CHAPTER TWO
My story is published online Sunday evening and by Monday morning, dozens of media outlets are picking it up, from BuzzFeed to E! to Entertainment Weekly.
This should be the best day of my career.
Variety is doing a piece on the video and left three messages on my office voicemail asking for more details. They’re fifth on my list to call back, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone.
Each time a television presenter says, “In an exclusive video released by The Indie Voice, Gavin Slater sings…” I’m crying inside, terrified of the fact that this story is going viral.
It’s a boulder rolling downhill, picking up momentum and threatening to crush whatever’s in its path.
Friendship.
A thousand times today, I wish I’d waited. I wish I’d thought it through and realized how utterly stupid it was to steal the video and write about it.
But I did think it through. I rationalized the fuck out of it.
I hate myself for what I’ve done to sweet, gentle Beryl and I sink lower in my chair as colleagues stop by my cubicle with congratulations. This is the biggest story The Indie Voice has released in ages, especially because we have the exclusive.
When my boss, Heath Rhodes, stops by my cubicle, he doesn’t offer congrats. “Stella? A word?” He jerks his head toward his office and I follow him, taking a seat opposite his broad, messy desk.
“Well, that was some story,” Heath says, resting his chin on steepled fingers as his eyes linger on my cleavage. “It’s been lighting up our phones all morning. You wanna tell me where you got that video?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
“Just between us, sweetheart.” His tone softens but I can still hear the edge in it. “The lawyers will be asking me some tough questions. I want to have good answers for them.”
“I didn’t steal it.” The words spill out of my mouth in a rush.
“I never said you did.” Heath narrows his eyes. “Why would you think that?”
“It’s—it’s personal. I mean, the video was made for personal reasons, not for fans. Gavin sent it to his, uh, girlfriend?” I don’t know how to describe Beryl and Gavin’s relationship.
“Gavin Slater’s having a romantic relationship with someone, and you know her?”
I nod.
Heath’s lip curls in a ruthless smile. “You can use this access. Readers will want to know if the playboy is finally settling down. Because if he is, that’s your next story. Now, what’s your connection?”
I buy time before I answer by pushing one angled edge of my cherry-brown bob behind my ear. “I don’t know for sure if she’s his girlfriend, but she showed me the video. He sent it to her.”
Heath nods, his dead eyes cold, like a shark’s. “You know her well?”
“Yeah.” Heath scowls at my minimum-information answer and I’m forced to elaborate. “We were in college together. In the journalism program at the University of Oregon.”
“And how does a girl from Oregon catch the eye of a rock star? Does this have something to do with the fact that he fell off the map a couple of months ago?”
Heath’s getting far too much out of me and I balk. “I’m not sure,” I hedge. “I guess I’ll have to see what else I can find out.”
“Wednesday. I want a follow-up story by Wednesday with more on the band. More behind-the-scenes crap, whatever you can get. More real-life stuff, because that’s what fans are eating up right now. Tattoo Thief’s a trending topic on Twitter today.”
I suppress a groan. This story has taken on a life of its own. “I’ll try.”
“No. You’ll do it, sweetheart. This story is flipping our advertisers’ buttons and that makes our publisher happy. And when our publisher’s happy…”
I finish Heath’s sentence: “Everyone’s happy. I get it. I’ll do my best.”
“Bullshit. Don’t do your best. Just do it.”
I twist my hands in my lap, waiting to be dismissed, but Heath pulls a laminated pass on a lanyard out of his desk drawer and flips it over to me.
“Don’t look so grim. I’ve also got a reward for you—you’re covering the Indie Day concert.” Heath’s tobacco-stained grin says he’s proud of giving me this.
“Thanks,” I choke out, accepting the pass to one of the biggest outdoor indie rock concerts of the summer. It’s on Independence Day, of course, so I mentally scratch my Fourth of July plans.
“Get me a story on that by noon Friday,” Heath says. “And close the door behind you.”
I’m dismissed.
***
I know I should call Beryl but I can’t bring myself to dial all ten numbers. The weight of my betrayal threatens to crush me and I leave work early on the pretense of digging up more information on Tattoo Thief.
Instead, I walk aimlessly on the High Line, an elevated park on an old rail track.
On Tuesday, I’m no closer to a story about Tattoo Thief and I spend the morning at my desk trolling old articles about the band, looking for some nugget that could spark a fresh story without involving Gavin or Beryl again.
I feel like a prisoner waiting for her execution.
Neil’s on the other side of the newsroom telling a loud, animated story about his latest one-star restaurant review, and several reporters gather around him.
I hate this side of the business, being a critic, tearing down what other people create. I write honest reviews, but I always try to find something redeeming about a performance a band’s spent years honing.
When my desk phone rings I want to let it go to voicemail, but considering that I hate being on the other end, a reporter leaving a voicemail for a source, I relent to its beeping and pick it up.
“Indie Voice. This is Stella Ramsey.”
“Stella. You’re Beryl’s … friend?” The voice is a growl, pouring ice in my veins. This is not a friendly chat.
My mouth drops open and I struggle to remember what to do with it: breathe, move my lips, push air through my throat. Now speak.
“Stella? Are you there?” I scramble to place the familiar rasp. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve fielded calls from publications and reporters whose names are every bit as famous as Tattoo Thief’s.
“Urg, sorry. How may I help you?” I pride myself on composure, but now I’m fumbling for easy words.
“You know what this is about. The video. Tell me what happened.” The growl is lower and so commanding that I stutter out the same comments I gave a dozen media outlets.
“Uh, I wrote a story about the video Gavin Slater made. For Beryl. It was such a good song that I thought the world needed to see it. I thought—”
I keep talking, defending the very thing I’ve beaten myself up over ever since I hit send. My thoughts snag on a critical fact: no one should know that Beryl is my friend.
When reporters badgered me about getting in touch with Beryl, I told them I didn’t know her last name or contact details. The only reason her first name is mentioned in my story at all is because the video begins with Gavin’s sweet, heartfelt statement: “Hey, Beryl. This is for you.”
Realization hits me. That voice. I feel like I’ve tripped on the bumpy yellow warning strip in the subway and I’m falling toward the tracks.
“Stop it, Stella.” Gavin Slater’s sharp tone cuts off my babble. “You stole it from Beryl. That was a private video between us and I don’t know how you got in the middle of it, but you had no right to take it.”
I hear his barely contained rage and I gasp for air and grasp for words. I stick with the one phrase that’s burned in my brain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sor—” My voice breaks as I try to apologize, and I choke back a sob.
“Do you realize how badly you hurt Beryl? I’m used to the press pulling this kind of shit, taking anything they can get from me, breaking any promise of confidentiality. But Beryl trusted you. She said you were her best friend.”
I hear the past tense in his statement and I blubber and shake, holding the phone in a death grip.
“She didn’t even know the video was out there until it went viral. Her boss had to show it to her. You didn’t even give her a heads-up, like, ‘Hey, I fucked you over and stole a private moment, so be prepared.’ She thought I did it. The rest of the band—my best friends—thought she did it. And the first call I got was from Chief, our manager, screaming about our label suing us for breach of contract!”
Gavin’s voice rises with each statement and I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I never considered that Tattoo Thief’s label would be anything less than thrilled by Gavin’s video.
“And the worst part?” Gavin barks out an ironic laugh. “The worst part is I fucking blamed her for it, too. I thought she sold me out. After everything I trusted her with, you undermined that trust. And she knows it.”
That lands the hardest blow and I sniffle and hiccup between sobs, but I’m trying desperately to stay quiet so I don’t attract the attention of my coworkers.
Gavin draws a ragged breath. “You owe Beryl an apology. Are you ready for that?” His voice is hard and I feel panicked. What could I possibly say to her that would be enough?
“Yes. You’re right,” I whisper. I’m not sure he hears me because the line is quiet. Finally, Gavin breaks the silence.
“Good. Then we understand each other. Here’s how you’re going to make it up to her: meet us at Frankies Spuntino in Greenwich Village tonight at nine. She deserves to hear your apology in person.”
“She deserves so much more than that,” I say, and I know it’s true. She deserves better than a frenemy who steals her private moments and makes them public. A fresh wave of self-loathing hits me and I want to drown in a bottle of something strong.
“You’re right, Stella. Beryl is precious to me, but I also know your friendship is precious to her. You’ve got to make it right.”
“I don’t know how.” It comes out like a desperate sigh.
Gavin’s voice softens. “Stella. Listen to me. I’ve spent the last two months beating myself up over something I did that caused irreparable damage. I know how hard it is to ask for forgiveness, and how much harder it is to forgive yourself.”
I nod but can’t manage words.
Gavin goes on. “Let’s start here. I forgive you. What you did isn’t unforgivable. The trust you broke can be mended. You’ve just got to find a way to give it to Beryl and see if she’ll accept it.”
“I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask. I can’t promise that Beryl will forgive you right away, or ever. But I want you to try. She deserves it.”