Chapter Six #3
“I shouldn’t have any problem doing a song or two by myself—Phillip gave a solo performance of ‘Moonglow’ last year when he went back to the UK for one of his parents’ charity balls.
But I still have to clear it with Marie.
” He frowned. “She’s probably not expecting to hear from me since me and the guys are all on .
. .” He paused there, tongue peeping out between his teeth for a second as he concentrated on typing his message.
“Vacation before tour, but hopefully Marie will get back to me soon and give me permission.”
“You need permission?” I asked in surprise. “For your own songs?” That didn’t sound fair. “Didn’t you help write a few of them?”
He paused, thumbs hovering over the screen. He stared at me, his hazel eyes gleaming with a nearly piercing curiosity. What had I said to warrant such an intense look again?
“You know I composed songs?” he asked.
Oops.
“I heard you wrote some stuff,” I replied casually, eating another bite of quiche.
Jake didn’t need to know about that one month I read five threads theorizing when he started writing “Lovely, Aren’t Ya” for Livie.
Besides, that was just scientific research.
Or looking up interesting fun facts. It didn’t mean anything.
It was merely that I was born with an inquisitive nature and an endless thirst for knowledge, something that reflected in my valedictorian status, exemplary grades, and everyday life.
Or, at least, that’s what I wrote bar-for-bar in my scholarship application.
“Well, I did write a few songs,” Jake said, eyes dropping back to his phone. “But I still have to run nearly everything by my manager and her team. It has to get approved because of marketing and image and all that kind of stuff. I can’t do anything until they say so.”
I never considered that before. I assumed Jake had a lot more freedom. After all, his diving into a fountain—and other stunts he’d pulled—didn’t seem like the actions of someone who had to run his choices by a team first.
Then again, maybe that’s why he acted out.
Or maybe that was not it at all.
I turned my attention back to problems I could actually solve. Maybe I could see which cats enjoyed being around Jake and they could be in the livestream, like how that one popular website had interviews where celebrities answered questions while playing with adoptable puppies and kittens.
“Hey, Jake,” I began, “if you’re okay with it, maybe we could—”
I cut myself off. Jake wasn’t listening.
He wasn’t texting either. Instead, he stared down at his cereal bowl with a fascinated expression, intently watching the rainbow-dyed rings dissolve and turn the milk into watercolor. One would think he was admiring a painting in the Louvre and not red dye number five in a bowl at a two-star motel.
“Jake?”
“Sorry,” he said, head snapping up. “It’s just . . . Froot Loops.”
I highly doubted those were brand-name Froot Loops with the talking toucan mascot. Knowing this motel, they were probably the off-brand Frankie’s Fruity Hoops with a deranged seagull on the box. Still, I didn’t see what fascinated him so much. “Okay?”
“I haven’t seen Froot Loops in years. My mom and nutritionist usually order some fancy organic cereal instead, and these are never at the hotels the band stays in. I don’t really get to choose much for myself, but here, I got a whole buffet I get to pick from. This place is great,” he concluded.
As if to make his point, Jake took another huge bite of Froot Loops. He had a serene, satisfied air about him, like when the cats at the café contentedly munched on a fresh bowl of kibble.
I watched him, thrown.
Are you happy with the life you chose? I wanted to question. What’s it like, having so much decided for you, that a cheap buffet in a crappy motel feels like freedom? Do you ever miss afternoons in the cat room and laughing on the park swings and the way we used to be?
But that was something the old me would ask—little Luciana, who was still Jake’s close friend, and who could talk to him about almost anything. Could I ask him that now?
Did I have any right to?
I pushed the thought away.
“Are you done?” Jake asked, finishing off his cereal and gesturing at my empty plate. “I want to see the café again. I didn’t get to look around last night.”
“During business hours?” Hopefully we’d have some customers in today. Most of my school had emptied out of town for vacation, but still. “But, you’re, you know . . .”
“I’m what?”
A face that’s plastered on bedroom walls. An ex who’s technically not even an ex. A boy who’s throwing me off-kilter and making me unsure of what I am really thinking or feeling at all. “A celebrity.”
Jake brushed it off, like the word didn’t mean much out in the real world.
“People notice celebrities in public less often than you think,” Jake told me.
“The big swarms you hear about make the news for a reason. For every fan encounter you see online, there are tons of times there aren’t any.
” He made a whatever motion. “Most people tend to think of me as always being with the other three guys, anyway, like we’re a package deal.
No one’s going to look twice at me all by myself. ”
We stood and he shrugged on his jacket, settling the leather over the broad stretch of his shoulders with ease.
“You still stand out too much,” I realized.
Jake might be able to walk around incognito in LA dressed like that, but he couldn’t in Somerset.
“You need a wardrobe change if you’re going to be hanging around here for the next week until the livestream.
You should wear something non-designer, non-leather, and not all-black,” I announced, ticking the checklist off on my fingers.
“You know, clothes that let you blend in with us regular folk.”
“I’m from here, you know. I can blend in.”
“Technically, you’re from San Antonio, and no, you can’t.” I stepped toward Jake, reaching up to run my thumb over the collar of his shirt where it fell open by his throat, warm from his skin. “Not in this . . . I’m going to say five-hundred-dollar, ninety-percent silk button-down.”
He dipped his head down slightly, watching my fingers on his neckline, and I felt the hot exhale of his laugh against the back of my hand.
Jake met my gaze beneath his dark lashes. “What are you now, the wardrobe whisperer?”
“I’m gifted.”
“Clearly.”
“Did you really spend half a grand on a shirt?”
“No way.” He shook his head. “I stole it from a Paris photoshoot I did for a Savoir Faire ad campaign.”
“Oh, good,” I said with a smile. “You can actually look people dead in the eye and tell them you’re an international thief if they wonder why you look familiar.”
“It’s a good icebreaker.”
“Seriously, though,” I said, leaning back and letting my hand drop, fingers falling away from the warm silk. “You can’t walk around town like this. We need to get rid of your”—I gestured at him—“bad boy aesthetic.”
“I only own this type of clothes.”
“Well, it’s either get a better disguise than a cap and sunglasses, or tell everyone you’re, like, number seventy-five on the FBI’s most-wanted list.”
“Only number seventy-five?”
I hummed. “Well, you can’t be number one. I’m trying to make you less interesting.”
“Right. My bad. Clearly there are at least seventy-four hypothetical criminals more fascinating than me.”
“Exactly—now you’re getting it.” I checked the time on my phone. “I’ve got some time before I need to get to the café. We can go shopping.”
“Sure,” he agreed. “I guess I could go to the nearest mall and—”
“Whoa, hold on there. The mall?” I wrinkled my nose. “In Woodsborough?”
“Uh, yeah?” Jake cocked his head. “Why do you sound so scandalized? You look like I just said a McDonald’s parking lot’s a great funeral venue and Ronald himself could give the eulogy.”
I blinked at him. He stared back, as if that was a completely normal thing to say.
“Okay, first of all, I’m more than a little weirded out that that’s the first example your mind jumped to—”
“You would not believe some of the things I’ve seen at my tour stops in Vegas.”
“Well, they should stay in Vegas. Secondly, the department stores are awful. No way are we going there. And they’re so expensive.
They never even have any good discounts,” I exclaimed.
Jake very likely did not have to wait for anything to go on sale, but this was a matter of principle.
“The thrift store over on Cardew is closer and it has an even better selection than you’ll find at the mall. We can pick out something there.”
Jake smirked. “We?”
Oh, I had instinctively said we, hadn’t I?
“Well,” I said, “someone’s got to keep you from buying cowboy boots.”