Page 101 of The Unfinished Line

Scene 35

It was a miserable hour of the morning.

The sun hadn’t yet risen and my room was washed in darkness, save for the muted ring of fluorescent light emitting from where my cell lay face down on my nightstand. I grappled for it, managing to dislodge a glass of water, an uncapped bottle of ibuprofen, and my reading glasses onto the floor.

It wasn’t Dillon. Or, at least it wasn’t her ringtone. But I scrambled to answer anyhow, unwilling to miss the possibility she was trying to call.

“Hello?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

I stabbedend call, flopping back to my pillow, disgusted.

Oh, joy. My new number must have been leaked.Again. Before I could return the phone to the table, it was ringing once more, but this time, as I swiped to hang up, I noticed the name on the caller ID.

Shit. I hit redial.

“Elliott?” I said, when I heard the line pick up.

“Let’s try this again: do you have a boyfriend?”

I dug the heel of my palm into my right eye, trying to contain the splitting ache to one corner of my brain.

Last night had been the official wrap party forSand Seekers, put on by one of the studio execs at his estate in Holmby Hills.I’d meant to stick to champagne. But how could I tell L.R. Sims no when he uncorked a Barrique de Ponciano Porfidio and handed me a shot? Certainly, I couldn’t turn it down while Waylon MacArthur stood at my elbow, offering a chaser of limes.

The rest of the night was a blur. Venetian tile and crystal chandeliers, hundred thousand dollar Mulberry silk loveseats. A waterfall that spouted up in the middle of the dining room. Had I played pickleball barefoot on a private tennis court with Grady Dunn, or had that only been part of my disjointed dreams? I wasn’t sure.

Of one thing I was certain, however: I needed to clear up any misunderstandings.

“Look, Elliott—I really appreciate the ride home last night. I got a little carried away. But if I somehow gave you the wrong impression, I’m—”

“—trust me,” he interrupted with a derisive laugh, “you’re not my type.”

“I—okay.” I blinked, uncertain how I could manage to find myself insulted when I hadn’t started this in the first place. “So, you’re calling me at the crack of dawn because…?”

“I just came from—” he stopped. “Dawn?” He was thrown off. “Kam—it’s eight PM.”

It couldn’t be. We hadn’t even left the party until after midnight. Unless—I glanced at my lock screen.8:03. Ho-ly shit! I’d slept all day!

“Listen, Kam. I’d say this was none of my business, but it kind of is.”

“What, your choice in women?” I tried to joke.

“No.” He wasn’t laughing. “Yourchoice in women, actually.”

Now I wasn’t laughing, either. I went silent. My heart was so still I may as well have been interred in Cleopatra’s tomb. I knew I should probably rush to a defense, but I was so stunned, I said nothing at all.

“Now that I have your attention,” he continued, “I just came from the studio. I was in a meeting with MacArthur when he got a call.”

I rolled to the edge of my bed, reaching down to gather two of the dropped pills of ibuprofen that had slowly been dissolving in the spilled water, and popped them in my mouth. Then I flopped back on my squeaking box spring mattress, and listened, without comment, as Elliott explained that a peon English reporter forThe Sunhad called Waylon MacArthur. The man had run across the video of me and Harry singingRewrite the Stars.

This in itself wasn’t a surprise. A few days after it had been uploaded to the DJ’s Instagram, the video had been discovered by aSand Seekersfan, who had shared it on TikTok. Overnight, it had gone viral—and by viral, I mean, within forty-eight hours, it had racked up over ten million views.

I’d panicked, initially, but the studio had been thrilled.Free publicity.Free hype.

The stupid cell phone-recorded sing-along had brought me more direct attention than the release of the teaser trailer that had come out the week before. I’d since been asked about it on talk shows and radio interviews during our press tour. TheToday Showhad extended an offer for me to sing the song live with Zac Efron, which I’d politely declined. Fans had flocked to my social media accounts, where I’d gained—literally—millions of followers overnight.

It was good for business, Aaron chastised me when I’d first called him in tears.

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