Page 5 of Concerted Chaos

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Powelllooksmuchhealthier and more alert after scarfing down two cheeseburgers and a pile of fries. If I tried to eat a heavy meal like that with a hangover, I guarantee I’d see it again soon after in a much more disgusting state. For him, that kind of food is revitalizing.

“You’re lucky you aren’t on a diet yet,” I remind him, as he wipes the last of the grease from his lips and tosses his napkin on his plate.

“I’ve got a couple of months left.”

The big concert is less than four months away, so soon he has to go into a full-on must-look-good-for-the-masses body improvement regimen. Diet, exercise, mandated sleeping periods, the works. I usually suffer alongside him, not just because that’s how our kitchen is stocked, but because I want to look good in the periphery. Especially if Jace is making me go as his date. I need to look my best from all angles because if I don’t, the gossip blogs run with it. That’s why I prefer staying out of sight backstage. It’s better for my self-esteem if I don’t have to read critiques of my hair and clothing and speculation as to my relationships.

“True.” We move from our patio table, where he consumed his grease-feast and I drank a healthy smoothie, to the poolside. This is where we come to forget the world. When we’re relaxing on our loungers, or swimming in the cool water, or soaking in the hot tub, nothing else matters. Not Zahna, not scummy photographers, not the impending media storm of Powell’s latest relationship implosion. None of it.

The rest of the morning and most of the afternoon passes peacefully. It’s one of those perfect late-February days where the temperature hovers around eighty degrees. We alternate between lounging and swimming until we’re thirsty enough to need a refresher other than water. Unfortunately, our outdoor wet bar hasn’t been restocked lately. That’s Powell’s fault—our alcohol supply seems to dry up whenever he invites his local musician buddies over for a jam session. He’s a generous host.

“But it’s tequila o’clock,” Powell complains when the only thing I can pull out is a half-drunk bottle of sickly-sweet Midori.

“Are you kidding me? Isn’t that what made you so miserable in the first place?” If he’s requesting tequila, he must be fully recovered from last night’s binge. Anything I make him will be very weak though—I’m not dealing with a repeat.

“Shots at a bar are different than sharing a refreshing cocktail with my little sister. Besides, I’m trying to mend my broken heart.”

“Then write a sad song.”

“I’ll do that later. Please? There’s more inside.” Powell waves toward the house. “Check the Corbitt Cantina.”

“I’m not calling it that.” The remodel of the basement bar was finished a month ago, and he’s been trying to come up with a name for it. So far I’ve vetoed everything. Powell’s Palace? Veto. Cheers to Life? Veto. Bar-Baron-a? Mega-veto.

“The Baron’s Last Stand?”

“Powell, seriously, no. What’s wrong with you?”

“The Rowdy Rathskeller?”

“You can’t make up words.”

“It’s German for basement bar. It’s perfect. Brixley suggested it.”

“No, Powell, we’re not outsourcing the naming rights.” A flash of selfish inspiration hits me. “How about the Downstairs Drinkery?”

“Hey, that might actually work.” Powell nods thoughtfully at my suggestion. He doesn’t see my ulterior motive. My nickname is Deedee, so I’m going to special order a neon bar sign that says DD. I’m staking my claim. “Okay, get it from the Downstairs Drinkery.”

“You’re the one who wants it. You go get it.”

But he doesn’t move from his seat. I wait, arms crossed. Nope, he’s still reclining like a hungover diva. “Take care of me, baby sis. I’m newly heartbroken.”

“Your legs aren’t broken.” He still doesn’t get up, and now he’s giving me puppy dog eyes. I give up. “Fine, I’ll go fetch some margarita fixings. Stay here and wallow in your misery.”

His thousand-watt grin belies his supposed misery.

When I open the glass doors to enter the house I am greeted by a cacophony of phones. Oh no. This does not bode well for the remainder of our day.

Our kitchen charging station has all four phones plugged in—we each have one personal, one business. And they are all going insane. Beeps and chirps and ringing come from three of them, and Powell’s personal phone has vibrated itself off the counter and is doing a little rattlesnake dance as it dangles from its cable. Crap. Word of Powell’s breakup is out. Respite officially over. I’m going to need to call Miriam and tell her to get a handle on this, though I’m sure she’s already trying.

After returning Powell’s vibrating phone to a safe place on the countertop, I check my personal phone. Hundreds of texts that I don’t have the time or inclination to skim, and my mom’s number is showing up as it rings in my hand. She’s probably mad that she read it online instead of hearing it directly.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer, deciding to ignore everything else and go ahead and make the drinks. I won’t tell Powell the news is out yet. He can find out later. He deserves one last peaceful afternoon.

“Cassidy!” Her unexpected scream is so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. My mother is not prone to screaming, and she doesn’t even like Zahna that much. “I’m so relieved you finally answered! Did you . . . did you hear about Powell?”

“Yeah, of course I did,” I tell her. She should have known that I’d be the first to find out. “Mom, you know this is something I can handle.”

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