of vodka in her morning cappuccino and that splash became a shot and
that shot became a heavy-handed pour that had her slurring in a meeting, and suddenly, Poppy was packing up her desk, fired.
She’d gone to a local bar and—she’d already fucked up, why not drown her sorrows and numb the pain?
She’d woken up in the hospital missing the last twelve hours.
Her parents had been called, her emergency contact, and they’d looked at her with such abject disappointment, as if they didn’t recognize her.
Not much of a shock considering they hardly ever spoke and when they did the conversations were little more than perfunctory, surface-level “how are you?” questions that were never intended to be answered honestly or deeply, Poppy already too much of a burden by simply existing, let alone requiring actual nurturing.
The real problem was that Poppy hadn’t been able to recognize herself. She’d needed help, help that Cash had been eager to
provide when he heard through the grapevine, from his grandparents, that she’d been in the hospital and later, when she spilled
her guts to him on the phone and he learned the full extent of how not okay she was. He’d gotten on the first flight he could,
helping her pack a bag and bringing her back to Seattle with him. A few short months later, Cash was the first player selected
in the NFL’s expansion draft and they were headed back to Portland. He’d needed a new publicist, Poppy had desperately needed
a job, and the rest was history.
Cash was her rock, picking her up when she was at her lowest and helping her put herself back together, giving her a job and
a place to live, helping her find a purpose. He’d saved her life and she’d never stop owing him for that.
So she understood his concern, but this wasn’t history repeating itself. Approval wasn’t what she was seeking from Rosaline