The Unraveling of Cassidy Holmes

“Grant and I were over before you came along. I don’t want you to bother a man who is completely unconnected with you. I will tell you the full story when you are older. I promise.”

I saw her shoulders slump, her neck bend forward. Her lash line started to blush as tears glistened on the rims. Her pale hair shivered as she began to cry in frustration. She looked like my tiny Soleil again, small and blotchy, round-faced and wide-mouthed. I knew how she felt. I wanted to let her feel everything and know everything. But she was only fourteen and there would be time enough for heartbreak in the future.

I stretched my arms out for a hug, but she ducked and squirmed away. Just like that, she was back to being a long-legged teenager who escaped her room and darted down the stairs. My body sagged onto her bed as my eyes raked over the photo albums still cascading across her carpet.

That bastard. That fucking bastard.



23.



March 2002

L.A.



Cassidy



Our second tour was only a month away and everything became more intense: training, choreography, meetings, vocal coaching, wardrobe fittings. My phone stayed busy with dings and rings, and I even had a fax machine installed at my house for updated schedules that rolled in at six in the morning while Penny barked at it. I was so on edge all the time that I developed insomnia, while Rose had some sort of perfection-related anxiety. Peter palmed off prescription-strength sleeping pills to mitigate my new problem, and Rose got Xanax.

Awards season crept up as we were nearing the end of our album production. In February, Gloss’s eponymous debut was nominated for two Grammys, but we didn’t win either. We were working with Jake Jamz again to get our second studio album, its second single, and its music video out on time, so, though we attended as a group, our focus was elsewhere and the letdown wasn’t very bitter. We knew Prime was the better album.

As the plans for the tour continued to ramp up, seeing Stephen St. James at Big Disc’s office became a regular occurrence; he was cutting a new album and had meetings as well. We would brush past each other in the lobby or down a hallway, him going one way and the rest of us flowing in a different direction, and yet each time I still felt the jolt of seeing that roman nose glisten under a fluorescent light. He would give us a nod when we passed, a short jerk of his chin while his eyes swept over our faces and—I thought—lingered on mine. There was something about being in his presence that made me feel tense and fluttery and small.

On one of the days that I was running late to a meeting and alone in the hallway, our paths crossed again. This time, instead of Stephen’s gaze pinning on mine and then shifting away, he grinned. Hesitatingly, I smiled back. He slowed down, and I did too, so that we were walking toward each other as if our meeting had been planned. “Say,” he said, when our feet drew close.

“Say.” I’d become much more aware of every movement I made.

“I’ve been invited to the Oscars this year.”

“You were? Congratulations.” I tried to sound gracious, but my tongue felt too swollen for my mouth.

“Nominated for Best Original Song, you know.” He said it casually, as if he didn’t want me to make a big deal out of it, but I could tell that was the opposite of how he felt inside. I hadn’t known about the nomination but pretended that I did.

“That’s amazing!” I effused. I wondered if he had stopped me just to brag about this achievement, and my insides shriveled a little. I thought we were becoming friends. We’d weathered a few big moments together, and he’d kissed me at the last awards show we were at together, so it didn’t seem outside of the realm of possibility that he’d felt something for me. “I have a meeting to get to . . .”

“Sassy, wait.”

I stood still. His eyes were such a clear blue, icier than Merry’s.

He corrected himself. “Cassidy, I mean. I feel like you’re my good-luck charm. Would you go with me? Be my date?”

“Your good-luck charm?” I repeated. There was a quick fizz in my head, effervescence as I processed his words.

“You were there when I won Sing It and the MVAs. I was hoping you could work your magic again.”

Reality was quickly catching up to me. “I have a boyfriend.”

“I don’t really care about that.” His mouth quirked up. “This doesn’t have to be a real date. Just be next to me.”

A door behind him banged open, catching our attention and making Stephen swivel on his heel. Peter poked his head out and snapped his fingers twice. “We’re going over the last numbers now. Get in here!”

I gave Stephen what I’d hoped was an apologetic smile and started moving past him. “I’ll have to think about it. Let me call you.”

During the meeting, we went over our finalized tour dates, which would be announced after Prime dropped. The first single, “Remember,” had already been shared last September, but the executives were interested in a happier angle for the second and chose the hard-hitting and beat-heavy “Prime,” for which the album was named. Peter excitedly announced that our fans in Japan were clamoring for more music and that we would record a special track for the international album. From early May until late August, we were going to travel three continents with more than sixty concert dates, and from where I was sitting, I couldn’t discern whether I felt like this was a dream or a trap.

Thoughts swirled in my head as I was driven home. I hadn’t seen my family since Christmas. Alex and I were still noticeably cool toward each other after the tabloid photo argument, even though that had been more than a month ago, and because it was midterms week, it was difficult to pin down any of the Houston crew long enough to talk to them on the phone. The only constants in my life were Gloss, Jake Jamz, Peter, and Penny—and with Penny, there was Emily, who was already there when I arrived inside my gate.

“I brought in your mail and already took Penny for a quick walk,” she said, shouldering her bag to go leave.

“Thanks, Em. You’re a lifesaver.”

“It makes me nervous that you’re only relying on cameras and don’t have a guard on duty all the time.” She looked around at the impeccably decorated house: all creams and pale pinks. A magazine specializing in interior design had scooped the real estate listings and knew when I’d bought the place; they’d offered to outfit the entire house professionally and for free if they could showcase the work in their magazine. It could have been a massive breach of privacy, but because the decor was nothing that I’d picked out, the article and its accompanying photos felt as personal as a hotel room. The house didn’t really feel like a home, though, when I looked at it. A seashell motif danced around the molding and everything was the color of sand. The only part that felt like home was the smell: sun-soaked fur, my favorite shampoos and soaps in the bathrooms, the same fabric softener my mother used at our house in Houston, so the air was a mixture of lavender, Downy, and Penny.

“Why? Did something happen?” I asked.

“Nothing, just . . . you’re so alone out here. And this vicious creature”—she crouched and tousled Penny’s ears—“is such a sweetheart that she’d lick an intruder to death.”

I walked with Emily to the front door. “I know. I had a panic button installed in case of intruders.”

“Well, that’s something. But I know a guy. Let me see if he’s free.”

When I brought it up to Alex on the phone that night, while I morosely stabbed at a seventeen-dollar spinach salad, we didn’t mention the guy in the Rockefeller basement. “I asked Emily for a referral,” I told him. “Maybe she can find me a better stylist, too.”

“What’s wrong with the one you already have?”

“She always dresses me as part of an ensemble. But I was just asked to go to the Oscars without the rest of the girls, so . . .”

“You were asked to go to the Oscars? Without Gloss?” He sounded surprised.

I knew that mentioning it would be like picking at a scab, but if I ended up agreeing to go with Stephen, Alex would find out anyway. “I was asked to be a personal, platonic date for someone.”

His voice deepened in annoyance. “Is that someone Stephen St. James?”

“It might be. So what if it is?”

“Why are you immediately on the defensive?”

“Because you used that tone. He’s an industry friend, that’s all.”

“You might think he’s an ‘industry friend,’ but I guarantee you, that guy is fantasizing about you. He’s already kissed you on national television! And you’re going to the Oscars with him? The Oscars is, like, even more of an aphrodisiac than prom!”