Page 54 of Beyond the Bright Lights

What the fuck does he mean by that?

Before I can demand he clarifies, Eloise exits the door to the staircase, calling my name.

“Did you get my texts? Tony is pissed and wants to talk to you. So does your publicist.”

I’m breathing hard, teeth clenched so hard, it almost hurts.

Jensen gives me a shit-eating grin, and I swear if Bruno wasn’t holding on to me, I'd be punching this asshole.

The moment I put a hand on him, I’m done. My career over. And I’d have failed Lana.

I make myself turn away.

How the hell am I going to survive the next three months working with this prick? And while sober?

I know the answer. I hope she’s willing to be my solution.

Chapter 14 - Lana

The bar is chaos.

The line to get inside is longer than it was last Saturday night. Last night, even though I announced that Mylan wasn’t going to show, people still stayed. They drank, they bought food, they danced.

They were respectful, for the most part, aside from a handful of people who kept demanding I call Mylan and force him to come to the bar. Those are the ones I kicked out.

When the book came out, I was so agitated with the sudden fame that I hid. I wanted no part of this life. I couldn’t understand the obsession, why people so-called “stanned” mine and Tyler’s story. I couldn’t understand it until I spoke to some fans last night.

Two women, one who had to be closer to my age and size, with light brown hair and matching brown eyes, and the other woman a near carbon-copy but a few decades older, sat down in front of the taps where Mylan usually sits. The mother and daughter told me their connection to the Tyler’s Team organization. The mother, Brenda, had a son who died of cancer seven years after Tyler died. He wasn’t a college football star, or popular, or had a story that would inspire the world. He was an average student with average good looks who made average good grades.

His name was Victor.

Brenda said when Victor died, she went into a deep depression. She stopped going to work, stopped taking care of herself. She neglected her daughter Lydia, who was only a teenager at the time.

Then Rebecca’s book came out. Brenda spotted it at Walmart when she managed to peel herself out of bed to grab some boxed wine and junk food. She stayed up all night reading it. It helped her grieve, it helped her heal.

Reading mine and Tyler’s story inspired her to start living her life again. She wanted to help others in similar situations who struggled to move on. She began volunteering with the Tyler’s Team organization.

Speaking with Brenda and Lydia changed my attitude towards the fans, the ones who wait for hours upon hours outside in the hot humid night for the chance to be in the same room as someone who made such an impact on their life.

Everyone’s story is different. Everyone’s reason for loving the things they do is different. These fans, who I looked down on because I couldn’t understand their obsession, are just like me—with trauma like me, looking to escape, like me.

That was last night. Now, tonight, instead of Brenda and Lydia staring back at me across the taps, I see a wide smile stretched over sparkling white teeth. I see wild blue eyes squinting from laughter. I see a man with messy raven curls, swooshed across a forehead.

I see Mylan.

I see him and he sees me. He really sees me. All of me, including this body that I deprived of pleasure for close to two decades. A part of me convinced myself I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve a happy life or someone to love because I already met my soulmate. I met him, and he died, so why should I get a second chance at love when some don’t even get one?

Tyler was the one meant to go on and inspire the world. Not me. I was just the girl who loved him. I was nobody, not compared to him.

Mylan is the first person since Tyler to look at me like I’m important. He looks at me like I’m his future. It’s different from the way my grandparents or Ginger or all the other people in this godforsaken town look at me. They see my past, they see my pain, they see a woman lost.

“I thought I’d find you here.” A smooth voice pulls me from my thoughts.

Mylan’s warm smile turns cold. A handsome man walks up to the counter. He’s wearing black-rimmed glasses, a black beanie with brown curls poking out, and a red flannel shirt. He squeezes his thick body in between Mylan and Gary. The regular gives him a scowl before scooting his stool over to make room.

“Jensen,” Mylan says through gritted teeth.

Jensen leans on the bar and locates the drink sitting in front of Mylan. He points at the glass. “Hope that’s water.”

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