Best Friends Forever

ns that makes my heart ache, but before I can say anything else, Rosa chimes in.

“Chelsea, come on sweetie, we’ve got an interview in half an hour,” she says, looking up from her phone with a bright smile. “They’re so excited to hear about this album.”

“You’re leaving?” Ian says softly, his voice breaking my heart.

“Guess so,” I say, wishing it weren’t true. I don’t know why, but suddenly we don’t feel like us. It feels like there’s something between us and I can’t help but wonder if this was just a fling during production that he never intended to carry further.

That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s probably for the best. I mean, what in the world was I thinking? It’s not like Ian and I could ever have a relationship. A little fling for the benefit of the paparazzi, sure, but I know his past. I know his demons and I know mine. It just couldn’t work. And now, with the way Merrill’s talking… I didn’t want to let on, but it sounds very unlikely that there’s going to be a tour. What I said was true, but if the label hasn’t already booked dates and venues, they likely aren’t planning on it.

“So… I’ll see you around?” he says, hope glimmering through the darkness that’s clouded his eyes and erased the joy from his face.

“Yeah, definitely,” I say, not sure I really believe it. I’m not sure he believes it either. For all the fun we had together, this feels oddly final. More than I want it to. But I don’t fight it because the logical part of me knows it’s for the best. The good girl still buried deep inside of me is saying I need to run far away from Ian and his influence before my reputation and career are irreparably damaged. That’s more than I can risk with my whole family relying on me.

The managers are still in the room, so neither of us says what we’re really thinking, doing our best to keep it totally professional and not let on about the things we’d been getting up to the past few days.

“It was… great working with you,” I say, internally wincing. Those words sound so cold and detached. They don’t do justice to the chemistry and magic between Ian and me. But what else can I say?

“You too,” he says, his voice now completely devoid of any inflection or emotion. He’s shutting down and I don’t know if it’s because of me or because this is how he always planned on this going. I do know it leaves me feeling cold and empty inside. Like he’s betrayed me somehow even though I know that’s ridiculous. We both jumped into this thing knowing it was a bad idea, and now we both get to pay the bill.

“Chelsea,” Rosa sings, waving her phone at me and tapping her wrist even though she’s never worn a watch as long as I’ve known her.

“I guess this is goodbye,” I say, fighting back the sudden wave of tears those words bring. Why is this so damn hard? A week ago, I couldn’t wait to be done with Ian. Now I’m on the verge of tears because of it?

Keep it together, Chelsea. You’re a professional.

“Yeah,” he says.

And when I go in for a quick hug, he’s stiff as a board. He doesn’t hug me back; he just stands there like I’ve just assaulted him.

So that’s really that then. That’s really the end.

I pull away, the spicy scent of his aftershave still tickling my nose. I look at him for another long moment, wishing he’d say something, anything to break this wall between us, but his silence is absolute. So I turn and head toward Rosa, my heart sinking through the floor, my throat tightening with tears I don’t dare let out.

Rosa’s chatting away about all the interviews she’s already lined up with magazines and bloggers and radio stations. She’s got on-air performances scheduled and a couple of private shows. I’m not sure why any of these people would want to see me alone when the album is the both of us, working together, but there’s no mention of Ian being at any of these appearances. I’m about three hundred percent positive that Rosa did that on purpose.

Just as we leave the studio and head into the hallway, I make the exceptionally foolish decision to send one last glance over my shoulder at Ian. He’s still looking out the door I left, his eyes focused on the far-off distance, but then he sees me looking and his jaw tightens, his eyes hardening with a look that I wouldn’t give my worst enemy.

Until that moment, I hoped that this was all just some act for the managers. That I’d leave the studio and get a flirty text from him and we’d be back where we were this morning. I was hoping all of that even while trying to convince myself that leaving Ian behind is for the best. Even while talking myself into severing all ties with him, I was hoping that I’d get to see him tonight.

But that look of contempt—and that’s really the only word for it—shatters any illusions I have. There is no doubt in my mind that Ian would be happiest if he never sees me again. And damn me for feeling this way, but it hurts. It hurts so much I want to curl up in a corner and cry myself to sleep. But I can’t do that. I have interviews and appearances to do. So instead, I suck it up, shove down all my emotions, and put on the mask that I use with the world, keeping my pain locked away.

Chapter 13

Ian

A week. A whole damn week’s gone by since I last saw or talked to Chelsea. Since that awful day in the studio when she treated me like someone she barely knew. Even the memory of it is enough to make my jaw clench, my hands tightening to fists. I thought what we had was stronger than that, but Chelsea took the first chance to leave me in her dust while she soaks up all the publicity. She hasn’t made the first attempt to reach out to me—and I know, because I haven’t let my phone out of my sight in a whole damn week.

Speak of the devil, my phone chimes and I leap across the couch to pick it up, only to scowl at it and throw it back. Another useless email.

“This girl must be something special,” Serge says, absently tapping out a rhythm with his feet and fingers. That’s the thing about drummers: they never fucking stop. He’s constantly full of energy, of music, bouncing off the walls. Right now it’s only pissing me off and I’m wondering why the hell I invited him over.

But I know the answer. Because Serge is the reason I’m clean. Because if it weren’t for him nearly dying all those years ago, I never would have gotten my shit together. And if he weren’t here right now, I’m not sure I could keep my shit together.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I haven’t actually told Serge about Chelsea. I just asked him to come hang out because I’m having a rough time. We’ve got the kind of friendship where that’s all that needs to be said. If I got the same call, I’d be at his house in a heartbeat. We keep each other out of trouble, clean, and most importantly, alive.

“I’m talking about you, waiting by your phone like some lovesick teenager. So, who is she?”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no use in denying it. Serge knows me better than just about anyone in the world.