Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

13. Willow

Chapter 13

Willow

I ended up getting two hours of sleep on the plane before being ushered around from the fitting session to the glam station, to rehearsal, to photographs, and then to the runway. It was nothing short of bone-achingly exhausting.

I walk into my hotel room, shut the door behind me, and take a deep breath as I inspect the space. I haven’t even been here yet—an assistant ran my bags here while I was led straight into the depths of fashion week. It’s nice, though. A king-sized bed, a huge bathroom, a kitchenette (when do they envision me having time to cook?), and a cozy living area. I grab the chocolates left on my pillow and bite into one as I push the curtains open a crack to look out the window.

I’m met by a fantastic view of London, and I can hear the Londoners’ lively shouts and car horns from my room. I smile faintly, knowing I’m in for a good night’s sleep with the street noise. It almost sounds like home.

I debate going to the gym before bed, as I haven’t had time to work out in three days, pushing me way off schedule. But I quickly shut the idea down, as I can already feel myself curling up in the hotel’s luscious silk sheets and fluffy pillows. It’s been a struggle to keep my eyes open all day, and I’ve gotten more than a few disapproving looks from makeup artists and designers who saw me before their concealer expertly covered my eye-bags. As I head into the bathroom to scrub the elaborate makeup off my face, my phone rings.

Just what I needed, I sigh. I walk back into the bedroom and see Aspen’s face light up my phone. She’s one of the few people I would pick up for right now.

“Hey, Aspen, what’s up?” I say, trying to hide the drowsiness from my voice.

“Hey, Willow. Not much. Are you busy?” she asks in a weird, indecipherable tone.

“Not at all,” I say. If I sit on this bed for a second longer, I will fall asleep. So, I stand and start pacing just to keep sleep’s pull at bay.

I hear Aspen inhale a shaky breath.

“Aspen, what’s up?” I reiterate my question with a little more urgency this time.

“You swear you’re not busy?” she asks again. Now I can discern her tone better…my sister is on the verge of tears.

“No, I’m not busy. I promise. What’s wrong?”

“I just—” she laughs, a sad, pained sound. “I’m losing it a little right now.”

“Why?” I prod gently.

“ Fairview Ridge is wrapping in a few months, and I have no idea what I’m going to do without it. I know most leading actresses on those teen shows leave the second they find fame and go their own route. But I never did that.”

“Nothing’s wrong with seeing a project through, Aspen,” I say.

“No, it’s not because I wanted to see the project through. I know that’s what I tell everyone, but that’s not it at all. Unlike those other actresses, I’m not talented. I have the Jordan name and th at’s it. I’m so scared to leave this show, Willow…I’m so scared,” she whispers, suddenly overcome by the tears she had kept at bay for the first minute of the call.

“Aspen, you’re not untalented, not in the slightest. I mean, look at me. All I do is ‘prance around in my underwear,’ as Maple says. You actually have a gift. You are a fantastic actress. Why do you think Fairview Ridge even wanted you in the first place? Why do you think they kept you as their lead role all this time?”

“Because I’m Aspen Jordan!”

“Exactly, because you’re Aspen Jordan . One of the greatest young actresses alive.”

“Willow, please, stop,” she cries before pulling her phone away from her ear, muffling the sound of her tears.

“Aspen.”

No response.

“Aspen!”

“What,” she answers with more despair than I’ve ever heard from her. The sound makes my chest physically hurt.

“Where are you?” I ask gently.

“I’m in LA at my house.”

“Would you be okay if I sent Maple or Mom or Dad over to see you? They could bring you that mac and cheese from that place you like. Or a milkshake or something.”

She sniffles. “I don’t want anyone here right now.”

“It might help to have some company?—”

“Willow, don’t. Please don’t send anyone over. I just want to be alone. I look fucking pathetic, and I really couldn’t handle anyone seeing me right now.”

I pause, moving to run a hand through my hair before feeling it stiff as stone with what must have been an entire bottle of hairspray .

“Can I at least order some food to be delivered to you?” I ask her.

“No, Willow, don’t. I’m sorry.” She moves the phone away from her face again, but I still hear her muffled sobs. “I’m sorry for bothering you. Don’t worry about me, really. I’ll be okay. Please, don’t send anyone over. I want to be alone. I might just go to sleep,” she says, even though it’s only early afternoon in LA.

“Aspen, are you sure you don’t want to talk it through more? Really, I’m free for the night. I can talk longer.”

“No, Willow, I’m okay. You’ve been a great help. Sorry for bothering you,” she repeats, her voice wavering.

“Okay. But Aspen, please call me if you need anything. I’m always here,” I implore, not wanting to push her but also knowing she’s bullshitting.

“Goodnight,” she says, hanging up the phone.

I walk back into my bathroom, debating what to do as I wash my face. If I send someone to check on her, I know it will break her trust in me. But on the other hand, she is clearly having a breakdown, and it feels so wrong to leave her alone.

I settle on ordering her food before washing the hairspray out. As I do, I can’t shake the feeling that I really should call someone to check in on Aspen. I mean, I’ve never heard Aspen cry uncontrollably like that. For God’s sake, she’s an actress. She’s pretty much mastered the fake smile. I could tell she was trying to cover her emotions up, only for them to crash down on her, too strong to be hidden.

Although I hate myself for betraying her trust, I know I would hate myself infinitely more if something happened to her.

“Is everything okay, honey?” my mom’s voice asks through my phone. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? It’s late in London.”

“I’m fine, Mom. But I don’t think Aspen is. She called me really upset, and I think someone needs to check on her. I know you’re in LA. Would you mind?”

“Would I mind?” my mom asks disbelievingly. “Willow, I’m out the door as we speak.”

Her words lift the weight off my chest. “Great, thank you so much, Mom.”

“Baby, don’t ever thank me for taking care of my kids. That’s my job. I’ll take care of it, okay? Get some sleep, and I can call or text you in the morning with an update.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too, Willow. Go get some sleep,” she says, hanging up the phone.

I lie back against the pillows and am out cold in seconds.