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The paparazzi have arrived.
“Let us help you,” Dad pleads. “You need to get away from him.”
Slowly I turn around, eager to see Tate’s face. To see the sympathy in his gaze. To know he’s in this with me.
We’re in this together.
But he’s gone.
CHAPTER36
SCARLETT
There’s a soft knock, and then my bedroom door swings open, revealing Rachel standing there, a worried expression on her face.
“Come in,” I croak from beneath a pile of blankets on my bed. “And shut the door behind you.”
She closes it softly before she approaches the bed, her eyes wide as she takes me in. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks.” I love my friend’s honesty, except in moments like this.
“I’m sorry. Just trying to keep it real.” She settles on the edge of the bed, right by my feet. “Are you okay?”
“No.” There is no recovering from this. The media hasn’t stopped talking about me and Tate since our fake relationship was exposed Friday.
We had a meeting with the crisis-management team on the phone, and Tate was so withdrawn. So removed from the entire situation. He could barely look at me.
And I could barely look at him.
I talked to Mom, and she took care of my flight home. In the early-morning hours of Saturday, before the sun was even up, I left the house in Calabasas and was whisked away to the airport, where I boarded a private jet hired by my family and flew home to New York.
Leaving Tate behind.
He wouldn’t talk to me. Not really. He was in pure panic mode, and I don’t think he knew what to say. I’m sure he felt as if he were watching his entire career go up in smoke, and I get it. His career, the album, it’s all important to him.
But what about me? What about us?
I didn’t talk to him about it. I didn’t sleep with him that night. I went back to my room and packed my things. I lay in bed and cried, unable to sleep. He never came to comfort me. I don’t know if he heard me, but how can I try to reason with someone who essentially turned into a zombie the moment things got rough?
I couldn’t. That’s part of the reason I left. If he wanted me, he’d call. He’d text. He’d chase me to the ends of the earth and let me know how much I mattered to him.
But he didn’t do any of that. It’s Sunday. I haven’t heard a word. And the interest in our situation hasn’t died down. I swear it’s only grown. We’re all anyone can talk about, and it’s so weird.
Don’t people have better things to do with their lives?
“I saw an article that said they figured out who did it,” Rachel announces.
I sit up straight, pushing the covers away from my upper half. I’m sure I look terrible. I probably even smell. I haven’t taken a shower since I’ve come home, which is kind of gross. Okay, really gross.
But I don’t care.
“They did? Who was it?”
“Someone who worked at Irresistible. An intern with nothing to lose. Supposedly he made a quarter of a mil for selling you guys out,” Rachel says.
I fall back against my pillows, staring up at the ceiling. At the canopy that hangs above my bed. The same one I’ve had since I was fourteen and used to dream of getting together with one of the boys from Five Car Pileup. We could travel the world together, and I could watch him tour, all those fans screaming for him.
Screaming for Tate Ramsey.
