Page 31 of Concerted Chaos

I shrug again. “If I’m going to be in a magazine, I want to look my best. It was a professional decision, not a personal one.”

He just shakes his head and gives me a rueful smile. “I’m never going to figure you out.”

I return to the gym to pick Whitney up after her shift.

“Wow, this is a fancy car,” she says as she gets in, and I immediately regret it. I should have driven one of Powell’s ‘hiding in public’ ones, something less flashy, instead of my sporty little yellow Boxster.

“Thanks, my brother bought it for me for my birthday a few years ago.” I don’t want her to think I am the rich one, which is the image the vehicle conveys. Of course, she knows I own the gym, so she probably already suspects I have some money. She’s also aware of my familial connections. It’s no secret amongst my employees.

“Your brother is a lot more generous than mine. For my last birthday, he gave me a Target gift card with $4.12 on it.”

“Does that number have special significance?”

“Yeah, my aunt gave us each a $25 gift card for Christmas, and he bought about twenty bucks worth of stuff with his.”

We laugh together and it feels good. See, I can be social. In your face, Tanner.

I let her control the music, and when she opens to the center console to access a port to hook up her phone, she pulls out the EpiPens. There’s a set in every car, one in my purse, and six of them in strategic locations throughout our house. Powell is single-handedly propping up the EpiPen industry.

“What’s this?” she asks, studying the packaging.

“Peanut allergy.” I don’t elaborate, even though she’ll likely assume they’re mine. Doesn’t matter, I avoid peanuts anyway, so I don’t bring any potential contamination home with me.

“You too? I heard about your brother...” she stops abruptly as if worried she may have said something wrong.

“Everybody’s heard about my brother. He’s kind of famous.” I’m making a joke to lighten the mood. My gym employees know better than to try and access Powell through me. Several other local celebrities work out there as well, and staff members freaking out like super fans is a fireable offense. It’s in their contracts.

“Sorry, I just meant I was told that the reason we have those bleach wipes all over the place is because he has a peanut allergy and he’s paranoid about it.”Her statement is mostly accurate. I’m actually the paranoid one who does most of the Powell’s-going-to-touch-this cleaning. I love my brother. I’ll do anything to keep him safe.

“Peanut allergies are deadly,” I say, as if that explains it all.

“Yeah, and Powell ... I’m sorry, I’m not fangirling, I promise. I didn’t even like the Last Barons. I was a You4Me fan.”

“Those guys are hacks.” That particular quartet was always chasing the Last Barons up the charts and falling short. As they should have—their lyrics were the literal worst. Even Xander could write better songs than they could. But they were entertaining to hang out with. And I may have made out with one of them once. Or twice.

If popular culture has taught me anything, it’s that at my age, I’m supposed to be part of a solid foursome of fabulous females. We’re supposed to regularly get together for cocktails and discuss our love lives. Every once in a while, we take a spin class or barre class, or whatever trendy fitness routine is popular at the moment. One of them is promiscuous, but in an empowering way, and she would encourage me to frequently seek sexual partners. One would be a somewhat conservative romantic, and the third would have a series of failed relationships before ending up with a woman. I, of course, would be the emotionally stunted one who never dates, but fully supports my friends as they do so, plus I invite them to a bunch of fun parties where wacky things happen.

That’s the way it’s supposed to be if life mirrored marketing. But instead, I have mostly acquaintances and industry contacts rather than regular let’s-hang-out friends. I mean, I have Powell, of course. And Brixley, though when we’re together we don’t go out much—she likes to avoid the spotlight when she’s not being paid to stand in it.

No matter what Tanner says though, my lack of intimate non-celeb friendships doesn’t reflect poorly on me. Or at least, it shouldn’t. I learned early on that because of my celebrity adjacent status, people would use me for access. Nobody wanted to be friends with me, Cassidy Blaine. They wanted to be friends with Cass Corbitt, Powell’s sister. They wanted passes to shows, they wanted to meet him, or sneak away from slumber parties to attempt to climb into his bed, or casually post pictures on various social media platforms claiming some of Powell’s fame for themselves. Dinner at the Corbitts with @PowellC. Hanging with Powell. Just another musical evening, thanks @PowellC. I would go untagged, because they wanted the illusion of being his friend, not mine.

They taught me a valuable lesson: people can’t be trusted. They all want something, and in my case I always know exactly what that something is.

But sometimes I can set all of that aside. I can shove it all deep down inside and plaster on a smile and pretend things are different. Pretend there are rare exceptions who like me for me and I can enjoy their company. Like right now with Whitney, for example.

She and I bond over a big platter of appetizers and a couple of martinis. It’s sort of fun, to be out with another woman, masquerading as friends. She’s my age and we have a lot of common interests, so perhaps we could do this more often, maybe even form a superficial real-life friendship, not merely a temporary proving-Tanner-wrong one.

At one point the conversation turns serious. “I really like your parents,” she tells me. “Especially your father. He’s always so friendly and kind when he visitsthe gym.” Hank comes in often, and not always to work out. My gym manager was his best friend in Hank’s pre-stage dad life. Hank likes to sit in his office and shoot the breeze with him. I assume they chat about how much happier theyare now than when they worked eighty-hour weeks as real estate developers and had no lives outside of their jobs.

“He’s my stepdad,” I correct. “My bio dad passed away when I was six.”

“I was seventeen,” Whitney replies, and I’m about to tell her our age difference can’t be that great when I realize she is talking about her own father.

“I’m sorry,” I automatically respond. All of us half-orphans understand the anguish and sorrow of losing a parent, so more words aren’t necessary.

“Ten years ago, but time doesn’t heal the loss.” She stares into the distance for a moment. “What happened to yours?”

“Hit by a car while riding his bike.” Since we’re bonding over a shared experience, I don’t mind telling her. If I didn’t, she could just look it up. It’s not a secret. My father was in grad school at the time, painfully close to finishing his dissertation. He was on his way to campus to meet with his advisor when a woman who thought applying mascara was more important than paying attention to the road crashed into him. My poor mother was doing her nursing clinicals at the same hospital the ambulance took him to, so at least she was able to hold his hand while he passed. I don’t like to talk about that day. “What about your dad?”

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