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“Everything will be okay. It’s not your fault. Don’t feel bad.” I find the medication and sigh with joy. “I’ll call you back in a little bit, okay?” I end the call without waiting for her answer and pop the pills open. Just one, I remind myself. My pain may be overwhelming, but there’s no need to overdose.
I follow the link Briar sends me and watch the video. Whoever filmed it might as well have used professional gear. Everything is in crisp focus. The sound is better than any phone can ever capture. Everyone had their devices confiscated. Briar gave Laurel her phone back for our performance, but Laurel couldn’t have filmed this. She wouldn’t have leaked the video either. The only person who wasn’t under any filming regulations was—
I order my thoughts to stop, but the momentum carries the speculation onward. Juliette. She had a camera. She was the one taking pictures that night, and she could’ve made a video as well. I hate that I allow myself to even wonder if she’d do this. She wouldn’t. Juliette knows better than to sabotage someone else’s content or, as is the case with Laurel, hurt someone’s privacy. She’s an honest girl.
Honest girls get their feelings hurt too. Laurel did mildly slander her—
No. Even if Juliette was mad at Laurel, she wouldn’t take her anger out on me.
My stomach is empty, so it doesn’t take long for the painkiller to start working. My thoughts clear up enough that I can move again. For the most part. I change out of my pajamas. Every so often, the room tilts to one side or the other. I didn’t think I ate the concrete that hard, but my body disagrees. This is a rotten time to be in any way out of commission, but unfortunate timing seems to be the story of my life lately.
“Laurel?” I call out as I come out of my bedroom.
“In the living room,” responds Jonas’ dry voice.
I run the short length of my hallway, having to grab onto the corner when I arrive at the scene. My surroundings keep spinning. Jonas must notice me blinking—he holds my upper arm and forces me to sit in one of the armchairs. Laurel sits in the other, back straight and stiff. The living room is a dark cave of silent brooding. All of the blinds are closed, and none of the lights are on.
“Looks like you already know,” I say to her.
“We sound good together.” She offers me the faintest of smiles.
“We do.” I sit on the floor next to her as I slide out of my seat. My plan was to stand up and hug her, but the vertigo hit me too hard. So here I am, forehead pressed against her knees. Is there any reason for me to be anywhere else though?
Laurel seems to think I’m about to pass out. “Jace!” Her hands wrap around my shoulders.
Jonas’ steps sound behind me. I wave him away and crawl to the couch on my own. “I got this.”
“You shouldn’t be moving.” She rushes to my side and fusses with the cushions. “And I filed the copyright about an hour ago. I had to. The video is out there, and so is your music. I know you don’t want it, but I had to protect your work.”
“Makes sense.” It’s her song. Why does she keep insisting that it’s mine? I may have given her a sapling, my raw ideas, but she’s the one who grew the tree. Fine though. I won’t argue. Laurel doesn’t need me adding to her distress. “Why is the room so dark?”
“We have company,” Jonas explains. He stands by the window and parts the blinds with his fingers.
“The press is here,” Laurel adds in a grave voice. “All of it.”
I restrain myself from swearing. This is not how I imagined my real fame would sprout. I was always looking forward to the camera flashes, ready for them to bathe me. The media is here now, but I have to chase them away. “Let’s see what we can do to get you out of here.”
Ignoring Laurel’s protests, I get off the couch and twist one of the blind panels open. The street is flooded with cars and people. My lawn teems with bodies of strangers. A guy in his thirties notices me observing, gets off my grass, and jogs up my porch. The doorbell rings.
Laurel flinches. Jonas grabs the blind stick out of my hands and turns the room back into a cave.
The doorbell rings again, more insistent. All right, then.
“Get out as soon as you can,” I say and go to open the door.
“What are you—”
“Good morning.” I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me, cutting off Laurel’s concerned voice.
The noise caused by my appearance rekindles my headache. The paparazzi jump to their feet and surge toward me. I slink down the porch steps, as if I’m not a second away from punching someone for shouting their questions at me, and head to my mailbox. I get paper mail maybe once in a quarter, but I need them to follow me. They do. Phones and recorders aimed at my face, camera flashes aggravating my vision and balance, everyone speaks all at once.
“Are you dating Laurel Halifax?”
“Are you working on an album together?”
“How long have you been practicing kung fu?”
Popping the mailbox open, I answer, “For over a decade—”
