When It's Real

A picture of my mom locking lips with some silver fox flashes on the screen. I turn off the TV before the commentary kicks in. I’m less concerned about Mom’s London shenanigans and more concerned about the fact that she’s back in LA.

And she didn’t even bother calling me.

Crap, or maybe she did, I realize a second later when I check my phone to discover a missed call from Mom’s LA number. I forgot I put my phone on silent during the conference at Diamond.

I hit the button to return the call then sit through at least ten rings before my mother’s voice chirps in my ear.

“Hi, baby!”

“Hey, Mom. When’d you get back in town?”

“This morning.” There’s a flurry of noise in the background, what sounds like loud hammering and the whir of power tools. “Hold on a second, sweetheart. I’m going upstairs because I can barely hear you. I’m having renovations done on the main floor.”

Again? I swear, that woman renovates her Malibu beach house every other month.

“Okay, I can hear you now. Anyway, I called to make sure you’re still planning to make an appearance at the charity benefit that the studio is hosting this weekend.”

My jaw stiffens. I guess it’s too much to hope that she called to actually talk to her only son.

“What’s the charity again?” I ask woodenly.

“Hmmm, I don’t remember. Cruelty against animals, maybe? No, I think it’s for cancer research.” Mom pauses. “No, that’s not right, either. It definitely has something to do with animals.”

I’m not gonna lie—my mother is an airhead.

She’s not dumb or anything. She can memorize a hundred-page script in less than a day. And when she’s passionate about something, she throws her whole heart and soul into it. Except the thing is...she’s passionate about the dumbest shit. Shoes. Redecorating the multimillion-dollar house she got in the divorce. Whatever new fad diet is making the rounds.

Katrina Ford was the queen of rom coms, vivacious and drop-dead gorgeous, but truth is, she doesn’t have much substance. She’s not winning any Mother of the Year awards, either, but I’m used to living in the background of her self-absorbed bubble.

It’s not like my dad is any better. Mom at least remembers to call me. Sometimes. Dustin Ford is too busy being an Academy Award-winning actor to remember he has a son.

“And sweetheart, please don’t bring a date,” Mom is saying. “If you show up with some girl on your arm, all the focus will be on that and not the charity we’re trying to raise money for.”

The charity whose name and purpose she doesn’t even know.

“I’ll get Bitsy to text you the details. I expect at least an hour of your time.”

“Sure, whatever you want, Mom.”

“That’s my boy.” She pauses again. “Have you spoken to your father lately?”

“Not for a few months,” I admit. “Last I heard, he was in Hawaii with Chloe.”

“Which one is Chloe again? The one with the boob job or the one with the botched Botox?”

“I honestly don’t remember.” Ever since my parents’ divorce two years ago, my father’s love life has been a revolving door of surgically enhanced women. Hell, that was his life even before the divorce.

Hence the divorce.

“Well, when you do speak to him, tell him there’s a box of his stuff that’s been sitting in the foyer closet for almost a year, and if he or one of his people doesn’t pick it up soon, I’m going to burn it in the fire pit out back.”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” I grumble.

“Oh, baby, you know your father and I only speak through our lawyers—and mine is out of town at the moment. So be a good boy, Oak, and pass along that message to Dusty.” Her voice goes muffled for a second. “Absolutely not!” she calls to someone who isn’t me. “That paneling must be preserved!” Mom’s voice gets clearer again. “Oakley, baby, I have to go. These contractors are trying to destroy my house! I’ll see you this weekend.”

She hangs up without saying goodbye.

The silence in the house makes my skin itch. Without Luke and his merry band of leeches, the place feels like a museum. I flick on the television again and crank up the sound.

Great. Now I’m pretending I’m not alone by turning the TV volume up. Mindlessly, I watch a bunch of shows about jacking up cars until I can’t stand the stupid manufactured drama. Hits too close to home, I guess. I grab my phone, and my finger hovers over the screen. I could ask Tyrese to call one of those girls who just want to touch Oakley Ford. That’d be good for an hour or two. I could light up a joint. Drink myself into a stupor. Or I could just go to bed. Because if I’m trying to turn over a new leaf, like I promised Jim, none of those other options fit with the plan.

I turn the television off. In the front room, Tyrese is sitting in an oversize armchair, flipping through something on his phone.

“I’m going to bed.”

“You are?” He looks up in surprise. It’s barely ten. “Alone?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to be a good boy now. Can’t be having honeys over when I’m preparing to romance another girl, right?”

Tyrese shrugs. “I guess not. But Big D’s the family man, not me.”

And we both know where Big D is right now. Not out at the club picking up a random chick. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Night, brother.”

“Night.”

6

HER

I’m up at dawn the next morning despite getting almost no sleep. In the kitchen, Paisley is in her usual zombie-like precaffeinated state with a buttered bagel on the table and a half-filled coffeepot in her hand. I grab the pot from her before she crashes it into the side of the refrigerator. My sister can’t function without her caffeine fix.

After our parents died, I started drinking the foul stuff with her. It’s part of my routine now, but I always dilute it with milk. Paisley calls my coffee half and half. Half coffee, half milk.

“I heard you get up at three,” she mumbles as she takes a seat at the glass-topped breakfast table. “You okay?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I dump out the tap water and pull a pitcher of water from the fridge. “You seriously think this is the right thing to do?” I ask as I pour the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir and scoop out fresh grounds into the filter. “I kept obsessing about it last night, and it’s not the fake-dating thing that gets me—” I’m a champion at pretending “—it’s the length of time. An entire year, Paisley?”

I take a seat next to her and rip off a piece of her bagel.

“I know it seems like a long time, but unless it’s a serious relationship, there’s no point in even doing this charade.” She sounds tired, too. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. We’ll be fine without the money.”

Guilt rushes through me when I hear the note of defeat in her voice. Paisley’s held our family together with sheer will and grit. When social services wanted to split us up and send the twins into foster care, Paisley was having none of it. She hustled her way through school, taking more classes than I thought you were allowed to cram into one year, and graduated in three years instead of four. She worked two jobs until she landed this one at Diamond. Meanwhile, I ran the household—cooking, cleaning and making sure the twins’ lives remained as stable as possible.

Despite all our efforts, I know we’re barely treading water.

One year is nothing compared to what Paisley has sacrificed.

“I’m doing it,” I say firmly. “That’s why I got up at three. To sign the papers.” And to sweat about how I’m going to sell this idea to W. I turn to watch the coffee drip into the pot. “I mean, it’s not like I have to eat bugs or poop or something gross. There are way worse things to do for money than fake-date Oakley Ford, right?”

“Right.” She smiles with relief. “And he’s not a bad guy. He can be charming when he wants to, and you’ll get to do so many fun things. I’ll make sure your dates are full of stuff you like to do.”

“Great.” I try to summon up some enthusiasm for Paisley’s sake. It’s obvious that the prospect of all that cash is lifting a huge burden from her shoulders, and I would be a terrible, selfish sister to not want that for her. Still, I can’t stop thinking about how much my life is going to change.

“Something is still bothering you,” she says, breaking off another piece of bagel for me.

I stick it in my mouth and chew for a moment before admitting, “It’s W. I don’t know how I’m going to sell this to him.”

Paisley shakes her head. “You can’t tell him all the details. The nondisclosure agreement wouldn’t allow it.”

“I know.” I rub a nonexistent spot on the table. “How strict are those things?”

“The NDA? Very strict,” Paisley says, her eyes wide with alarm. “Do you remember Sarah Hopkins?”

“The nanny who banged Mark Lattimer and broke up his marriage?”

Mark Lattimer is the front man for the rock band Flight. He went through an ugly divorce last year. It was in every online gossip column and every grocery store tabloid for about three months. The scrutiny didn’t die down until the next scandal came along.

“Didn’t she have a drug problem and was turning tricks to pay for it?” I ask.

“Yup, and you know how all the gossip rags got that information?”

I didn’t know before, but I think I do now.

“She signed an NDA, but then decided that she was tired of taking the fall for Mark and Lana’s failed marriage. Everyone inside the circle knew they had an open relationship. She was fine with the nanny until the two of them got caught in public. Afterward, Sarah was paid off but she wouldn’t go quietly. So Jim released all that information to the tabloids. He pretty much ruined her life.”

“So if I break it, Jim will drop a bomb on our house.”

“Our lives,” Paisley corrects grimly. “Oakley Ford is worth millions to Jim. His last tour grossed two hundred and fifty million dollars.”

I gape at her. I didn’t know numbers went up that high in real life. “So what you’re saying is, either I do this one hundred percent, or not at all.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You can only tell W what the agreement says you can tell him. Anything more than that, and Jim will crush us like a bug.”

Us. Not me, but my whole family.

* * *

Paisley drives the twins to school, and I clean the house, prep for dinner and try to force some lunch down before taking the bus to USC to see W. His last class of the day is at 2:00 p.m.

Jim Tolson sent a courier over with another NDA—this one for W’s signature. It’s like he has a million of them on his laptop, ready to spring on the unsuspecting.

With only a week into the new college semester, no one in the dorms seems interested in studying. Several of the doors are open when I arrive, and all sorts of different music and sounds are streaming into the hallway.

Part of me regrets not enrolling this year. W wanted me to, but after watching Paisley bust her ass to make sure all our bills were paid, I wanted to do my part. Taking a year off and making some real money made the most sense. Still...every time I walk into W’s dorm and see all the pretty girls wandering the halls, I’m gripped with a sudden case of nerves.

“Knock, knock,” I announce at the open door.

W and his roommates are lounging on their hand-me-down sofa, playing Madden. Two girls I don’t know are curled up on a love seat in the corner. They always have girls in here. As with everything, I pretend it doesn’t bother me, because the last thing I want to do is look like the jealous, immature girlfriend from high school.

W jumps up immediately. “V, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I texted you.”

He grimaces. “We were playing. Guys, I’m out. My girl’s here.”

“Put a sock on the doorknob,” Mark yells as W slams the door to the bedroom. Mark’s a kid from upstate who’s always asking me how good W is in bed—as if he knows that we’ve never done it and enjoys needling me about it.

W grins at me, hands at his hips. “Do I need to put the sock on?”

“There are people out there,” I remind him.

He laughs and tackles me onto the bed. “So? There’s no one but you and me in here.”

I shiver when his hand tunnels under my T-shirt.

W makes me feel good, but I’m not ready to take that next step yet. And especially not when his roommates are outside the room playing a video game, and two strange girls I don’t know are sitting there.

I push at his hand. “I’m not having my first time with an audience.”

We’ve had this discussion before. He resists at first but then pulls his hand out from under my shirt to rest it on my jean-clad hip. Part of his brown hair falls across his forehead as he rolls onto his side. I push it away so I can see his chocolate-brown eyes. He looks gorgeous, as always. More gorgeous than Oakley Ford, that’s for sure.

Really, scoffs my internal voice. You’ve got to be kidding.

Okay, W isn’t better-looking than Oakley, but he’s nicer and sweeter and I love him and that counts for everything.

“All right.” He smiles, crinkles forming beside his beautiful eyes. “Did the twins look up that skate park I texted you about?”

“The one over in Boyle Heights? That’s, like, in a different country.” Anything that requires someone from LA to get on the freeway is considered a low-scale crime given the congestion. A trip to Boyle Heights might not require a passport, but it would require a huge effort. While I love my brothers, I don’t love them that much.

“Yeah, but if you bring them over here, we can hang out. That’d be nice, hmmm?” His mouth dips down to kiss the side of my neck.

We both know the twins won’t go, but it’s sweet that W’s trying to get us all together. “Actually, yes. I see the wisdom your plan.” I curl into his embrace and meet his wandering lips with my own.

“The benefits of dating a college guy,” he teases.

We kiss some more, and when we break apart for air, the reason why I’ve come today pokes me in the spine.

“Hey, I need to ask you a favor.”

“The answer is yes.” He tickles my belly.

I practiced a little speech on the bus, but it didn’t sound right. I give it anyway. “So you know how I took the year off to help Paisley?”

“Uh-huh.” His lips find my ear.

“I have an opportunity to make some huge money this year. It would set us up for a long time.”

“Sounds good.” He moves from my ear to my neck and then tugs my loose-fitting T-shirt over the curve of my shoulder.

Allowing him to kiss me when I’m about to break the news that I need to fake-date a pop star makes me feel too guilty to enjoy his attention. So I slide off the bed to go stand by the window.

“I need you to not be mad and to understand.”

W frowns and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He leans back on his elbows, his long, lanky frame looking familiar and wonderful, and I question my decision all over again. “This is beginning to sound like the kind of speech Danny Jones gave Karen because he was going to NYU and didn’t want to have a long-distance relationship.”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” I rub my forehead. “It’s...this job requires me to do something you’re not going to like.”

“Are you starring in a porno?” His eyebrows are all the way to his hairline.

“No, W, God.”

“Just spit it out, V.”

I release a frustrated breath. “I can’t say more until you sign this.” I hand him the one-page contract that states W can be told some but not all of the particulars.

He pushes the paper to the side. “I’m not signing anything. What the hell, Vaughn?”

“Don’t swear,” I say automatically.

“Don’t channel your sister,” he grouses. He and Paisley aren’t fans of each other. She thinks he pressures me, and he thinks she’s too uptight.

“I know this sounds crazy, but if you don’t sign it, I can’t tell you any details and it sounds worse without the details, trust me.”

“Then trust me.” W grabs the paper and tosses it on the bed behind him. “You can tell me anything. You know I’m a vault.”

It’s not that I don’t trust W, but this is my entire family’s future on the line.

“If it was just me, then yeah, I’d tell you, but I already promised the agency I wouldn’t say anything unless you sign this.”

His eyes narrow. “What agency?”

“Where Paisley works. Diamond Tal—”

“Diamond Talent Management?” he exclaims. “They’re the ones giving you this job? Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Of course I’ll sign it. Where do you need my signature?”

I watch as W rushes to his desk to grab a pen. He’s practically buzzing with excitement.

He doesn’t look up as he scrawls his name across all the lines, even the ones I think Jim is supposed to sign on behalf of Oakley. He dots the last i in his last name with a flourish. “All right. Lay it on me.”

I get up and drag W back to the bed so I can sit beside him and hold his hand while I explain this bit of insanity to him. “Okay, this is all I can say—I’m doing something for the agency, sort of like a social media campaign.” It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but that’s all the NDA allows me to reveal. “They know that you and I are dating, and—”

“They know about me?” His eyes are shiny and eager. “Did Paisley tell them about the show? I thought she hated it! Which episode did they like? The one where we rated the end zone celebrations? Or the one where we dressed up and pretended to be the dogs playing poker picture? We got so many hits for that one even though it’s not on brand.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Uh, no, it’s not about the show.”

“It’s not? But you mentioned it, right?”

“Not exactly.” I wince. It hadn’t occurred to me that W’s first thought would go to his show, and now I feel bad I hadn’t brought it up to Jim Tolson.

“Why not?”

There’s a note of betrayal in his tone. W and his roommates started up a YouTube channel back in September, where they post videos of themselves talking about sports highlights. Their show is called the Bro Hards, and it’s...argh, okay, it’s kind of dumb.

But because I’m a supportive girlfriend, I diligently watch every video and make sure to leave an encouraging comment even though I don’t find it at all entertaining.

“I don’t know. It didn’t come up,” I answer, suddenly wishing I’d bargained for that.

After all, it would’ve been easy enough and it would go a long way toward making W more comfortable with my deal with Oakley. I make a mental note to talk to Jim the next time I see him.

“Anyway, our relationship is a bit of a problem for the agency. It interferes with some of my...duties. I can’t have a boyfriend that people know about, so they want us to break up publicly—” when he frowns, I hurry on “—but not for real. For real, we’ll still date. Except...” I grimace. “We can’t be seen together in public.”

W stares at me blankly. “You want me to break up with you but not really?”

“Yes.” Oh, gosh. It sounds monumentally stupid.

“Is this you wanting to break up with me, V? Because I didn’t even know we were having problems. If you don’t want to go out anymore, just tell me.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like breaking up wouldn’t kill him.

It would kill me, though. “Do you want to break up with me?” I blurt out, frantic with worry.

W’s my anchor. We started dating before my parents died, and through that grief-stricken summer, he’d stood by me the whole time, despite my tendency to burst out in tears at random moments. Like when we were at the mall and I saw the Father’s Day advertisement in the Hallmark store window. I’d gone home that night and resolved to be the fun girlfriend again, and I haven’t cried in front of him since.

I was so worried he’d break up with me once he started college without me, but he didn’t. He told me he loved me and that he was going to stick with me, even if it meant dialing back some of the plans he’d made for both of us.

“Of course not.” He pulls me down on his lap, another frown creasing his face. “But how’s this supposed to work?” His hands run up under my shirt. “We’re supposed to be having fun together this year.”

“I know,” I say miserably. “But it’s a lot of money.”

W frowns. “You and Paisley are doing fine. Didn’t you say she earns enough now not to have to work two jobs?”

“Yes, but—”

“And didn’t you delay coming to school this year because you had to work?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then you don’t need this one,” he says with the confidence of someone who’s never worried about a bill in his life.

W’s family has money. They even sprang for him to have a dorm room at De Neve Plaza, where he has a two-room suite and a private bathroom he shares with only three other guys. When I looked up how much this suite costs each semester, I nearly swallowed my gum.

“I do, W. I need this job. My family needs it.” I take his hands, the ones he’s using to try to take my shirt off, and press them between mine.

“Is this Paisley’s idea? Because you know she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

W grunts in disbelief. His fingers brush the top of the waistband of my jeans and I force myself not to flinch away. This is W. I love W. Therefore I should love his touch, not tense up when I see it moving toward me.

My sister hasn’t ever flat-out said I shouldn’t have sex with W, but I know she thinks I’m too young. Part of her reluctance comes from her own first time, which she willingly—and vocally—says was terrible. After our parents’ funeral, Paisley was lonely, depressed and worried about how she was going to take care of us. So she ended up sleeping with someone she didn’t know very well because she needed some comfort. And it was so horrible, I found her crying the next day. I’m not saying that scarred me, but I definitely didn’t want to rush into things with W after that.

“Fine, let’s pretend I go along with it,” W says slowly. “Who would be doing the breaking up?”

His complete one-eighty startles me. I guess I should be relieved that W is agreeable to this, but instead, his casual attitude rubs me the wrong way. One of the great things about W is that he’s so easygoing. He never hassles me about my lack of ambition or the fact that I have zero clue what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. If I can’t make a date because I want to be with my family or I’m working extra shifts, he never complains. I tell myself that’s healthy and good. In the months after my parents’ deaths, his laid-back attitude was just what I needed.

And since I need him to be cool with this, it shouldn’t irritate me that he’s asking about how our fake breakup is going to shake down as casually as if he’s checking on the weather.

“How do you want it to happen?” I counter.

He shrugs. “I should probably do it, but I don’t want any of your friends accusing me of cheating. We’ll just say that it wasn’t working out anymore.”

Cheating? Do I tell him now or later that I’m supposed to kiss Oakley Ford? Not that either option is available to me, because I’m forbidden from telling W that Oakley is involved. Obviously he’ll find out soon enough, but the agreement I signed forbids me from saying Oakley’s name.

This is all so screwed up.

“I’ll make sure everyone knows that you didn’t do anything wrong,” I promise, all the while fighting my growing unease.

“Good.” He pauses. “And...we can still see each other in secret?”

I get the feeling that’s not the question he wanted to ask—he hesitated too long before voicing it. But I nod anyway. “It’ll have to be at my house, though. And we’re not allowed to text at all during the breakup. We can talk on the phone, but there can’t be any paper trails. So no texts, Snapchats, Instagram comments, all that stuff.”

“That’s like some real James Bond shit right there.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “So I’ll be having a secret affair with my girlfriend? That’s kinda hot.”

I swallow my relief. This is good. He’s joking about it already, and for some reason, that tells me we’re going to be okay.