Wild

Chapter 23

Erin steps out of the bathroom wearing only the boxer briefs she sleeps in, pulling on a t-shirt in a hurry before grabbing her phone, which she heard ring while she was in the shower after getting back from the concert.

Her sister's name is on the screen, and she sighs, because her first thought is always the same—that Brooke is calling to ask for something—and that makes her so sad lately that her throat tightens before she even answers.

"Hey, Brooke, how are you?"

"Oh my God, Erin," her sister says, breathless. "You're touring with Mia Wilder and you never told me?"

The doctor frowns, caught off guard.

"How do you know I'm with her?"

"Because you showed up in a couple of photos people posted after tonight's concert."

None of this surprises Erin, and she doesn't really care about being spotted in the press as part of Mia's team—it's temporary, after all. What bothers her is that Brooke is calling because of this.

"I tried to explain when I told you I'd been offered a position, but you weren't listening."

"That's not true, I always listen," her sister shoots back, leaving Erin stunned. "Erin, you have to make it happen so I can meet her," she pleads.

There it is—the real reason for the call. No asking how she's doing, how the job is, whether she likes it. Just asking. Erin brings a hand to her hair and twists a strand between her fingers, feeling her throat pull a little tighter.

"I can't do that, Brooke. I signed a confidentiality agreement that—"

"Same as always, Erin, you never share anything with me. You know she's my favorite singer," she snaps, irritated. "I'm sure if you asked her she wouldn't say no—you just don't want to."

Erin twists her hair harder, until it pulls at her scalp enough to tense her whole body. Her sister reads the silence as her thinking it over and lets out an excited sigh.

"Come on, Erin, just tell me how many more days you'll be in Philadelphia. I can catch a flight tomorrow—I'll just need you to lend me a little money for the ticket, I can pay you back…"

"I can't talk right now, Brooke. I'll call you tomorrow."

For the first time in her life, she cuts her off and hangs up without saying goodbye, because she can't keep listening. She stays still, not sure when she sat down on the bed, staring at her phone while her mother's words come back to her.

You need to learn to say no to her.

She hasn't quite done that, but she didn't say yes either, and that's a big step for her—though it also fills her with anxiety, because she can't help feeling terrible.

Her phone buzzes and startles her, and when she looks at the screen there's a message from Brooke she doesn't even need to open, because she can read it in the preview as it slides across.

Brooke Dooley

Talk to her and call me right away.

The doctor sets the phone aside, rubs her temples, and gets up.

She was going to go to bed even though she's still a little wound up from the concert—put her earplugs in and bury her face under the pillow, because if Mia comes back with company she doesn't want to hear a thing—but after the call from her sister, there's no chance she'll keep her eyes closed.

So she gets dressed and leaves her room to take the elevator up to the private rooftop terrace on her floor.

She needs fresh air, and she doesn't want to go out onto her own balcony, because it's right next to the singer's, and the last thing she needs right now is to hear her sleeping with her stylist's assistant or whoever she's brought back to make her post-concert night a little easier.

She pushes the door open in sweatpants and a t-shirt, closes it behind her, and breathes in deeply, letting the cool air hit her all at once.

Hands in her pockets, she takes a couple of steps forward, ready to lean against the frosted glass railing and look out over the city, but then a faint smell of weed drifts over from her right, and when she turns she finds Mia's blue eyes watching her from the ground.

The singer is sitting beside a planter, back against the wall, legs stretched out, one foot crossed over the other.

She's wearing an oversized hoodie with the Wild tour logo—Erin has three of them from the first day and still hasn't worn a single one—jeans, black sneakers, and the joint between her fingers.

"What are you doing up here? Are you okay?" Erin asks, surprised.

Mia takes a long, slow drag without looking away, then exhales just as slowly—deliberately—and nods, and Erin feels a certain warmth spread through her.

"I didn't feel like being in my room," Mia says. "What about you, Dooley? What are you doing up here?"

"Something like that, I guess."

The singer gestures to the floor beside her.

"If you want some company, you can sit."

Erin hesitates, but she moves and sits down next to her, stretching her legs out the same way, arms crossed over her chest.

"Are you cold?" Mia asks.

"I'm fine."

She actually is cold, but she'd rather feel it than think about the conversation she just had with Brooke.

"I thought you'd be in your suite with—" The doctor stops when she realizes it's none of her business.

"A woman?" Mia finishes, and takes another long drag.

Erin stares at the joint without answering, and eventually raises her hand to ask for it.

"Let me try some."

Mia frowns.

"You smoke weed?"

"I've never smoked anything in my life—weed, cigarettes, nothing," she says, but her hand stays up, waiting.

"Then you're not starting now."

The singer pulls the joint to the other side, takes one last hit, and stubs it out against the ground even though it's only half done. Erin watches her, caught between surprise and irritation—and the irritation wins.

"Since when do you get to decide what I can and can't do?" she asks, drawing her legs up and resting her forearms on her knees.

"I don't, but a lot of people get hooked on this stuff, and I'm not going to be the one who gives you your first hit. If you want to smoke, find someone else who'll do it." She pauses. "I'm not that person."

The doctor bites the inside of her cheek and sighs, trying to shake the pointless anger.

"You're right. Thanks," she whispers, and presses her fingers hard against her temples because a headache is starting to build.

"What's going on, Dooley?"

Mia shifts slightly toward her, shoulder leaning against the wall, legs pulled up the same way as Erin's.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"I do worry. But I'm not going to make you tell me if you don't want to."

The surprise crosses Erin's face so openly that Mia's heart does a small, inexplicable flip, and if she asked, Erin would have a hard time explaining that she's not used to anyone worrying about her—and Mia seemed so genuinely sincere that her chest squeezed.

"I have a younger sister. Around your age, more or less."

"Really?" A smile appears on Mia's lips, then disappears just as fast when she catches Erin's faraway expression.

"Yeah. Her name's Brooke. She called a little while ago. She wanted to meet you. She's followed your career since the beginning and she loves your music."

"Tell her to come. I'll have Noah set up a VIP pass for the next show, you can introduce us—no problem."

Erin lets out a breath through her nose and nods, turning a few of her leather bracelets around her wrist.

"Talk to me, Dooley," the singer says softly, watching Erin's blank expression. "Is it a problem for you—her coming?"

The doctor takes a few seconds to answer.

"I think it is."

Mia doesn't say anything. She just waits, patient, while Erin keeps her eyes fixed on her own hands.

"Brooke only calls me when she needs something. Usually money. This time it's you, and next time it'll be something else. I've never said no to her. I've let her take advantage of me my whole life."

"And now you feel bad because you don't want to give her this," Mia murmurs.

Erin finally looks at her, nods, then drops her gaze back to her hands.

"Then don't. I'll help you say no, because I don't want to meet someone who treats you like that. No VIP pass for Brooke Dooley. I'm sorry for her."

Erin laughs—it's a sad smile, but underneath it there's genuine relief.

"Nell says I need to put my foot down, but I don't know how. She's my only family. If I say no, she'll get angry and stop talking to me."

"Sometimes you have to make hard calls, Erin.

My mom is alive, but I haven't seen her or heard from her in years—because one day I decided that having her in my life was doing me more harm than good.

I chose myself over her. And now my family is Noah.

He actually worries about me. He's there when I fall apart and he supports everything I do, same as I do for him.

If your sister only brings you anxiety and pain, maybe you should think about giving yourself some distance from her.

Not necessarily forever—but maybe if you step back and let her realize what she no longer has, she'll start to value you as a sister and a person, instead of just a source of whatever she needs. "

Erin looks at her. She can't name what she's feeling right now, because it's a tangle of too many things at once: sadness for herself, built-up anger at her sister, helplessness over all the years she didn't know how to act—and something that feels a lot like admiration for Mia.

"They say there are two kinds of family: the one you're born into and the one you choose. Sometimes the one you're born into is a mess, and the best thing you can do for yourself is hold on to the one you chose," the singer continues.

Erin keeps her eyes fixed on her.

"I don't know you, Mia," she says suddenly.

Mia tilts her head, not quite following.

"I've seen you every day for over a month and I don't know who you are."

Mia still looks confused, watching her with wide eyes.

"And that's on me," Erin starts. "I put up a wall between us because it seemed logical, and instead of bothering to get to know you, I judged you.

I decided what kind of person you were without ever giving you a chance to show me otherwise—that you're not some wild girl who only thinks about sex and having a good time.

You're focused. You know what you want and what you don't, which is a lot more than I can say for myself. "

"I think that might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Mia says with a small laugh, because she's nervous and doesn't know what to say or do without scaring Erin off now that she's finally opening up.

"Honestly, I don't think I've said anything nice to you since we met," Erin admits.

"That's not true," the singer says. "You said you liked my show. That means a lot to me—because I don't usually feel as sure of myself as I look when I'm up on that stage."

"One more thing I got wrong," Erin says quietly, almost to herself. "Because I always assumed that's your natural place—that the stage is where the real Mia Wilder comes out."

"Janssen."

"What?"

"My name is Mia Janssen Wilder. Both of my mother's last names. She gave them to me because she didn't know who my father was, and since she always went by Janssen, I kept Wilder. One more thing you can write down about me, so you don't have to make up my story," the singer says with a small grin.

"What else can I write down?" Erin asks, genuinely wanting to know.

"Hmmm." Mia smiles, tilting her face up toward the stars.

The doctor's heart stumbles. She finds her unbearably beautiful right now—sitting on the floor of a private rooftop, looking up at the sky with those stunning blue eyes.

"I hate the rooms they put me in. All those enormous suites are…" She shrugs. "Not for me."

"Why?"

"Too much space for one person. Why would I want a room the size of an apartment just to spend two or three nights? It's ridiculous. And uncomfortable—the loneliness gets louder. That's why I never ask my hookups to leave afterward. Being alone in a place that big is suffocating."

"Why don't you just ask for a regular room?" Erin asks.

"Jude says I have to project a certain image—that if I stop looking like a star, I'll stop being one."

"I can't stand that guy," Erin says without thinking.

Mia lets out a short laugh.

"Honestly, me neither. But it is what it is."

Erin is about to tell her that no, she can choose differently—but right now she doesn't feel like talking about that man and his obsession with appearances.

"I figured you'd be spending tonight with your stylist's assistant," she admits, pressing at her head again because the pain is getting worse.

"I thought about it. That was actually the plan," Mia says. "But I don't want to sleep with her. I want to sleep with you."

Erin's mouth goes dry. She presses her fingers harder against her head, at a loss for words.

"I'm really bad at all of this, Mia."

"At what? Going to bed with a girl, or letting someone pursue you?"

"Pursue?" Erin can't hold back a small laugh that brightens her whole face. "What century are you from?"

Mia laughs too and pulls her hoodie up over her head because she's cold.

"I have a very refined vocabulary when I want to, Dooley, but don't change the subject—answer the question. What are you bad at?"

"Letting you pursue me," she says, drawing out the word with just enough teasing to make Mia smile. "The bed part I've got pretty much handled. But everything else…"

Mia's stomach tightens.

"You're not doing too badly tonight, actually. You're here. You're talking to me, getting to know me, letting me get to know you. That's a big deal."

"I guess it is," Erin says, exhaling and closing her eyes for a moment, letting her head fall back against the wall.

"Does it hurt?" Mia nods toward her temple.

"Yeah. And it doesn't seem to want to quit."

"You should go to bed, then."

"What are you going to do?" the doctor asks.

"I'll stay up here a little longer. I don't think I can sleep yet."

In a reflex—or maybe pure professional habit—Erin reaches over and wraps her fingers around Mia's wrist to check her pulse. It's something she does three or four times a day, but right now it feels like something else entirely.

"Your rhythm's pretty normal. You should try. You need the rest."

The singer blows a raspberry.

"I'd rather count stars than sheep," she says, glancing up at the sky again. "But I promise I won't be long."

Erin laughs, and when she starts to get up, she feels the pull to lean over and kiss her—but she doesn't want to confuse Mia, or herself.

She's loved being with her tonight, talking about things she never usually talks about with anyone, and she doesn't want Brooke's shadow hanging over this, or to wonder whether it was all just the product of a vulnerable moment.

She needs to be sure this is really what she wants, because her insecurity isn't going to disappear overnight.

She knows she'll need time, and she doesn't want to take any step forward without the certainty that she won't pull back the way she did on the bus.