Chapter 15 Well I Don’t Mind If You Don’t Mind #2
“True.” Suddenly I’m darting my gaze around looking for Andy or Josh, or even Kelton (his latest work has been controversial but it’s gotten him more name recognition, so it’s possible he’d start getting invites to bigger events than before).
“Was it a messy breakup? It can’t have been that bad, especially since it wasn’t public. Right?”
Flagging down a showgirl cocktail waitress who passes us with a tray, Riff grabs a second champagne shot and takes it like it’s pure alcohol, then grimaces. “Are none of these vodka?” He hands the empty glass back to her abruptly.
I shoot the girl an apologetic look and pull Riff off to the side of the room. “Hey. What’s going on? You seem … not well.”
He drags his fingers through his hair, hesitating. He lowers his voice. “Last time I saw Mikayla, I was going to … I was going to ask her to marry me. I had the ring and everything.”
Whoa.
“Did she know?”
“I choose not to ask myself that question, because I’m pretty sure I won’t like the answer.”
“Because she broke up with you?”
He nods again.
“And … if she did that without knowing how you really felt, it’s not as hurtful as if she did it knowing you wanted to marry her?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re just going to let that haunt you for the rest of your life?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Do you …” I swallow harder than I mean to. “Do you still have feelings for her?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. You know how sometimes the line between longing and lack of closure is hard to define?”
I scoff. “Have you not heard ‘Outdated’? I wrote a song about exactly that.”
“Is it from your Nebulous album? I’m not as familiar with that one.”
“It is.”
“If I’ve learned anything about you, I’m going to guess the song is a play on words because it’s about someone you’ve dated while also being about poorly timed lingering feelings that were, in a metaphorical sense, out of style.”
“‘Loving you is so last year,’” I quote myself in response. “‘Why can’t I just be more cavalier … about you? Yet I’m unclear … without you.’”
“I’ll have to pull that one up on Spotify later.” He watches Mikayla for a moment as she sips a martini and sits at one of the card tables.
I chew the inside of my cheek and sigh. Am I really about to say what I’m going to say? “You should … go talk to her.”
He furrows his brows. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’ve left things unsaid. Maybe she really doesn’t know how you felt; maybe if she did, she’d like the chance to respond.
‘I lie awake in bed, and all the things that go unsaid are hanging over my head.’ ‘Parsing every unsaid word, my face unseen, my voice unheard, we don’t speak and it’s absurd, keeping all the lines blurred. ’”
Riff gapes at me for several seconds.
“It’s called ‘Unsaid,’” I tell him, “and yes, it’s from the Nebulous album too.
Anyway, you get the point. So if not knowing is going to bother you forever, you should say what you didn’t say when things ended, and see what happens.
Or,” I add offhandedly, “you can be immature and parade me around in front of her and try to figure out whether she seems jealous.”
Dammit—why did I just say that?
Besides, how could she be jealous? She’s stunning—and she doesn’t even have all the extra help like I do (wardrobe stylist, glam squad, dermatologist on call, personal trainer that I really should take better advantage of).
“Not sure that would work,” he says, and his tone tells me he doesn’t think I’m serious anyway.
“I was just reading comments online a few hours ago and people are throwing around the word ‘showmance.’ Some say the timing doesn’t make sense or that we don’t seem that into each other.
Plus, Mikayla’s worked around lots of famous artists, so she knows people like us will sometimes play along with dating rumors if they’re doing a song together or whatever. ”
“Well,” I say, “maybe we could … try harder to sell it.”
He looks me dead in the eyes. “What?”
“I know I’ve been … less than cooperative and … I’m sorry.”
There’s not much I can do about the dating ruse now that things are in motion, but I don’t have to resist strategies that might help make it more believable.
And it was a lot harder to play pretend when I thought Riff was an asshole, but having had a glimpse of what he’s really like, the thought of touching him is only awkward rather than repulsive.
Not that I ever found him completely repulsive.
“Um.” His expression implies he’s fighting the urge to check my forehead temperature. “How do I even respond to that?”
“You were right; I started this whole thing. The least I can do is make it easier to follow through with it until we can … go our separate ways.” Saying “break up” sounds wrong when we’re not actually dating.
“That’s good of you, I guess,” he replies. “What does that entail, exactly?”
“Whatever you think it will take.”
He huffs a laugh. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” To demonstrate, I brush my fingertips along his upper arm.
He looks sidelong at my movement, then back at my face, and grabs my wrist. “Why the sudden change of attitude?”
“I’ve … realized how well we work together. Whatever our differences, we have some … complementary elements between us. I think for the sake of both our careers, it would be best if we avoid any more friction.”
He smiles and shakes his head at that. “You’re unbelievable.”
“So I won’t flinch if you hold my hand, or if you, like, pull me close.”
Tentatively he slips an arm around my waist and does exactly that. Our matching sequined attire is all friction, but for the first time since I wrote that song, the idea of his body against mine doesn’t make me uptight.
“Like this?” His throat flexes.
My breath is shallow again. “Yeah. That’s convincing … I think.”
“And if anyone expects me to … kiss you? You’d be okay with that?”
The memory of us kissing frantically to the sound of FANTASIE’s “Vibe Check” flashes through my mind.
“Sure,” I breathe. “If the … need arises.”
Now I can’t take it anymore because if we stay this close together he’s going to feel my heart pounding, so I carefully extract myself from his hold.
He straightens his jacket and nods. “Good to know.”
“That stuff should probably be for later though. For photos and videos, not for Mikayla. Showing off isn’t the best way to get closure.”
Riff’s ex-girlfriend leaves the card tables and makes her way to the bar, possibly to refill her martini. Thus far, it doesn’t appear she’s seen us, or knows Riff is here.
“Now’s your chance,” I tell him.
He pales a little and tugs at his collar.
I give him a pat on the shoulder. “You can do it. Good luck.”
It takes him a minute to gather the courage, but he finally takes a deep breath and strides toward her. I recede into the shadows and watch his approach.
The woman lights up when she sees him.
They embrace in a somewhat forced and ungraceful manner, but there’s definitely lingering affection there.
My heart pinches.
He’s not really mine—I know that. It’s just an act, and right now the camera’s not rolling, which means I need to keep myself grounded in reality.
I slip away, wandering deeper into the party. There should be plenty of things to distract me—and I’m starting to need that badly.
The great room leads to a huge sitting room where guests are lounging on sofas and chairs.
Past that are a set of doors to the outside, where a patio sprawls from the threshold.
A DJ stand (from which daXx himself is mixing beats) overlooks a crowd of guests dancing under pulsing lights.
Among the guests, I recognize some other artists from Glambam and a few more from Ultracity, along with some actors, athletes, and TikTokers.
Dancing straight ahead is Daisy Malloy. Her knee-high silver boots reflect the flashing colors while the white fringe of her fit-and-flare dress flings back and forth. She’s got one hand on top of her head to keep her silver cowgirl hat from flying off.
Before I can sneak past, she spots me and waves me over. “Harmony!”
She’s with three other women. One is a plus-size model whose name I can’t remember, another is Madison Landry (she was a big deal as a child actor but now mostly does Netflix Original rom-coms), but I’ve never seen the other two.
“Daisy,” I shout over the music, “Nice to see you!”
“This is Claire, Alexa, Lauren, and Madison!” she tells me. “Ladies, I’m sure you know this is Harmony Sonora.”
They all smile and wave.
That’s right, I think. Claire Wallace. She’s the model. Then it’s Alexa Bell, from that show The Workspace. Lauren Jakowski is … it takes me a second … the drummer from that punk band, Dope Neon.
“Dance with us!” Daisy says.
A Britney Spears remix plays with a heavy bass that I can feel in my bones.
Daisy takes my hand and drags me into the group. I don’t immediately find my rhythm—which is particularly embarrassing for someone who has memorized choreography for so many shows and music videos—hesitant to join the mass of bodies but lacking the confidence to say no.
It doesn’t help that I feel like a stale cracker.
Objectively, I know that thirty is not old, but compared to people like Daisy, I am somewhat past my prime.
It’s been at least five years since I spent any real time on the dance floor at an event, or even gone out with friends in general.
Not since R3ina and Ashleigh and Genevieve.
Another area where I struggled to find my rhythm again.
The parties I do go, to I usually find a way to spend most of my time talking, or sneaking out to places like The Habitat.
Gradually, though, my body starts to take over, helpless each time the base thumps and the “Toxic“ violins slither from high notes to low ones.