Page 25 of Concerted Chaos

seven

Ihopeurready for the performance of a lifetime.

I stare at my phone, trying to interpret the text from Devon. Powell left yesterday to join him and Xander in Los Angeles, where they are auditioning dancers for the upcoming show. Is it going terribly? Am I getting called in? I do know the dances and reluctantly performed in two of their videos, but there’s no way I’m getting on a stage and doing that in a concert being broadcast to millions. No way.

Before I can send a strongly worded objection with some middle-finger emojis, I receive a second, clarifying message: Jace’s will has been filed. Be prepared for a media storm.

Crap, that’s much worse. All court filings are considered public information, which means anyone who requests them will be granted access. Once some gossip site does that, everyone will know what Jace said about me, and there will be questions.

I’ve been dreading this moment.

The way I see it, I have two choices: I can either pretend to have actually been the love of Jace’s life or I can deny it. If I admit to being Jace’s great love (and lover?) I’ll have the sympathy of the media, while they simultaneously tear me apart for not having been in a steady long-term relationship with him and judgmentally compare me to all the other names he’s been romantically linked with in the past. If I deny it, if I make his love unrequited and unreturned, I’m the selfish succubus who broke Jace’s heart and left him lonely. And if it ever comes out that I’m the one who put him on that helicopter, then they’ll think I’m also the one who murdered him. Conspiracy theorists and bored gossips will wonder if perhaps I wanted to get rid of him, if I sent Jace to his death intentionally.

Powell is media savvy, and his advice has been to admit but deflect. Oh, Jace, how I loved him, but the timing was wrong. We’d always thought we’d have forever. Sigh. Wipe a tear. Then I can advise Jace’s fans that if they have someone special in their lives, tell them, please tell them now before it’s too late. Repeat sigh, wipe another tear, stare mournfully into the distance.

Now I regret not going out to California with Powell. The potential media storm would be so much easier to manage while reclining on a chair next to Devon’s pool with Brixley and a cold drink at my side. They could have told reporters they were sheltering me, guiding me through my heartbreak and loss.

Maybe I should head over to my parents’ house, hide out there? No, that will never work; we live in the same neighborhood and if I’m not home it’s the first place the paparazzi will check.

So there’s only one thing to do: shut my phone off and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll deal with the madness tomorrow. That’s not me avoidingmy problems, that’s me gathering my strength and engaging in self-care so I can face them head on. Or so I’m telling myself.

I wake up ready to face the inevitable.

No, not really. But I’ve resigned myself to my fate. After a workout in my home gym—I won’t risk making an appearance at Star Fitness—and a large breakfast, I turn my phone back on. It takes two full minutes for all of the notifications to load.

I keep an alert set up for mentions of my name in the media, and ... yeah, it’s out there. The big headline is “Who is Cassidy Blaine-Corbitt and How Did She Steal Jace Monroe’s Heart?” Another: “Jace Monroe’s Long-lost Love Revealed in His Will.” And another: “Jace and the Woman Who Broke His Heart.” That’s hurtful. Why do they assume his heart was broken rather than full to bursting with love in our clandestine relationship?

My inbox is filling up with interview requests. The dozens of texts are either supportive or irrelevant. My parents send me encouragement, Mason sends a picture of his baby (he probably missed the will announcement—baby pictures arrive daily), Powell sends a reminder to have Hank take my car for an oil change, and Brixley sends virtual hugs.

And then there’s a message from Tanner. That’s not unusual. In the weeks since cherry pie day, he’s texted often. Usually it’s with a random question: What kind of cactus is this? Can you recommend a dentist? Where can I buy fresh chiles?

Once it was There is a spider in my van! Do you have a flamethrower and can you rescue me? THIS IS NOT A JOKE! That particular text was accompanied by a picture of the tiniest, cutest little baby tarantula, and I ended up driving way out into the desert to coax it out of his vehicle for him. He repaid me with drinks at a dive bar, where he tolerated my teasing about his arachnophobia, and I let him beat me at shufflepuck to assuage his ego.

This latest message is short and to the point: Can I take a picture of you, pretty please?

At least he asked nicely. I call him. “How much were you offered for a recent photo of me?”

“Enough that I was willing to ask you for one.”

“What do they want?”

“You sobbing about your lost boyfriend. No, just kidding. They’re hoping for a pic of you out partying, so they can show what a heartless shrew you are, celebrating your inheritance.”

“I’m not big on partying.”

“I figured. For the record, I don’t think you’re a heartless shrew either. So, how about it? Can I come over?”

“Seriously? Are you asking permission to ambush me?”

“By definition, if you know I’m coming, it’s not an ambush. Come on, Cass. It’s a beautiful day and you have a heated pool. Let me take your picture, and then we can swim. I’ll bring margarita mix.”

“You’re trying to get me drunk so you can take a terrible photo to humiliate me in the press.”

“Nope. I’m a professional. I haven’t taken a terrible photo in years. And why would I want to humiliate you? I’m trying to help. I promise, I’ll take the picture first, let you approve it before I send it off, and then we relax and drink margaritas poolside. Please?”

Hmmm. He’s shown himself to be an excellent photographer—his work on my gym’s social media proves that. I do appreciate getting the final say on the image he uses. And, truthfully, I enjoy his company. Hanging out with him is better than being by myself right now.

“Fine, come over. But don’t show up with margarita mix. I have better stuff here.”

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