And I'm worried that the second I kiss him, he'll know that I've thought about this way too much, that I've stared at the phrase lip-on-lip over and over again and imagined what it would be like, that sometimes when we're innocuously holding hands on one of our dates it makes me feel warm and squirmy in a way that fake relationships aren't supposed to.
Basically, I think I've got a crush on the incredibly handsome, famous, rich, notorious rockstar, and I feel like the world's biggest cliché, because even though the rockstar is sweet and funny and I'm pretty sure we're friends, there's no way he reciprocates the warm-and-squirmy feelings.
He taps a few fingers on the table and glances back at the paparazzi.
"All right, then," he says. "Let's get on with it."
We rise. He takes my hand and squeezes it. The wait staff all smile at us as we leave.
Gavin pushes the door open. The valet nods and jogs off to get his car.
"Gavin! How's your night going?" someone shouts, swooping in front of us.
My stomach writhes.
"It's going well," he answers.
The moment he does, two others swoop in, because Gavin Lockwood rarely says anything.
"You enjoy your dinner?" the first one asks, a totally inane question.
"I did," he says, and looks down at me. "You have a nice time?"
I'm way, way too nervous to answer. I just laugh, squeeze his hand, and stand on tiptoe.
Then I press my lips to the side of his face, his skin warm, stubble just prickling through his skin, and then it's over. Done. I did it. He squeezes my hand and his car drives up.
Once we're inside, he turns to me and grins.
"Was that so bad?" he asks.
It wasn't bad. Not at all.
"Tolerable," I tease, and we zoom off.
15
Gavin
When we get to Marisol's neighborhood, I circle her block and the blocks around it for nearly twenty minutes, looking for a parking spot because I'm determined to walk her inside, properly.
There's no cameras. Valerie's not going to mention whether I did or didn't walk her inside in her review email tomorrow. I just want to do this fake date right.
"It's really okay if you just drop me off," Marisol finally says. "Or we could keep driving around Koreatown very slowly for another half hour."
"There's just literally nowhere to park," I say, astonished.
I wouldn't be surprised if I were in, say, London or New York, but here there are so many cars and so many places to park. They're just all filled.
"Yup," says Marisol. "Literally nowhere."
I sigh, give up, and drive back to the front of her apartment building, double-park, and put my flashers on. At least I can walk her to the front door of her building, which I do, the sidewalk flooded in the orange glow of street lamps.
"I think Valerie ought to approve," I say as she fishes her keys from her bag.
"That won't stop her from sending us pointers," Marisol says.
She looks away quickly, then back at me.
"Sorry I was so nervous," she says. "It wasn't that I minded or something, it's just... cameras make me nervous, and I'm always afraid I'm going to screw up and suddenly everyone will know I'm just your girlfriend for hire and everything will be ruined."
I hate it when she says that, girlfriend for hire, because even though I know better, I've taken to pretending it's real. That when she takes my hand, it's because she wants to. That when she kissed my cheek, there was real affection behind it.
It feels that way sometimes, but then I remind myself that it's supposed to. That's the point.
"I don't think you'll ruin everything," I say. "See you Wednesday?"
"For sure," she says.
Then she opens the door to her building, steps inside, and it's just me, my car flashing its lights, and scattered pedestrians walking here and there. I get back in and drive away, back to the house I'm renting in the hills, wishing that Wednesday were sooner.
The moment I turn onto my street, a winding road up above Hollywood, something feels wrong. Sure enough, the gate to my driveway is open and the skin on my back starts to crawl.
Did I leave it that way? I think. Did someone break in? Am I being robbed right now?
I stop my car in the street and peer in, squinting through the dark. There's movement on the steps leading to my front door.
Someone looks up, then stands.
It's Liam.
Fuck.
I knew this was coming. I knew we'd have to talk, hash out what happened at the Whiskey Room, why Dirtshine is going ahead without him, how I can even think about continuing alone what we started together.
He waves. I pull into my driveway and hit the remote button that closes the gate behind me, take a deep breath, and get out of my car.
"Hey," Liam calls, and just from the way he pronounces that one syllable I've already got a feeling he's been drinking.
"Hey," I call back, walking toward him. "Did I leave the gate open?"
"Nah," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. "The control panel lets you guess the access code five times. Got it in three."
"So you remember the address of the house where I grew up but not that I've asked you a thousand times to fucking call first?" I ask.
Now we're both standing in front of the house. It's got desert landscaping, most of the yard covered in smooth gray pebbles, with various succulents and bushes dotted around for decoration.
"You ever heard the phrase 'better to beg forgiveness than ask permission'?" he asks, one side of his mouth ticking up in a hopeful little smile.
I don't answer.
"I knew you'd say not to come here if I called so I just came," he says.
"What do you want?" I ask, folding my arms in front of me.
Liam shoves his hands into his pockets and looks away, back toward the road, before he answers me.
"I need a place to stay," he says, very, very quietly.
I wish I were surprised, but I'm not, especially after what happened the last time we saw each other.
"You can't go to your flat?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Got booted," he mutters.
"When?"
"Few weeks back. Broke a window and singed the carpet a bit, management overreacted and changed the locks. I'm still fighting them but-"
"You haven't got a new place?" I interrupt, because I know that Liam's got some story about how his landlord's got a grudge against him specifically.
Seems that lots of people hold grudges against Liam specifically, and never once has it been his fault. According to Liam, at least.
"It's been a bit tricky finding a new lease," he says. "I guess I'm being sued, plus I haven't got my deposit back on the old apartment yet and it was quite a lot of money. It was a nice flat..."
Lights flicker through the slots in the fence, and he turns his head to look at them, like he's desperate not to make eye contact with me.
I stare at him.
"You haven't got enough money for a deposit on another flat?" I ask, incredulous. "You can live somewhere that's not a glass-walled penthouse in a posh neighborhood by the ocean, you know. Like we used to live in."
"I haven't got the cash on hand right now is all," he says. He's still not looking me in the eye. "I've been staying with friends and such, but I don't want to wear out my welcome, you know how it is."
"You haven't got money for a motel?" I ask, incredulous.
I'm fucking gobsmacked. As the songwriter of Dirtshine, I made more money than the rest of the band - that's how intellectual property works - but Liam still made a fucking mint. Even after hospital bills, rehab, and renting an utterly ludicrous flat, he ought to have been able to live like a king for a long time yet.
"I'm trying to save for another flat," he says. "Come on, mate, just for a few nights. I'll be quiet as a church mouse."
I start pacing from the steps to the driveway and back, so worked up that I feel like I've got to keep moving or I might actually explode.
I keep thinking I can't believe this, I can't believe this, but I'm just lying to myself. Liam, here, out of money and asking for help might be the most believable thing that's happened in months.
"Where'd it go?" I ask.
"Where'd what go?" he asks.
"The money, you fucking muppet!" I say, my voice rising. "What the fuck did you spend all that money on?"
He's silent for a moment. I realize he's just the slightest bit unsteady on his feet, his eyes not quite tracking me properly. Not only has he been drinking, he's been drinking.
"What, you're my mum now?" he asks.
"No, I'm the man whose house you're asking to live in," I say. "And since you're here, hat in hand, without a pot to piss in, maybe you could be less of a fucking arsehole right now."
Liam laughs. He throws his head back and laughs, stumbling backward a step as he does.
"Sorry, I forgot I was in the presence of royalty," he says. "I spent my money on the same fucking things you did, Gavin. A pile on that fucking worthless rehab, a pile on a flat, on a car, a bit of travel. Only we can't all be angel-voiced musical geniuses, can we, and for some of us money runs out."