9. Andi
Andi
Ifeel like I’m wasting away in here. Probably because I am.
It’s been almost a week since that charity gala. Despite the almost torturous, overstimulating process of getting ready, there’s a part of me that misses the hint and taste of freedom of being outside.
The one good thing about being locked away in here is that I my lack of access to the internet means I can’t see what people are saying about me.
I’m sure it’s nasty.
I’ve always put on a front that I don’t give a shit, that I don’t care.
You kind of have to build a thicker skin when you put yourself out on the internet like I have with my vlogs and social media career.
Some people are stupid. If you imagine the most average person out there, half the people on the planet are stupider than that.
My point is, you can’t be everyone’s cup of tea.
I certainly wasn’t, and nothing will change that.
The thing is, after starting that “fake” relationship with Beck that very quickly turned real, it exposed me to a whole new level of internet fandom scrutiny I hadn’t been exposed to before.
Add in this whole conservatorship mess, and I’m sure people are running wild with the narrative that I’m some insane bitch.
As someone who grew up on a reality TV show that was scripted to the Gods, I know the ways that the public will pounce on narratives painting someone as the villain and the other as the victim. Both have their downsides.
Obviously, being painted as a villain sucks, but being painted as a victim comes with an almost covetous, parasocial relationship. They put you in a box and you’re not allowed to step foot outside of it or everything will crumble down around you.
I stare at my ceiling, feeling a familiar tightness in my chest.
I hope Beck and the others aren’t getting hit with this media circus too hard. The last thing I’d want is for this to negatively affect them.
I clutch at Beck’s hoodie. I’m surprised Gina hasn’t taken it away from me. It doesn’t smell anything like him anymore. Just my own chamomile scent, bitter with stress. But it’s the only piece of comfort I have.
There’s a knock at my door. I know that knock.
I perk up, unintentionally.
Ezra’s here.
He hasn’t been allowed to stop by since the charity gala, which means I’ve been craving human contact ever since, especially since Stuart has kept up with his silent treatment.
“Hey,” I say, sitting up on my bed.
“Hey,” he says, shutting the door behind him. He’s wearing a baggy hoodie from some couture brand. He sets the tray of my pathetic food on my vanity. “You hungry?”
“Always,” I say, padding my way over to the vanity.
“I um... have some gifts for you.” He nervously shoves his hands into his pockets as I settle against the plush stool and start poking at my kale leaves.
“Huh? Gifts?” I say, my brows drawing down in confusion. My expression sours even further when I take my first bite.
He starts taking off his hoodie.
“Whoa! The hell are you stripping for?”
“Don’t get your panties into a twist,” he grunts, tucking his hoodie under his elbow as he unclips a cross-body fanny pack from his chest. It looks just as pretentious as you can imagine. I’ve never been a fan of that bag style. “Don’t give me that look.”
“What look!”
“The look that you find my bag grosser than that disgusting rabbit food they have you eating. It’s fashionable.”
“Fine,” I say, biting back a grin at his defense of his bag choice.
“Had to figure out a way to smuggle shit in here for you, and I couldn’t just come in here carrying a briefcase.
” He unzips the bag and tosses me a few protein bars.
They’re the gross powdery kind I know he keeps stocked up in his pantry year-round, but they’re leagues better than my kale leaves with a hint of olive oil.
I do my best to catch them, but I’ve never been the most coordinated, so I only manage to catch one. I’m quick to snatch them up from the carpeted floor and tuck them into the pockets of Beck’s borrowed zip-up hoodie.
I peel one open and take a gigantic bite.
“Okay, I’m starting to see why you like these,” I say, covering my mouth as the faux fudgy goodness melts on my tongue.
“They’re good for protein bars, see?” Ezra huffs, a smug grin on his face.
“Thanks, I appreciate you making sure I don’t starve to death.”
“I seriously don’t understand why your mom insists on doing this shit to you,” Ezra mutters.
“Cause she’s got an eating disorder and she’s making it a competition, or whatever,” I say with a shrug. Screw tiptoeing around shit. I’ve spent far too much time in my head the past few weeks to let things just simmer there when I’ve got a good outlet.
“Yeah, probably. Makes sense.” Ezra digs into his cross-body bag once more. “I’ve got... some other gifts for you too. Don’t read into them, they’re not like, courting gifts or whatever. Friends get each other gifts.”
I understand why he’s clarifying because the thing he pulls out of his bag makes my jaw nearly drop.
It’s a Kindle. A brand new one, from the look of things. He hands it to me and my eyes widen even further when I notice that it has all my books downloaded from my library.
“I guessed your password and logged into your account because I couldn’t break into your apartment to get your old one.”
“You—you guessed my password?”
“Dude, you have the same one for all of your accounts,” Ezra shrugs.
“Wasn’t hard. Made sure to download everything on my own personal wifi so that Stuart doesn’t see a new device connect to the wifi here.
Let me know if you want new books and I can get them for you, but you’ve got like, hundreds so I think you should be fine for a while, right? ”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice tight as I blink up at him. “I’ve been so fucking bored, you have no idea.”
“Sure, it’s nothing.” He averts his gaze from mine, staring down at the floor between us.
It’s a really sweet gift. Honestly, I think it’s in the top five of the sweetest gifts he’s given me throughout the time we’ve known each other, including our relationship.
He was never that big of a gift-giver back then.
Most of the time, we just did things together.
At first, it was nice, but towards the end of our relationship, the only things we’d do together would be for him.
“That’s... not all.”
“You have more?” I blink at him. I probably look like an owl with how big my eyes must look.
“Yeah, I’ve gotta show you something.”
I nod mutely, trying to wrap my head around Ezra of all people practically showering me with gifts.
Sure, his gifts range in consideration from the bottom of the totem pole with chalky protein bars I know he just had lying around to something as considerate as the Kindle with my entire library pre-downloaded, but that only makes the whiplash of the situation worse.
“So is this another gift-gift or are you just showing me something?” I say, taking another bite of the protein bar.
“The actual gift has to do with what I’m gonna show you,” he says, pulling his phone out. He hands me his earbuds, which I pop into my ears, before he presses play and hands the phone over to me.
My breath hitches in my throat when I hear the first hint of a building synth.
I know this song.
The song playing through Ezra’s earbuds is the demo of the song Beck played for me in the studio, the day I first met Everett.
It has a title now, it seems, according to the music video playing on the phone screen in front of me.
Drowning (I’m coming for you, please wait for me)
It’s a style of song titles that’s been popular in the industry for a little bit, but I can’t help but feel like the part in the parentheses is a message for me.
That thought solidifies the moment the music video starts playing. It’s built up of cinematic shots of the field we stargazed in together. Shots I helped Cameron film.
They don’t show any of our faces, just the grass and the treeline before panning up to the sky as the synths in the beginning of the song build.
And then there Beck is. Sparkling, diamond-like eyes and effortlessly tousled hair.
The camera pans, and my breath catches in my throat. Whatever camera they used to film this is fancy as hell, because I can see every single detail in my dad’s backyard, clear as day.
My mind reels as Beck’s voice fills my ears.
The music video is of Beck playing the song live, building up layers with the beat pad and the looper pedal at his feet.
The electric guitar he plays is dreamy, adding a layer of sound that echoes with the hint of a touch because of the amp it’s connected to.
This live version is worlds better than the demo. Because I can practically feel the emotion in Beck’s voice. There’s a separation there, almost like he’s begging as he clings to his guitar, his eyes shut and the cords of his neck sticking out as he sings.
They say the last thing you should do when you see someone drowning
Is help them
But how can I not
When I look at you
Even though I’m drowning too
The familiar lyrics sink deep into my bones.
And then the bridge hits. He’s changed the lyrics.
I’m coming for you. I’m coming for you.
Holy shit. This has to be a message, right? I mean, he’s singing in my dad’s backyard. That must mean they’re working together in some capacity.
Please wait for me. I’m coming for you, I’m coming for you.
As the last words of the new bridge fade out into the synths of the song, I pull out Ezra’s earbuds, my chest heaving.
“Shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry!” Ezra says, his hands hovering out towards me like he doesn’t know whether to comfort me or not. His eyes are wide and a little frantic.
“Huh?” I reach up and wipe at my cheeks. They come away wet with tears. “Sorry. This isn’t your fault. I just…”
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog that appeared in my mind the moment I saw Beck’s face on the screen. For whatever reason, I got used to turning my brain off when I was around him and the other guys. But they’re not actually here right now, which means I need to keep my wits about me.