35. Keeley
KEELEY
I t all happens so fast.
There’s a live taping of Mindy and Mills Sunday afternoon, outside at The Grove. They bump a child violinist to fit me in, which I should probably feel bad about but…that kid’s got his whole life ahead of him while with the O’Keefe genes, I’ve got another ten years or so if I’m lucky.
A rack of dresses is delivered to the apartment by a stylist, who quickly rules out everything loose because of my height, and everything dark because of my coloring.
In the end, we agree on a bright pink dress that has a bit of sixties flair to it—sleeveless, with a rounded collar and a built-in belt that loops just above the baby bump.
Graham is in a foul mood throughout, ignoring me and grunting at the stylist when she greets him. And I’ve had it…mostly with the being ignored part.
It’s late by the time the stylist leaves. He’s sitting at the kitchen table on his laptop, acting like I’ve left too.
I ask if he wants to see the dress we chose, and when he grunts, “I’m good,” I finally explode.
“What the hell, dude? My dreams are coming true and you’re being a dick.”
He shuts his laptop and leans back in his seat, letting his eyes fall closed before he looks at me.
“Has it occurred to you how hard life is for celebrities? And how unsafe? Drew Bailey wears a disguise everywhere she goes and still can’t walk out her door without getting photographed.
A guy scaled a twelve-foot fence and hid in their backyard, for God’s sake.
If this goes the way you hope, you’ll spend the rest of your life in danger. ”
I laugh. “I’m not going to be Drew Bailey-level famous. Doctors don’t get stalkers.”
“ You would,” he says morosely. “You’re the type of female even someone mentally stable marries on the fly. Imagine what you’d unleash in someone who wasn’t stable.”
I’m tempted to suggest he’s not acting all that stable himself at the moment, but I manage to refrain. “Drew manages just fine.”
“ Drew doesn’t want to chat with every person she meets,” he counters. “She’s not hanging out at the bakery for twenty minutes catching up with the cashier. She doesn’t stop complete strangers to ask about the meaning of their t-shirts or where they get their hair done.”
My eyes sting. “I’m not that bad.”
He sighs as he rises, tucking his laptop under his arm as he turns for his room. “I never said you were bad, but I worry every time you walk out the door, and it’s about to get worse.”
I wake on Sunday less excited for what lies ahead than I thought.
It’s not because what Graham said worries me.
My plan is to attain the exact right amount of fame: the sweet spot where I get pretty clothes and Khloe and I are workout buddies, but where I can still do whatever I want and talk to whomever I want, and I’m only recognized when it’s convenient for me—like when I need to cut in a line or get a table somewhere.
But—though it was fun having the stylist here and dreaming about it all—the reality is that today isn’t going to be especially interesting.
I’m not going somewhere to diagnose a crazy skin condition.
I’m not even talking about what I know. It’s just going to be all about catching a baby on a kitchen floor, and that’s a story I’m already tired of.
Graham is off doing one of his extensive, unnecessary, workouts while I putter around in the morning, but when it’s time to leave for the studio, I find him waiting.
“I’ll drive you,” he says. He hasn’t shaved since Friday and is in a button-down and jeans. He looks rugged, like an off-duty Secret Service officer.
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I have to get hair and makeup done and it’s a whole thing.”
“I know. I’ll stay.”
“It will be hours—”
“Keeley, do you want to do this alone?”
“No,” I admit. I’d feel a little better if he was with me. I think, perhaps, he’d feel a little better about it too.
“Then let’s go,” he says.
He plugs in the address and drives us slowly, safely across town to The Grove.
I stare out the window, wondering what my mother would make of this moment and when it’s going to feel the way I thought it would.
Because I pictured the excitement and the clothes, and I pictured the compliments, like the stylist telling me I was adorable a thousand times yesterday, but what I didn’t picture was this strange discomfort that’s present at the same time.
It’s nerves, yes, but it’s also this...disconnect.
I thought I loved attention—I’m known for my love of attention—but this is the wrong kind.
Graham parks and walks me to the back door of the building, which temporarily serves as a hair and makeup/greenroom. We take a glass-walled elevator upstairs, through which we can see the entire crowd waiting.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“Are you okay?” Graham asks.
“That’s a lot of people.”
I wait for some kind of admonishment from him, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he reaches over and wraps his hand around mine. His palm is large and warm and dry, while mine is sweaty and cold and small. Nothing has ever felt better.
“It’s all going to be okay,” he says.
I blink back tears. He’s going to be a really good dad. He’s going to make someone a really good husband.
I can see clearly the life he’ll have with her, this mystery female he’ll one day marry.
It will be intensely boring. They’ll eat in all the time and she won’t buy an olive-green suede trench coat that costs as much as their mortgage on a whim.
They won’t go to Cabo for the weekend. They’ll live in a house like Ben and Gemma’s, and they’ll grill in the backyard while our daughter plays in the pool.
It’s the childhood I would have had, probably, if my mom and I hadn’t been so busy dreaming about fame and fortune. How strange that I might be on my way to those things at last, only to find myself dreaming about the boring life Graham will have with someone else.
Upstairs, everyone gushes over me: “your hair is so thick, your lashes are so long, your baby bump is so cute . ” Ice water and snacks are procured. Both Mills and Mindy pop by on their way outside, bubbling over with excitement about the interview, and my video, telling me how impressive I am.
I gush back, of course, claiming I’m thrilled to be here. But out the windows I see thousands of people, and when I close my eyes for the makeup artist, I dream of being anywhere else.
Graham is sitting far across the room, reading on his phone, probably bored and irritated. I send him a text.
Me: You can go.
In the mirror our eyes meet. Whatever he sees in my face makes him smile as he texts me back.
Graham: I want to stay.
Thank God. I need him here and I have no idea why. It’s as if this whole experience is a stormy sea, and he’s my one bit of dry land.
The roar of the crowd as the show begins is deafening. My head jerks and the makeup artist laughs. “Don’t worry. They get worked into a frenzy when we do these shows on location. It’s crazy.”
I’m not sure why she thinks I’d find that comforting.
When I’m finally allowed to get out of the chair, one of the producers is waiting to lead me to the stage.
Graham crosses the room to us, determined to stay by my side as long as possible, and I don’t know if I want to smile or cry. I’m scared if I do either, I’ll ruin my makeup.
I wish he’d grab my hand like he did in the elevator, but that moment seems to be over.
We make our way downstairs, through a hall, and then…
outdoors. The walkway to the stage is cordoned off, but just to the other side of the barricade is a solid wall of people.
I realize they’re not here for me—they simply want to say they saw Mindy and Mills in person and perhaps get on camera themselves—but none of this is what I wanted.
I don’t like what I’m doing here, but I wouldn’t want to be the hosts either, facing a massive, faceless crowd of people they’ll never get to meet.
I turn to Graham, swallowing down my panic. “I guess I’ll see you afterward.”
He hears the uncertainty in my voice, and though he’s clearly tense, he leans down, his lips right beside my ear.
“In an hour, you’ll be back home. I’ll order us both steak frites and we’ll watch the movie about the kidnapper.
You’ll think it’s sexy and I’ll be horrified by your taste but a little turned on. Focus on that.”
Warmth rushes through me. There are ten employees here whose job is to make me feel cared for, but it’s this, it’s Graham knowing just what I need to hear—or maybe the idea of Graham turned on—that actually succeeds.
“Will you give me back my sweatshirt?”
“Now you’re pushing it,” he growls, and when I laugh, he does too.
I climb the stairs to the stage as I’m introduced and there’s a roar from the crowd, which is so vast I can’t even stand to look.
I make it to my seat without tripping. Mindy and Mills both exclaim over the video again and then start asking questions: Was I scared? What went through my head? Do I now get free chicken tikka for life?
I chat away, smiling, making jokes, but I feel like I’ve been kicked into a higher gear than I’m meant to go in—electrified, but not in the “ this is where I was always meant to be ” way I expected.
It’s more like my body is flooded with something toxic, something that can’t be good for me or my daughter.
I’m sweating, my heart is racing, my core temperature way above normal.
This is what my mother wanted for us: the attention, the adulation, people saying some version of, “Keeley, how are you so amazing?” and all I want in the entire world is to get the fuck off this stage, to have it behind me.
Even if they were lauding me for something that warrants it—my current breast size, for instance—I still would hate this.
And if I hate the thing I thought I wanted most, then what, exactly, is left?
“Guess what?” asks Mindy. “We found a s econd video of you.”