Chapter 25
Levi
I don’t know what happened, what changed, what spiritual lottery I won.
..but I have to be the luckiest guy in the world.
Yesterday afternoon when I was hiding from Tate in the pantry, I was fully prepared for her to rip my face off, and she would have been within her right to do so.
I was, and still am, a complete idiot when it comes to women, relationships, and handling things out of my control.
The pool party was bad, the alcohol thing was worse, and the Kim thing was just straight-up reckless.
I used Kim and she knew it. The thought sends a pang of guilt to my stomach.
I grab my phone off the bathroom tile and punch out a text to her.
Levi: Hey, you didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.
The thoughts are relentless as I step into the steam-filled shower, the water hitting my skin quite literally sizzling.
I wasn’t sure how long this high I’m riding would last, so I got up early, worked out, and I’m going to test my luck some more and see if Tate will allow me to take her on a real date.
The show’s been gaining a lot of hype, more than I think was expected. ..definitely on my end.
I stopped going on social media the day after the last show. The number of messages I got soliciting my mouth rivaled all but the emoji wearing the cowboy hat. We won’t be able to go anywhere too public, so, unfortunately, that rules out most of the activities I’m aware of in LA.
I twist off the shower, running the towel over my body and then my hair.
I need to do some research. Maybe get a disguise going.
I throw on my joggers and head to the kitchen for a cup of motivation.
As soon as I step a foot out of my room, my bare chest meets the side of Tate’s face.
She rocks off-balance, and just as she starts to tip, I lunge, grabbing her by the waist before she falls.
“Tate, you okay? We gotta stop doing that.”
She smiles up at me and all the air leaves my chest. Her hair cascades down, the tips just grazing the floor. She’s dressed in baggy white overalls that are splattered with different colors of paint. Her undershirt is rainbow-striped, rolling over her shoulders in a pattern.
“Should we stand up?” Her eyes flick to where I still have her in a full tilt. I pull her to her feet, instantly missing the feeling of her in my arms.
“Were you coming to see me?” I ask, eyebrows raised.
“Maybe. What’s your plan today? Does it involve a shirt?” I follow her eyes to where my chest sits exposed between us.
“I wasn’t sure you would be up yet,” I say over my shoulder as I run back in my room, picking up a mostly clean shirt from the floor.
When my head comes through the neck hole, I see Tate in my room thumbing through some books on the nightstand.
Mostly biographies. I sit on the edge of my bed, entertaining the idea that this is real.
She’s here. Intrusive thoughts creep in, asking, But for how long?
Lucky for me, they can’t hold me for too long, because when her hand runs the length of my bicep coming to a rest on my shoulder. ..everything but her disappears.
“Hang out with me today?” I say once I can finally manage to speak.
Her mouth crooks up on one side. “What do you want to do?”
“Let’s go out. Have some fun.”
“Did you get Jan’s email?” she asks, taking a seat beside me on the bed.
“No. What’s the Cliff’s Notes?”
“Just that as the show hypes up, we need to be aware when we’re out in public and not to put ourselves in situations that may reflect poorly on the show.”
I huff a laugh. “Sounds like they’re really worried about our well-being.” I’m under no illusion that I’m anything but dollar signs to these people. We all are...but they could fake it a little better. “In that regard, I had an idea,” I say, turning into her. “How do you feel about a disguise?”
She laughs and it’s like church bells on a Sunday morning. “What kind of disguise?”
“You know, just enough to make us not look like ourselves.” I watch as she takes her bottom lip into her mouth, letting it rake against her teeth when she releases it.
“Gabriella does have a couple wigs...”
I jolt out of my seat before I do something dumb. Amendment...something dumber. “Let’s do it.”
An hour later, Tate is a completely different person. She’s wearing all black—black pleather leggings (Gabriella’s), one of my Guns N’ Roses shirts I cut the sleeves off of, and black ankle boots. Gone is the long honey-brown hair and in its place are inky-black ringlets under a paisley bandana.
“How do I look?” she asks, turning from the mirror to look at me.
“Way out of my league,” I answer honestly.
My getup is significantly less cool than hers.
I shopped Clay’s closet, coming out with a Hawaiian shirt and a fedora.
Tate offered one of Gabriella’s wigs, but I think I hit my limit with the sandals.
I look down at my feet. They’re so white the glare is almost blinding.
We stand together in the mirror. There’s no way they will know it’s us.
“Ready?” I ask, reaching for her hand, watching the movement play out in the mirror. “Uber’s out front.”
“You didn’t tell me where we’re going.”
“All a part of the plan, sweetheart.” I lay a kiss on the side of her wig. “Let’s go.”
***
“We’re going to the beach?” Tate asks, looking at me then back out the window.
The driver has just pulled up to the base of the Santa Monica Pier after some rather impressive driving and plenty of freeway changes.
Every now and then, I’d catch his eyes in the review mirror.
Something isn’t right about these two, they seemed to say.
“You’ll see, Rosie,” I say, tapping my pointer finger to the ball of her nose. I pay the driver and climb onto the curb behind Tate. I mean, Rosie. That’s the alias we came up with for her. I’m Jethro.
Neither of us rush from the sidewalk we’ve been planted on and instead completely immerse ourselves in our surroundings.
The crash of the nearby ocean. The smell of the salty water and fried food riding the breeze.
The huge blue-and-white Santa Monica Pier sign with the oversized Ferris wheel behind it.
People on foot, bikes, and skateboards..
.it’s everything I’ve seen on TV brought to life.
I look over at Tate and she’s smiling. One success, hopefully among many more today.
I close my hand around hers and we walk.
We stroll lazily, largely without agenda, this being the only time either of us has been out of the house, studio, or practice studio. Not including the diner, of course.
“This is—” She stops. “I’m really excited.”
“Me too.” I pull her into my side as our feet transfer from the smooth sidewalk to the gnarled wooden boards of the pier. “These sandals feel impossible to walk in,” I complain. “I’m having to pinch my big toe and second toe just to keep them on.”
“Don’t tell me this is your first-time wearing sandals.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“LEVI JOHNSON!” she scolds, eyes wide with humor.
“Nuh uh-uh ...that’s Jethro Thompson to you.”
Her mouth cracks, revealing a pearly smile. “Alright, Jethro, where to first?”
I look around and feel overwhelmed by the number of vendors and people littering the narrow walkway.
Online, it seemed like I would just walk on and there it would be, but that is very far from reality.
The line for the Ferris wheel isn’t too long and maybe from up there I’ll have a better vantage point.
I let my eyes climb to the tippy-top of the oversized wagon wheel before swallowing my pride and turning to Tate. “Ferris wheel?”
“Yeah, let’s do it.” She tugs at my waist, pulling me in the direction of the line. Waiting is never fun, but the line wraps the railing of the pier, and for a few minutes we just stare down at the impossibly blue water bumping up at the city’s edge.
“This whole thing is so surreal, right?” she says softly, not bothering to look up. For a minute I wonder if she means Santa Monica, us, or being on the show in general. Before I can ask, she tilts her head to look up at me. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
Her lips twist as she tries to arrange her thoughts into words.
What comes out is, “I don’t want to win as badly as you.
” She says it like it’s a secret, and I guess, for her it is, considering how far she’s already come.
Meanwhile, I eat, sleep, and dream about this competition and what it will do for me.
When the show first aired, I knew I would be a contestant and would ultimately walk away with a record deal.
Don’t ask me how or why, I just know it will happen.
Somehow, she picks up on these thoughts, telepathically or just possessing really good face-reading skills. “I mean, I don’t want to win at all.”
“At all?” I ask, shocked. Day-one Levi would have been thrilled to have one less person to compete with, but this is Tate.
She is super talented and beautiful and nice.
If there was one person I would be rooting for to win besides myself, it would be her.
Unless Clay asked me head-on, then it would be him and her, respectively.
She looks back at the water. “Yeah, I think I want to go home.”
Everything inside me is yelling, No, no, no! You can’t go. I need you. The show needs you. My chest grows itchy and tight. No...not now. I will completely disown you, body, if you have a panic attack on my date.
“How many?” the man operating the Ferris wheel barks at us. We both look up at the same time, surprised the line has moved.
“Um, two please,” Tate replies, because I’m apparently speechless.
He grunts once but accepts my card and lack of conversation skills. Tate climbs into the red gondola on the dock. I look at it and everything inside me is screaming, This is a really bad idea. You are on the brink of a panic attack, and you hate heights.
“Levi— I mean, Jethro?” She looks up from under all that black.
The most unnatural thing I’ve ever seen is Tate without color, but somehow, her face brings me out of myself.
I’m present, not in my head or in my body.
I climb in and the gondola swings in response to the weight.
Normally, that would have me stepping back out, but somehow the fear of the experience is pulling me out of the panic inside my head.
That’s how I started singing. Being on stage forces you to be present.
The bench of this thing is small, the size of a footstool really.
My thighs press into Tate’s as she brings up her side of the belt.
“Buckle.”
I find mine and wait for the reassuring click. She’s smiling like she didn’t just tell me she wants to throw away her future. I loop my arm over her shoulder, pulling her into my chest. “Tate, we should talk about...” I clear my throat. “About what you said.”
“Let’s not.” She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes.
The ride starts as we slowly roll up to the top.
I want to press, I want details, but not more than I want to enjoy the day with her.
Especially if it’s one of our last opportunities.
Once we get to the top, we can see everything—where we were dropped off, the choppy cityscape in the distance, and the smaller Malibu Pier in the other direction.
At the far end of the pier, I finally spy the arcade.
Bingo. The wheel goes around and around two more times before coming to a stop where we started.
“Come on.” I look over at Tate, her body close to mine as we move along, loving that I get to touch her like this. I can hold her hand, I can pull her into my side...but can I kiss her? Will I try? It didn’t work out so well for me last time, but this is different, isn’t it?
She looks up at the sign above the door, reading it aloud to me. “Arcade?”
“You into it?” She hesitates and I immediately back down from my plan. “Cause if you’re not, we can totally do something else.”
Her eyes flick to the inside where it’s dark, with the exception of the neon lights coming off the games. “Depends...”
“On?”
“On whether you can handle me whooping you at Skee-ball.” She laughs, sliding from her place beside me and into the darkness of the arcade.
I catch my reflection in the distorted mirrors of a game.
The hat has to go. I pull it off, finger-combing my hair back into submission.
Tate is already lined up next to the lanes.
Lights, noise, cheering and curses—an arcade lullaby.
Tate and I are by far the oldest people in here, aside from parents trailing their kids through the aisles.
A Zoltar promises us the future as his robotic arms float above a glowing orb.
Tate is looking everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
Purple and green lights reflect off her eyes.
I lean down till my mouth teases the shell of her ear. “I’m going to get us some tokens. Do you want anything else?”
She surprises me when she turns towards me, and for a second, I think we might kiss, but then she says, “This wig is killing me.”
Her cheeks do look a little more pink than normal. “What do you wanna do? Do you want to leave?”
“No way! I’m just going to take it off. Do you think you can get me a bag, so I don’t have to carry it?”
My eyes do another lap around the arcade. “You sure?”
“Yeah, these people are too busy with their games to care about me.”
“Alright, I’ll be back,” I say, breaking away and weaving my way towards the counter.
When I get back, Tate’s gone. Panic creeps up the back of my neck.
I start walking as quickly as I can in these dang sandals, up and down the aisles.
Does she have the wig on still or did she take it off?
I miss the overwhelming color that announces her presence from across the room.
I make it to the end where they keep the larger games like basketball, Wheel of Fortune, and Skee-ball.
Bingo. The wig and bandana are balancing on the edge of the game as a guy stands back for Tate as she winds her arm back and throws it, landing the corner pocket.
“No way!” The guy says grabbing onto her shoulder in a congratulatory shake.
Something pops at the edge of my jaw, the sound crunching into my ear.
“Tate!” I work to keep my voice neutral. She looks over, her smile climbing her face before she runs and jumps into my arms. Clay’s hat and the bag with our tokens fall to the floor. Her face hovers above mine, eyes smiling.
“What’s all this for?”
“Just felt right.”