Love Me

I smile. Happy memories of parties, shopping excursions, and days spent by the pool with Vanessa and RiAnne roll through my head. I think back to all the mistakes I made with Brooklyn and realize I probably made plenty with them too. Maybe part of loving yourself is taking responsibility for your actions. Vanessa didn’t make me into a bitch. I’m pretty sure I did that all by myself.



Then I get on Facebook.



This is harder. My cover photo is of me and Brooklyn in Monaco. My profile picture our new matching tattoos.



I scroll down through my wall. No one seems to be commenting anymore or wondering where I am. The mystery of why I left is now old news.



But every week—make that every Saturday morning—there is a post from RiAnne. It simply says, I miss you.



And it touches me. Really touches me.



Maybe if I go back home someday, we’ll be friends again.



I pull up her photos, clicking through pictures of her and Vanessa. At parties. On dates. At Homecoming.



But the pictures look off. Because I’m missing from them.



Since I’m a glutton for punishment, I click on Cush’s profile.



I squint my eyes at his profile picture. It’s a photo of him and a girl dressed up for Homecoming.



I click on the photo to make it bigger because my eyes must be deceiving me.



But they aren’t.



This girl, who is pretty but sort of plain looking, mostly because she isn't even wearing mascara—to Homecoming, seriously? I mean, I’m all about fresh-faced beauty. I'm fine surfing, working out, or hanging out with no makeup on. But on a special night with a special guy that you are going to have pictures of for the rest of your life?



Come on! At least put on some mascara and some lip gloss!



You know how Vanessa wanted to make the rugby player hotter?



This girlfriend of Cush’s is like the anti-Vanessa. She's somehow made larger-than-life Cush look plain too.



His slacks and dress shirt are slightly crumpled looking. There’s no product in his hair. And his posture is off. He doesn’t look like the tall, proud, cocky Cushman that I know.



I click through some more photos.



Oh. My. God.



He’s losing his abs.



Seriously. He looks like he's already gone to college and gotten a beer belly.



What the hell has this girl done to him?



I can't stop my fingers from typing.



Me: Cush? Where the hell did your abs go?



He's not showing online, but he messages me back instantly, probably from his phone.



Brandon: Haha. Keatyn, I haven't talked to you in forever and that's the first thing you ask?



Me: I’m sorry. That was rude of me. How’s the Cushman?



Brandon: Well, first off. I’m not that guy anymore. Cushman was a conceited asshole. Everyone here calls me Brandon.



Me: Um. Okay.



Brandon: You said you were somewhere good for you. Are you learning looks and partying aren't all that important?



Me: I’d say I’m learning that life is all about balance. I have to go. It was nice talking to you, Brandon.



The Cushman is dead.



And I want to cry.



The computer chimes. Cooper stops pacing and looks over my shoulder. “Are you chatting? You’re supposed to be deleting.”



“I am. I just . . .”



RiAnne: Please say hi to me.



Me: Hi.



RiAnne: Is it really you?



Me: Yes. Thank you for messaging me every week. You are the only friend to do that. It’s so sweet.



RiAnne: Vanessa is still mad you left us, but she's with me at the coffee shop every Saturday morning when I post it.



Me: Tell me what's going on. I miss you.



RiAnne: I miss you too. Vanessa is dating the rugby player. They were Homecoming prince and princess this year.



Me: That's cool.



RiAnne: And guess what? I was nominated!



Me: That's a big honor, Ri.



RiAnne: Thanks. Where are you?



Me: I can't tell you. Random question, but I saw some pictures of V and Bam and there was a guy there. That hot older guy I talked to at the hotel. Do you hang out with him?



RiAnne: We see him at the club sometimes. I think he's a creeper. But V thinks he's hot. She's gone to his house and stuff. Like for the whole weekend. You know.



I want to throw up.



RiAnne: But not lately. She's actually pretty into rugby. Like she's gone to all his games. And she hasn't cheated on him in three weeks, which is a record. Apparently, he’s great in the sack.



Me: I’m glad she's happy. What about you?



RiAnne: Same. So many guys to kiss, so little time. Lately I have been kissing on Alex Littleton.



Me: Ri!! He is hot!!!



RiAnne: I know, right? I'm all that. We’ve been working out together and I've lost 6 1/2 pounds.



Me: Is he a good kisser?



RiAnne: The. Best.



Me: I have to go. I'm deleting my profile.



RiAnne: No! You can't.



Me: I have to. There is a girl here who hates me and I don't want her to know about my old life.



RiAnne: Keatyn, you of anyone ought to be able to handle a mean girl.



Me: Yeah, I know. And I promise, if I ever get back home, I’ll call you.



RiAnne: Pinkie swear?



I get tears in my eyes as I type.



Me: Yeah, Ri. I do.



RiAnne: You know, if you would’ve stood up to Vanessa, like to her face, she would’ve respected you for it.



Me: That’s good advice. You taking it yourself?



RiAnne: Yeah. And I’m much happier. (That, and I’m skinnier than her.)



I don’t reply. I wipe a tear from my eye. Then I do it.



Delete, delete. Yes, I'm sure.



“Done,” I say to Cooper.



“Tonight after curfew, meet me in the small gym. We’ll get to work.”



Friday, November 11th



Shoe porn.



3:15pm



After soccer practice, Cooper herds me into his office and shuts the door.



I’m tired from being up late last night learning an assailant’s attack zones. Muscles I didn’t even know existed are sore.



“You need to lay off on the workouts. I’m so sore from last night. Thank goodness I don’t have dance or a game tonight.”



“Tonight is what I want to talk to you about. Going to New York is not a good idea.”



“I’m going.”



“Then I’m going with you.”



“No, you’re not.”



“Where are you staying?”



“I’ll be at my loft, Cooper. No one from my old life—not even my family—knows about it. A few people from school have been there but other than that, only Garrett and the guy that handles my money know where it is. I’m safe there.”



“What if someone sees you in the street? Or worse, in front of your loft, and thinks you look like Abby and calls him? He already did auditions there.”



“That’s why New York City is safe. Everyone is too busy to notice me. And I really don’t look that much like her in passing. It’s only the combination of my voice and gestures when people seem to notice. So I won’t talk to anyone. I’ll wear sunglasses.”



“You should be more afraid. How can you not be scared after Vancouver?”



“I am scared, but I can’t let it rule my life. I know we had a close call. I’m grateful that you planned ahead and he couldn’t trace our flights. I know you got out the guns and we all kind of freaked out, but he wasn’t going to forcefully take me in front of all those people.”



“All what people? Me and two pilots? That’s nothing. In Miami, he would have lied his way out of the club. Said you were drunk or sick. He could have drugged you. He could flash a fake badge like I did and say you were a fugitive. No one would think twice. He’s a brilliant liar. Hell, he’s lying to the whole country right now.”



“I gave up everything I love to keep my family and friends safe. Garrett told me I may never get to go back.” I start to cry. “That I have to start a new life. I’m trying so hard to do that.”



He pulls me into a hug, just as Whitney bursts through the door.



I jump and pull out of Cooper’s hug.



“What’s wrong?” Whitney snaps.



Cooper takes control, herding her out of the room and saying harshly, “Don’t ever barge into my office like that again. Do you understand me?”



“But she barged in your office just the other day. Why was that okay?”



“She’s on my soccer team.”



“And I’m in your health class.”



“Make an appointment.” The force that he says it with makes me glad he’s on my side.



Whitney nods obediently and says politely. “I’m sorry, Mr. Steele, I hoped to talk to you about the French Weekend.”



“As you can see, I’m busy. If you don’t stop randomly dropping by without an appointment, I’ll withdraw my help on the project. We clear?”



“Uh, yes, sir.” She turns and walks quickly away.



“And if I open this door and catch you eavesdropping, you’ll be finding yourself in detention.”



He sits on the corner of his desk. “Continuing. You’ve been there how many times before?”



“Just twice. Once with Dawson and once with my friends.”



“And one of those times Vincent was there?”



“Yes. But he was following my mom, not me. And Garrett told me to trust my gut. My gut tells me I’m safe there. For now. Like I am at school.”



“For now,” he adds somberly.



“The loft is where Garrett told me to go if Vincent ever found out I’m here.”



Cooper nods. “I’m just trying to think ahead. Of what could go wrong.”



“What do you think could go wrong?”



“A million things. But, realistically, he’d have to know you were here to know you went there. So then it becomes the possibility that he sees you somewhere there. That’s probably not going to happen randomly. So he’d have someone looking for you. Like he did in Vancouver. Like I’m pretty sure he had on the beach. He’d go to the places he’d expect you to go. Clubs. Shopping. Favorite restaurant. Could he know any of those things about you?”



“I never told him.”



“On Facebook maybe?”



“No. I never posted anything about New York. The only thing could be . . .”



“Could be what?”



“Shoe porn, maybe.”



“What the hell is shoe porn?”



“It’s when you post a photo of a hot shoe on social media. Shoes that other girls will drool over. Kind of like you would over a hot guy.”



Cooper laughs and shakes his head. “Shoe porn. Now I’ve heard everything. So, I’d go to shoe stores, flash a photo of you, give them my card, tell them it’s a hundred bucks if they call me.”



“Would you do that in New York?”



He thinks for a second. “New York. Miami. Near the rehab in Utah. And probably Vancouver. Upscale stores. Shoe department.”



“So I can’t go shoe shopping?”



“No shoe shopping.”



“I can’t . . .”



“Do you want to go by yourself? I like New York. I could come stay with you and Aiden. That’d be cozy.”



“Fine. No shoe shopping.”



“Do you promise? I’m serious. Do you promise?”



I close my eyes and nod. “Yeah. I promise.”



For a rainy day.



8pm



Aiden walks in my loft and says, “Wow. The ceiling is amazing.”



I tell him about the history of the building. Its former life as a small concert hall.



“What about all the furniture?”



“A designer chose all the pieces. I did some design boards that mixed pieces of furniture with colors, clothes, and shoes I love and somehow he extrapolated that to furniture and accessories.”



“I want to see it all,” he says, grabbing my hand and leading me around like he owns the place. I think about Dawson. How he barely got me in the door before attacking me. Part of me was hoping the loft would have the same effect on Aiden.



But part of me is glad it hasn’t.



When he lets go of my hand to examine a funky hand-blown glass piece, I notice how perfect Aiden looks in here. Almost like the designer picked him out too. He's wearing jeans that are fashionably ripped and frayed at the seams. A Band of Outsiders jersey hoodie that skims across his muscles. A casual blazer.



Having Aiden here makes my loft feel more like a home.



It’s weird. When I think of home, I think of Malibu. Of my family.



I’ve tried to write new scripts. Ones where I go home. Ones where I don’t get to go home. Ones where Dawson and I live in the Hamptons. Ones where Aiden and I live in Napa and watch the sunset together. Ones where Brooklyn tells me he wished on the moon the night of prom and where we stay up to watch the sunrise together.



But when it comes time to write it down—to actually script it—I can’t do it. Instead, I keep writing what happens every day in my journal.



I figure if Vincent gets me, maybe someone will find it and use it for a Lifetime movie.



I’m brought back to reality when Aiden says, “I think I'll take this one,” in one of the guest rooms. He walks out of the room then returns with his leather duffle and backpack and sets them on the bed.



Is it bad that when he told me that he wanted to use the feather on me here that I assumed that we were going to sleep together? And that I have a purse full of condoms?



Aiden takes my hand in his and continues to explore, now landing in the kitchen. “Love the teal island. And the stainless steel appliances mixed with the rustic painted furniture.” He pulls me into his arms and kisses the tip of my nose. “Did I tell you I'm a pretty good cook?”