Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
W e stop at the downtown hotel suite to change clothes—him, a deep blue tuxedo jacket, white shirt, black pants, no bowtie; me, a strapless neon leather Bottega Veneta dress. The stylist pairs it with metallic heels that make my legs look miles long. The waiting glam team works quickly to put my hair into a messy ponytail and smoke out my eyes before we jet down to a car and head off to the first of three parties.
The Universal Music Group after-party is the see-and-be-seen spot of the night, Matt explains. We walk in and have more photos taken, which only reminds me I'm not even close to figuring out the posing thing. Also, I haven't looked at my phone since we left for the red carpet. That was at Matt's urging early this morning over coffee. “Let's just enjoy the night before we have to deal with whatever is happening on the Internet.”
Matt is stopped by an old friend. He introduces me, and after we exchange hellos, I whisper that I'm going to get us drinks. I find my way through the crowd and stand in line at the closest bar. I feel someone approach me on the right, and a quick glance over reveals it to be Kerri Taylor, a Grammy-winning country music artist, a flawless specimen with legs as long as her platinum blond hair. I discreetly scan her face and can’t find a single blemish or even a pore. She is perfect. And she happens to be one of the many women Matt dated once upon a time.
“So, someone finally tamed the dragon that is Matt Johnson,” she drawls in her faux-Southern accent.
“I’m not sure he needed to be tamed.” I smile and hold out my hand. “I’m Julia Anderson.” I sound much more confident than I am.
“I heard. Me and the rest of the world, as of just a few hours ago,” she says, a Cheshire Cat smile on her perfectly enhanced lips.
“Congratulations on your award tonight,” I say, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
“Thank you. Tell me, how do you keep him from running? From what I remember about Matt Johnson—and a few other ladies have told me the same—he packs it up and heads for the hills as soon as the little honeymoon phase is over.” She gives me a steely gaze. I stand there speechless while she orders a cocktail. A vodka martini, straight up.
“I guess they weren’t the right ones for him, then.”
“Keep telling yourself that, honey." She starts to walk away. Before she's swallowed up by the crowd, she turns around.
"When he starts talking in sonnets and soliloquies and promising you the world, get ready for him to split. Just a friendly warning. We women must look out for each other, right?” she says with a noxious smile, as casually as one would report the day’s weather. She walks away, leaving me stunned.
I find my way back to Matt, shaken from the interaction, and hand him his tequila on the rocks.
“Babe, I thought I lost you.” He hugs me close.
“No, no, just mingling with some of the other people here.” I don't mention Kerri; I don't want to spoil the mood. I smile and chat with Matt and these people, chiming in and laughing at the right times. I don’t miss the fact that no one asks me a single question, but I let it roll of my back. This is Grammy night, after all, but I'm starting to assess that even outside the glitz and glam of the night, many of these people are deeply self-involved.
We leave the party after an hour and then stop by a second party thrown by Matt's label. It's more of the same as the first party, but at a different location. By the end, my head is spinning as I try to remember the names and faces.
Finally, we leave the label party and drive to meet some of Matt’s closest friends at a private event in a mansion somewhere up in the hills. This party is much more low-key, and I find myself fully relaxing for the first time since the day started at seven a.m. The drinks consumed at each stop along the way help, too. I run into a few women in the bathroom who are genuinely friendly, normal, and hilarious. I spend most of the night hanging out with them and sneaking kisses with Matt, who seems just as relaxed and completely unguarded; he is perfectly comfortable here in this multimillion-dollar house in the Hollywood Hills with these very famous people. The thought lingers, and I wonder if I could ever feel truly comfortable here.
Toward the end of the night, I notice a very curvy brunette indie singer, another ex of Matt's. I watch her from across the room—her confidence, her perfectly polished face, her ability to so easily navigate a party full of this caliber of celebrity. And once again, some ancient insecurities try to rear their ugly heads, creating tiny fissures of doubt. About what, I'm not sure, but it produces an overall feeling of unease.
I do my best to stay present and enjoy the moment—the music, the views of downtown LA in the distance. Matt is attentive and affectionate as always, but it feels new doing it so obviously out in public. He seems eager to make up for lost time. He tells me he loves me often, and I believe him. I know I love him, too, but am waiting to tell him till we can be alone. He doesn't seem to notice the many pairs of eyes on him, half a dozen female admirers. But I do. I see them look at him and then look at me, eyes scanning me from the top of my head to my toes, sizing me up. I'm convinced I hear them whisper, That's his girlfriend? Who is she? I do my best to meet their gaze, emboldened by the fact that Matt's hand rests possessively on my waist and the fact that I can still feel him dripping out of me.
* * *
We do not get back to the suite until the sun begins to rise. Matt and I are smoked from the day and night, and we fall asleep in our hotel robes in a heap on top of the bed. By the time we wake, it's nearly noon. My throbbing head is a cruel reminder that I am no longer in my twenties. Hell, I'm barely even in my thirties anymore. Matt lies strewn across the bed with a pillow over his head.
“Why did we drink so much tequila?” he moans.
“I’m pretty sure that was all your idea, rock star.” I gather up our belongings and start tossing them haphazardly in bags.
“I am too old for this shit.” He rolls onto his stomach.
“You and me both.” I walk over and climb onto his back, gently massaging his shoulders, raking my fingers through his hair. He groans with pleasure.
“Let's pack up our stuff and get the hell out of here,” I say. “Go back to your house, take a very hot bath, order bacon, egg, and cheese bagels, Thai food, and giant ice-cold fountain Cokes, and sit our asses on your couch for the rest of the day.”
“That sounds divine.” He reaches to grab his phone from the nightstand.
I watch his face as he scrolls through his messages and alerts.
“I haven’t looked at the Internet yet,” I say. My own phone sits on the coffee table out in the seating area. “I just read through my texts.” I had over one hundred texts this morning, most from my inner circle, at least fifty from Dave alone.
Christine:
Dave: NEED BTS DETAILS ASAP
Meg: I can't believe this is happening to me (via you). Both of you are insanely attractive.
Meredith: Wow. You are the chicest woman there. PS- I already checked Twitter and reported any account that said anything mean about you.
Mom: You don’t look scared, good job, hon.
Ryan: Your boyfriend looks like a real goober in that tux. Tell him I said that.
Natasha, Scott, Matt in the group text: Cat's outta the bag! Looking good, lovebirds!
Chip Barrington (work): I guess you do have a personal life. This could be great PR.
I cringe at Chip.
Rita: Sid says tell Julia she is stunning. Tell Matt his jacket looks too big. Tell them both that I love them and want all the credit for making this happen. From me: You look beautiful and happy, sweetie.
The last is a text from a number that isn't saved in my phone but that I know by heart. It came in late—after three a.m. EST.
Unknown: I know you don't owe me anything, but I wish you’d let me know this was happening.
Nick.
Shit.
I never contacted him. I couldn't muster up the courage.
“I don’t have the stomach to read anything else right now,” I say to Matt.
“I don’t either. Let's go home, and we’ll do it once we feel better.”
Home .
* * *
It's a disorienting sensation, feeling like Matt and I are completely fine, unchanged in our world and in our relationship with each other, while at the same time, there is an entire world out there that only exists online, where people are having their own experience of us. It is bizarre.
We ride back to Matt’s with the windows down, the cool air blowing my hair all around, music blasting, sun on our faces. It feels perfect.
Once we execute the hangover plan, Matt and I find ourselves snuggled up on the couch, and it seems like now or never.
“You look, and just tell me,” I say nervously, hiding my eyes behind my hair as he starts scrolling his phone.
He pauses for a moment and looks at me. “Jules. You know none of this matters.” He holds up his phone. “This world is not real, but this”—he squeezes my hand—“what we have, this is real. And this is all that matters.”
“I feel like you’re trying to prepare me for something bad.”
“No, not at all. I’m just saying, I want you to always remember that. The press is fickle. They love you, then they hate you. They’ll turn on you, cancel you, faster than you can even refresh your news feed. We cannot tether ourselves to their whims. It’s so much noise, and it takes practice to tune it out. Just promise me, you’ll trust that this—this thing you and I have, the love, right here in this room—is real, and that is all that matters. Anything you read or see online is just noise.”
“Okay, I trust you.”
"I love you, Jules."
“I love you, too,” I blurt out.
A feeling of peace washes over me the instant the words leave my mouth. I didn't realize how they have been almost boiling over, waiting to get out.
He stops and stills, his face serious. "What was that?"
"I love you," I repeat. "I love you so much, Matt. I'm sorry it took me a minute to say it back. I got too in my head about it. I was scared to say it again, because I wanted to be sure that I meant it in every way I could mean it. And I was scared about all the ways in which I could fuck this up, or you could, or we both could. It's always a possibility, but I don't want to be ruled by fear or uncertainty. I love you. I think I have for a very long time."
I see the smile in his eyes before it travels down to his mouth; he lights up from within.
"Can you say that one more time?" he asks, pulling me onto his lap so our faces are only centimeters apart.
"I love you, Matt."
Pure joy floods between us. He presses his lips to mine, and I can almost taste his happiness.
"Glad to hear it. Because I fucking love you, Jules." He kisses me, and I let myself get lost in it. Until the incessant vibrating of his phone on the arm of the couch brings us back to reality. The phone. The Internet. Ugh.
“Can we get this over with?” I say, the dread returning to my chest, though it is significantly less potent than before. Almost like the words we just exchanged have covered me in a giant security blanket.
“Okay.”
Matt grabs his phone and scrolls. And scrolls. And scrolls. I sit frozen, watching his face. He's smiling softly at first. Then a giant grin. “Babe. It’s fine. It’s more than fine. It is all good. The overwhelming commentary is that you are drop dead gorgeous, accomplished in your field, and, according to Us Weekly, just the kind of woman everyone wanted me to be with, not that I give a shit about what those people think. But it’s good. It's all good."
I exhale, and he wraps me in a hug.
“See, nothing to worry about.”
I feel relieved.
For now.