The Cheat Sheet

Except news flash: IT’S NOT FINE.

“Are you going to get in?” Nathan asks, standing outside the open door of the giant blacked-out SUV we’re going to ride in to get to the set of the commercial today. I’ve never ridden in it with him. Nathan only takes it to special events and places where he might need more privacy and security, places I refuse to go with him because those are things girlfriends do with him, not best friends.

Along with the nice man who’s going to drive me around like I’m the Queen of England, Nathan’s hulking bodyguard is sitting in the passenger seat waiting to jump out and…I don’t know, peel a rabid fan off of Nathan’s body if need be? This is an aspect of Nathan’s life I’m not used to.

I’m trying to convince myself this is an average sunny day and I’m simply taking a drive with my BFF, but this pumpkin feels an awful lot like a carriage, and it’s making me want to run for the hills. I can practically see the giant pencil in my mind flipping over and smudging its eraser across those beautifully drawn lines that define our friendship.

“Bree?” Nathan prompts again, his brows knitting together in a confused smile. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm?” I blink. “Yeah! Oh yeah. Totally good. Of course I’m going to get in. I was just wondering if they clean those bench seats or not.”

He chuckles, looking at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “Yeah, I assume they do occasionally. Why?”

I shrug. “Just…didn’t want to get in there without knowing for sure. Because they’re so spacious, and people could have done goodness knows what back there, and—”

Nathan steps forward now and starts pushing me by my low back into the SUV. “This is my personal vehicle, Bree. I own it. There’s nothing funky on those seats, don’t worry. Now, please get in or we’re going to be late. And smile, there’s a paparazzi over on that corner catching every bit of your indecision.”

I smile really big and scary up at Nathan to make him laugh and show him just how much I care about paparazzi.

He gives me his full-teeth, cheek-dimples laugh that inflates my heart ten sizes and shakes his head. “You’re all fun and games now until you realize that photographer will have zoomed in dangerously close on your silly face and will spla

sh it all over newsstands tomorrow declaring, Bree Camden cracking under the pressures of newfound fame!”

“I don’t think they would be all that wrong,” I say before I hop into the SUV, slide over to the far side, and suction myself to the window. Oh my gosh there is nothing normal about this vehicle. The leather is butter soft, and there’s an adjacent bench seat that faces this side with a flatscreen TV behind it. My fingers glide over a panel of buttons on my armrest, and after I press one, warm lights fill the space (mood lights) and my seat starts to recline with a footrest popping out.

I turn wide eyes to Nathan, and he’s laughing silently. “You’re like a kid in here.”

“I feel like a kid in here! I’m not supposed to be allowed in fancy places like this. Nathan, I’ll spill something on these million-dollar seats.” I set my seat upright again and cross my hands primly in my lap.

“You don’t have a drink.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’ll happen somehow. You know me—I can’t be trusted with luxurious things.”

“It’s only stuff, Bree. I couldn’t care less. Spill anything you want in here.” His eyes are crinkled in the corners, but what I notice most are the dark circles hovering under those jet black pools.

I tilt my head and reach up to softly tap a finger under each of his eyes. “You’re tired.”

His hair is still slightly damp because he’s fresh from practice. Nathan had to wake up at five AM, work a full day of his usual practice and meetings, putting his body through a complete beating, and now at the end of the day is going to film a commercial for several hours when he should be resting and recuperating.

He takes my wrist and softly wraps his fingers around it. I feel his touch like it’s wrapping around my heart. “I’m okay.”

“You’re overextending yourself. We didn’t have to say yes to this commercial.”

The SUV starts moving. Nathan looks down at my wrist and lowers it but doesn’t let it go. We’re one position shift away from holding hands. “I wanted to do the commercial. It’ll be good for both of us.”

For me. It will be good for me is what he means. Because yes, it’s good for Nathan’s image, but let’s be real, he doesn’t need the money. I do. I want this money so I can pay him back.

But then another thought pops into my head. What then? What is my next step after paying Nathan back? Something about him buying the studio and me realizing he’s been paying part of my rent all these years has shaken up a restlessness in me. It’s made me a little antsy and craving more for my studio. Which completely terrifies me. I don’t like craving more, because I don’t like who I was back when all I did was strive for more. Contentment is what I need. If I had possessed even just an ounce more contentment back in high school, I wouldn’t have spent all of my time and energy trying to get into Juilliard. I would have gone to parties. Made friends. Maybe even had a hobby or desires outside of dance that would have kept me from spiraling into such a dark place when my one and only dream got snatched away.

I should be grateful for the help my friend has given me and find tangible ways to make the studio I currently have better. But instead, when trying to find new ways to not have to completely rely on his generosity, I accidentally stumbled across a new dream. One where my studio is not scented with pepperonis, and where it could officially function as a non-profit, able to accept more students who normally couldn’t afford dance classes.

The only way any of this would be possible is if I was granted the space in The Good Factory. The problem is, I’ve put all my eggs in one basket before, and it did not turn out in my favor. I’m terrified to want something just as much again.

Nathan’s phone rings, and he lets go of me so he can answer. “It’s my mom,” he says, looking a little weary before pasting on a tight smile and answering. “Hey Mom, what’s—” There’s a pause as he listens, followed by several mhmms and sures. His eyes shut tight for a moment like he’s in pain, and then he opens them again. I can only imagine she’s asking for something that takes too much from him.

Nathan has a problem saying no—especially to his parents. They’ve always expected a lot of him and have never been hesitant to ask for a lot too (and give nothing in return besides criticism). They always commit him for their charity events without truly asking him, manipulate him into dropping by their holiday parties just so he can be seen and sign autographs, and even ask him to float their lavish vacations because they know when something is paid for on the famous NFL quarterback’s black card, it gets them into a whole other sphere of luxury than even their padded bank accounts can achieve. They parade him around like a tiger at the circus and then whip him when he gets tired so he’ll perform better and keep that social status coming in for them. Yet another reason I never want Nathan to feel like he has to take care of me financially or carry me on his arm to special events. That’s not what he is to me.

I want to rip the phone out of his hand and tell this woman, Sorry, Nathan is no longer available for your constant soul sucking. Try taking up embroidery instead. But it’s not my place to protect him from his mom.