Page 19 of Best Thing I Never Had

“I’lltext you her address.”

“Howdo you have her address?”

“Iknow everything!Gosee her!”

Valputs down her coffee cup and stands up, heading for the front door.ThenOatsandIare alone.Andwe’ll be alone until the weekend housekeeper gets here in a couple of hours.

I’mrarely ever alone anymore, except at home.Onset, the only timeI’mever alone is whenIkick everyone out of my trailer soIcan study my lines.Idon’t remember the last timeIread a book that wasn’t for a role.Myjob—my life—comes with a team.Manager.Publicist.Driversand assistants whenI’mworking.Entourage.

WhenI’mfilming, a driver comes and takes me to set every morning and then drives me back to whereverI’mstaying at night.Thereare people coming and going from my trailer all day.Dozens, if not hundreds, of people on set every day.Hundredsmostly for the last few years as the roles have been getting bigger and bigger, and the fame has been getting bigger and bigger.

Gosee her!Val’svoice rings out in my head.

Selenawon’t want to see me.I’vemade her life hell.First, the woman gets trapped in an elevator with a strange man for hours.Andthen when that all finally died down, that same asshole tells the entire country about how she peed in front of him in an elevator.Andon top of that, the asshole hints he’s dating her on nationalTV.Ifthe internet knows who this girl is now, then paparazzi will follow her around because of me.Toget something on me.Shedidn’t sign up for any of this just by having the misfortune to step into an elevator with me.

She’snot anL.A. girl, not really.Everyonewho lives inL.A. is trying to get famous.Maybethey’re actors or writers or directors.Singers, whatever.Itdoesn’t matter.Theywant it.Theywant the fame.Themoney.Theattention.

Thisgirl didn’t ask for any of it.

Whateverthey’re saying about her, it’s not all going to be good.Somepeople might love the idea of me dating this girl.Butlike everything else on the internet, there isn’t just one point of view.Somepeople are probably going to hate the idea of me dating this girl, and they’ll have some not-so-kind things to say about her.Becauseit’s so easy to type the first mean thing you think of and hit enter from the other side of a screen.Peopleon the internet typing from a thousand miles away can be meaner than a pack of coyotes.

Maybethe girl doesn’t look like the girlsIusually date, but she’s pretty.Thosewide hazel eyes above those full lips, surrounded by all that dark hair, a bit lighter and sun-kissed at the ends.It’snot the first time thatI’vethought about her since the elevator, and it won’t be the last.Icertainly wouldn’t mind dating her.

NotthatI’llactuallybedating her.Orkissing her.Oranything elseI’vethought about doing.Thisis pretend.Fake.Justa game we’ll be playing with the media.

Ifshe agrees to it.Hell, ifIeven agree to it.Idon’t know why anyone in her position would do this.Notafter everything the media is probably saying about her.NotafterItold the entire world that she peed in my water bottle in front of me.Whythe hell didIhave to tell that damn story?Iwas still thinking about her and that elevator,Iguess.Therewas something about her.Talkingto her in that elevator was the first genuine conversationI’vehad in years that wasn’t about the next steps in my career.

Val’sright.Ineed to go see her and make sure she’s okay.

chapternine

selena

Myentire apartment is covered with cooling trays.EverytimeIthinkIcan’t make another batch of cupcakes, muffins, or cakes,Isee another headline aboutJacksonWater’spathetic #elevatorgirl, andI’mreaching for my measuring cups and flour.Bakingis a distraction.Itrelieves my stress, or it normally does.Mystress level is nuclear sinceJacksonWaterswent on nationalTVthree days ago and told the entire world his oh-so-charming anecdote about getting trapped in an elevator with somerandonon-famous person and how she peed in his water bottle.Helooked like a charming hero, andIlooked like the troll under the bridge… the troll who peed in the movie star’s water bottle.

Don’teven get me started on the nonsense they’re writing about howJacksonis in love with me.It’smortifying.Everysingle articleI’verage-scrolled talks about howdifferentwe are.Howperfect and handsome and famousJacksonis, and howdifferentIam from him.

Noone cared about the normie trapped in the elevator withJacksonWaterswhen it happened.Afterall, who gives a crap about another normie?Ishowed up in a few pictures online.Acouple of tabloids figured out whoIwas and tracked me down, even offering me tens of thousands of dollars to give them tell-all interviews aboutJackson.Isaid no, and they moved on.Ireally could have used the money, butIdidn’t feel right talking about what happened in the elevator.Itwas this weird, out-of-body experience that was just forJacksonand me.OrsoIthought.

ButthenJacksonwent onTheEddieParsonsShowand talked all about it.Itwasn’t until he did that and told the entire world what happened in the elevator that anyone cared about me.Theshow aired at ten-thirty.Bythe time the morning shows were on the next day, there were media vans and paparazzi outside my home and at the bakery kitchen.I’msuch an idiot.Ishould have taken the money.Atleast then,I’dhave something to show for the disaster that is currently my life.

Threedays later, and the media surrounding #elevatorgirl hasn’t died down.Thereare still cameras outside my apartment.Cameras.Outside.Myapartment.InEchoPark.Paparazziare not a frequent occurrence here.Imight live inL.A., butIlive in a very different world thanJacksonWaters.Completelydifferent worlds.Differentplanets, really.

Butnow all ofJackson’sfame and the media’s fucked-up obsession with celebrities is raining down on my head.Andinstead of living my normal, quiet life of baking, growing my business, brunch with my three best girlfriends—because who can keep up with any more than three besties after college when you all have real jobs—and hitting up a farmer’s market on the weekend,I’mhiding out in my house likeI’mthe one who did something wrong.

Everybodypees, damnit!Everybodypees!

Knock.Knock.Knock.

Whowould knock on my door with all those photographers outside?Noone with any sense would come anywhere near me these days with all the cameras aimed at my front door.

Knock.Knock.Knock.

Whoever’sout there isn’t taking the hint thatIdon’t want to see anyone.

Knock.Knock.Knock.

Witha groan,Istand up from the fetal positionIwas lying in on my sofa feeling bad for myself and walk to the front door.

---