"And on bail, yeah? And on buying drinks for everyone you meet so your party doesn't stop, and on piles of coke for all your new friends, and on wrapping your car around a light pole and trashing your overpriced flat?" I snap.
"Least I'm a man and not my own granny," he says. "Sorry, for a moment there I could have sworn we were in a rock and roll band or something. Maybe your next album can be all about the sinful pleasures of waking up by nine in the morning and jogging three miles before breakfast."
If ever there was one person who knows exactly how to stab me deep and then twist the knife, it's Liam fucking Fenwick. Not that it's surprising. When you know someone for most of your life, when you're more or less brothers, of course they know how to twist the knife.
That knife cuts both ways, though.
"Actually, I'm in a rock and roll band," I say. "Last I heard you were a free agent."
"We can't all be the golden boy, can we?" Liam snarls. "Must be nice to be Gavin fucking Lockwood instead of just some junkie drummer."
Now he wants me to say you're not just some junkie drummer, but I grind my teeth together and force myself not to, because then I'll be having the argument that he wants to have.
I don't say anything for a long moment. I can't think of anything to say that isn't going to lead further into this same stupid argument that we've already had.
Liam rubs his hand across his mouth, then along the back of his neck, like he's getting antsy for something. Likely a smoke, maybe a bump.
"Look, it's only for a few days," he says, his voice quieter. "You're the last person I've got right now, and I just thought..."
He trails off, but I know exactly what he's getting at. He thought that since he's my oldest friend, my best friend, I'd have mercy and give him another chance.
He thought that maybe I'd be reluctant to write off twenty years of friendship in a couple of months. He thought maybe I'd feel guilty that I couldn't help him, that I didn't talk Trent and Darcy into sticking with him a little longer, or that my life is actually looking up while his spirals the drain, yet again.
And goddammit, the fucking bastard's right.
"Only a few days," I say.
Liam starts to smile, but I hold up one hand, stopping him.
"I'm clean and I'm fucking serious, Liam," I say. "Nothing stronger than caffeine in the house. No alcohol, no drugs, not even pot. You smoke outside."
"Got it," he said. "Just pretend I'm living at a nunnery."
"Bloody fucking-"
"Oi, mate, I'm just having a go," he says, holding up both hands at once. "I got it. There's rules, and I'll follow them."
I unlock the door with a sinking feeling in my stomach, because I already know it won't be a just few days and he won't follow my rules for more than forty-eight hours.
But I don't feel right doing anything else.
It's Liam. Even though he's a fucking train wreck, he's the one who was there for me when my parents split, when my first girlfriend dumped me, when I dropped out of university. We were Dirtshine, fucking around in his mum's basement, playing open-mic gigs at the local coffee shop, before we ever met Darcy or Trent.
I can't live in this palace and turn him out on the street. I just can't.
"There's a guest bedroom upstairs and on the right," I say. "That can be yours."
He claps me on the shoulder.
"Thanks, mate," he says, and disappears up the stairs.
I stand there and wish, for at least the thousandth time, that things had gone differently.
16
Marisol
Gavin and I have started texting each other. It makes sense, obviously. We're supposed to be dating, and people who are dating call and text and generally communicate when they're not actively together. But people who are really dating haven't signed contracts stipulating the amount of time they're required to spend together.
They don't get email from publicists suggesting that they "raise the physical affection stakes" or, with increasing insistence, requesting "lip-on-lip" action.
We don't mention to Valerie that we're texting and sometimes even calling. Neither of us tells her that he texts me pictures of good sunsets to ask if they meet my high standards, or that I call him from the bus stop sometimes, just because I'm bored, and we end up talking until long after I've gotten all the way home.
It's not that she would mind, but it feels like a secret, like it's something just between us that can't be wrapped up prettily and presented to the public. Those dumb pictures and phone calls are for us, not them.
I'm in the middle of class Tuesday when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I hit the button to turn the buzzer off, but a few minutes later, it buzzes again, and then again.
One missed phone call is no big deal, but a bunch? Something is wrong.
My hearts beats a little faster as I stealthily pull my phone from my pocket, and I mentally run through a list of people who might be in trouble.
My parents, my sister, Brianna. One of my cousins. Gavin.
I swallow, my mouth dry, and finally get the phone out of my pocket.
Four missed calls from Valerie. I roll my eyes, set my phone to Do Not Disturb mode, and pay attention to class. She has my schedule. She demanded it, and she demands to know any and all changes to it, and yet calls me without ever consulting it.
After class I'm done for the day - well, except for the pile of homework that I need to get through - and after checking my student mailbox, dropping a book off at the library, and doing a few other things on campus, I finally call Valerie back.
"There you are," she answers her phone. "My god, Marisol, I was about to form a search party."
"I was in class," I point out, rolling my eyes as I walk down the street. "Which is on my schedule, actually."
"This is important," she says. "Emergency meeting, can you get down here?"
I walk a little faster.
"What's the emergency?" I ask. I don't really know what qualifies as an emergency to Valerie, because I suspect it could range anywhere from real, actual life-or-death situation - Gavin in the hospital? - to a blog that said something slightly uncharitable about us.
"I don't think it's an emergency, Val," Gavin's voice says.
Apparently we're on a conference call. You know, like couples routinely do with their publicists.
Valerie huffs into the phone.
"Please just get to my office," she says. "It's rather confidential in nature and I'd prefer not to discuss it over the phone."
"It's not that confidential," Gavin's voice says, but the phone line goes quiet.
I guess I'm not studying much this afternoon.
The offices of First Place PR are less expensive-looking but more trendy than Diamant & Skellar's offices, but they're not any less sterile. My footsteps echo when I walk in, and a receptionist snaps her head up.
"Marisol, meeting with Valerie, right? Big conference room on the end," she says, all smiles and perfect teeth.
"Thanks," I say.
When I get to the door, Valerie practically runs me over, rushing out of the room.
"Oh, thank God," she says. "Give me one minute, all this kale juice is really moving through me."
She doesn't wait for a response, just power-walks to the women's bathroom as I walk into the conference room. Gavin's already sitting there, in an executive leather chair, and I sit next to him.
"Tell me this is actually important," I say.
He grins at me and leans back in his chair.
"It's important," he says. "But it's not an emergency. We got invited to play at the National Music Awards on Saturday so now you're on for a whole red carpet do."
My heart squeezes slowly, and I try to think about what the red carpet at an awards show even looks like. All I can remember is hundreds of photographers and celebrities looking polished and perfect, smiling in every direction while people ask who they're wearing.
Oh, my God, that means there are TV cameras. From real TV stations, not just GossipNewsDaily and TMZ or whatever we've been dealing with. Actual reporters will be asking me actual questions and expecting me to actually respond while people at home talk to each other about whether I'm cute enough to date Gavin Lockwood.
And it's in four days. And I'm supposed to wear something red carpet-worthy, not that I have any idea where one even gets that sort of outfit.
Crap. Crap.
"Hey," Gavin says, leaning forward in his chair. He loops one arm around my shoulders, and suddenly our faces are six inches apart. "You all right? You went quiet."
"Sorry," I say, swallowing. "I spazzed for a minute there. Red carpet sounds like a big step up."
His fingers trace a slow circle on my shoulder blade, and it's soothing and heart-pounding all at once, but I relax a little with Gavin's arm around me.
Even if it's fake, even if it's practice, it's safe and warm and nice like this.
"It's fine," he says. "It's just a bunch of gibbering idiots who shove cameras in your face and ask idiotic, easy questions, like 'Don't you think music is nice?' and you say, 'Yeah, it's brilliant,' and everyone's happy."