Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

33. Willow

Chapter 33

Willow

T he next morning, I’m lying on the beach listening to Riley’s music while I wait for Heena’s flight to land. I’ve listened to it a few times before, but after my trip with him and getting to know him better, the lyrics are particularly painful. For example, the opening track is just Riley and a guitar, and his voice is full of emotion as he sings:

You hate my questions,

My lack of connections

And you hate my backwoods roots

You hate my accent and wish that I'd drop it,

Along with my cowboy boots

You never liked my friends,

So baby you tell me how this ends

When you tell me you love me do you even mean it

Or are you just playing preten d

I mean, seriously, it’s enough to make my chest physically hurt for him. That girl, Claire, is a monster. Soon enough, I’m struck by another song called “I Believe You.”

And you tell me in private

When I kiss you and you like it

That you’d rather love than fight

That he’s just a friend and nothing happened

When you brought him home last weekend

You say I’m being crazy, that’s why you didn’t bring me

And I believed you

I pull out my phone and text Riley.

Me: did you write your whole album yourself?

He responds in seconds.

Riley: Yep.

Riley: Listening to it?

Me: …no

Riley: Mhm. I can’t wait to be the top artist on your Spotify Wrapped

Riley: Thanks for the support, I love my fans 3

I chuckle, feeling a little less sorry for him now. Not knowing how to respond to that, I toss my phone aside in favor of the romance book I brought. I flip it open and get lost in it, uninterrupted for a couple of hours until a figure plops down next to me in the sand.

“Whatcha reading?” Heena asks .

“Just some trashy romance,” I say, closing the book. “How was your flight?”

“It was good. I texted you when I landed, but I guess you were occupied by… Hockey House, ” she says, reading the title of my book. “So, I tracked your location.”

“At least my stalker’s pretty,” I laugh. “How’s my mom?”

“She’s doing well. She told me to tell you to stop worrying about her, though. She knew it would be the first thing you asked.” Heena smiles. “She also instructed me not to let you leave this island, under any circumstances, until your free stay is up. And she made me promise to take you out clubbing.”

“That’s all?” I joke, hearing my mom’s laundry list of demands.

“Well, she also told me to send her tons of photos,” Heena adds. “And she’s tough to argue with, so I guess we’re going clubbing later. I ran into a few other models on the way out here, and they seemed more than eager to have us come out with them tonight.”

I hold back a smile. While the other models have been nice and gracious to me over the past couple of days, I can tell they’re all incredibly nervous around me. I’ve walked with most of them on runways before, but they still struggle to make small talk with me, as though they’re afraid I’ll bite. But I get it—I’m a lot more famous than most of them, I’m known as a ‘mean girl,’ and my mom has cancer. Any one of those things would be enough to make someone nervous, let alone all three. Nonetheless, I’m excited that they invited Heena and I to hang out with them tonight.

Later that night, Heena and I strut past the flimsy saloon-style swinging doors and into the bar, where the other girls told us to meet them. Imme diately, all eyes turn to us, and a couple of the models break off from the group to greet us.

“Hi guys, we’re so glad you could make it,” Shu-Fen, a Taiwanese model a few years older than us, says, air-kissing us both on the cheeks.

“Of course. Thank you for inviting us,” I respond as we approach the gathered group of girls.

“No problem, we’re happy you’re here. You looked fantastic yesterday. I saw some of the proofs, and wow, they’re going to look great in print. And you look great now, too, of course. You too, Heena,” Shu-Fen adds.

“Thanks, Shu-Fen.” I grin down at my skintight floral mini-dress. “You also look great tonight,” I say, genuinely appreciating her bright orange dress. “And I meant to tell you, you looked great walking the Stella runway in London. Seriously amazing. ”

“Thank you,” she says, her cheeks tinting slightly. “I didn’t know you knew my name, to be honest.”

Heena laughs. “Willow knows everyone. That girl’s like an elephant, she never forgets a face. What are we drinking?”

Another model in the group grins deviously, holding up a pitcher and saying, “Long Island iced teas.”

“Oh, God.” Heena pretends to gag. “Seriously?”

“Sounds like a fun night.” I laugh. “I’m down. Heena, you want one?”

“If I have to.”

I have a love-hate relationship with Long Island iced teas: they get you plastered, but they usually taste like gasoline. An hour into sipping on our pitchers, Heena and I are spinning, literally and mentally. The club is full of rotating colored lights, complete with a disco ball, which only adds to the disorientation.

“You’re so pretty,” Heena tells me, throwing her head back and laughing as we grip each other and spin on the dance floor. “Let me take your photo and post you. I need people to see how pretty my best friend is.”

“Fine. But only if I can post one of you too.”

We take turns snapping pictures of each other, but for some reason, we can’t stop giggling, so it takes way longer than it should to take a few decent photos—not to mention we can’t figure out where our camera apps are. The majority of the photos we take are extremely blurry.

“If you want, I could take a photo of the both of you,” Shu-Fen offers, appearing out of nowhere.

“Ohmigod, that would be perfect!” I hear myself cheer. “Wait, Shu-Fen, get in here with us. Hold on one sec,” I say before running up to the bartender and asking him to take our photo.

“Everyone, get in! Group photo!” Heena motions the other girls into the photo.

The bartender snaps a few before handing me the phone back. I manage to send the photos to everyone before Heena and I begin cackling to each other about God-knows-what on the dance floor again.

A couple of hours later, I feel my phone incessantly vibrating. I pull it out of my pocket and am disappointed to see the screen lit up with a photo of my dad. I don’t know why, but I thought it might have been Riley calling me.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, picking up. Then I realize I can’t hear anything on his end over the pounding music. I leave through a side door, dragging Heena out with me. “Dad?” I ask again.

“Will? Hey, can you hear me?”

“Yep, what’s up.” I try not to slur. “How’s Mom?” I ask, suddenly realizing it’s probably not a good sign that he’s calling me after midnight. “Is she okay? ”

“Your mom’s fine,” he assures me, but something in his tone is off. His voice sounds…tight.

“What’s wrong, then?”

“It’s Aspen,” he says. My heart drops into my stomach.

“Put it on speaker,” Heena whispers, seeing my stunned expression.

I do as she says, and we both cling to every word my dad says next. “She—she had a bit of a…I don’t know how to put this.”

“Dad! Is she okay?”

“She had a breakdown, Will.” The way my world rocks has nothing to do with the pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea I drank.

“A bad one,” Dad continues. “She and Maple were helping your mom today while I was on set, and apparently, it wasn’t a good day for Mom. She was really sick. And then, mid-afternoon, Maple called me. She was frantic, saying that Aspen couldn’t stop crying and hyperventilating and could hardly form coherent sentences. I booked it to the house and drove Aspen to the hospital.

“The ER docs said she was having a bad panic attack. They contacted her therapist and a psychiatrist and gave her a choice between doing intensive outpatient treatment, meaning an hour of therapy every day until they deem her stable enough to cut it back, or a short stint in the hospital’s in-patient center. Aspen chose the in-patient center.”

Heena and I look at each other over the phone. I open and close my mouth several times, seemingly having lost the ability to speak.

“How long will she be there for?” Heena asks my dad, stepping up for me.

“A week,” he answers. “It could be longer, but probably a week. They’re go ing to get her on medication and give her group and individual counseling.”

“Can she see visitors?” Heena asks.

“Not for the first twenty-four hours. She should be good to see people by seven p.m. tomorrow. She only gets one hour for visitors.”

“Send the jet to us,” I manage to get out, my voice hoarse. “We’re leaving for LA first thing in the morning.”

“No, you girls should stay there, at least until early afternoon. There’s no point in coming home before then, anyway,” I hear my mom weakly interject on the other side.

The poor woman has been sick all day, and now this…it sends a strong stab of guilt through my chest.

“No, we’re coming back. I never should have left.”

“Willow, this isn’t your fault,” my mom soothes.

“Either way, I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” I say, with tears I didn’t realize I was crying dripping onto my wrist. “I’m coming back.”

“Okay,” my mom whispers, as though she’s given up fighting me. “We look forward to seeing you tomorrow, then.”

I sniffle. “I love you.”

“Oh, Willow. We love you too.”

“So much,” my dad adds.

“And you too, Heena,” my mom says.

“And Heena,” Dad echoes. “We’ll see you girls tomorrow, alright? Chug some water and have some ibuprofen before you go to sleep, yeah?”

“Okay. Goodnight,” I say, not even wanting to know how drunk I must sound if he added that last part.

“Come on, let’s get back to your room,” Heena says, letting me lean on her for the short walk back.