“But not anymore . . . ?”

“No.” She was quiet for a moment. “When she was diagnosed with leukemia, we’d already been broken up for a while, and she made it clear to me that I should still keep living my life—as much as I can, with this pop deal going on, anyway. I still care for her, obviously.” She shrugged one shoulder. “But it’s water under the bridge now.”

I wanted to tell her I could relate—I still cared for Alex, no matter what had happened between us—but it didn’t seem like the right time. I had the urge to swipe her hair away from her face gently with my fingertips, but instead I said, very softly, “Okay.”

Rose made no motion to get rid of me, and truth be told, I didn’t want to leave. We lay in comfortable silence as the room ticked warmer and the clock ticked later. Before I knew it, I was dozing off, and I felt safe for the first time in a while.

27.

May 2002

Prime Tour: Northeast United States

Cassidy

I thought that I would feel relief once we touched down in New York—we’d be home, Emily would join us with Penny, we’d have better access to Peter—yet my anxiety about the tabloids continued to grow. Peter had been strangely quiet the last few days of the European tour and had called Ian for only a brief chat while we were in Paris. I turned off my phone because the incessant ringing was running down my battery, but when I’d switch it on, Edie’s and Joanna’s messages filled my in-box first with worried voices, then exasperated ones. I returned calls only to my mother, though I told her to ignore half the things that were printed. “Which half?” she asked, annoyed.

As we disembarked at JFK, the paparazzi swarm emerged. All I could do was keep my lips together, heeding Justine’s inexplicably vague advice: “Just don’t comment on it.”

I’d also hoped that the removal of my cast would dampen the rumor mill—with the visual reminder gone, maybe the questions and speculation would fade—but when we peeked at the Madison Square Garden crowd preshow, scattered fan signs announced their opinions on the matter. Why wouldn’t people let it go? The longer it went on, the worse I started to feel about Alex. He didn’t deserve this.

“Focus,” Rose said over the headset. I glanced over at her but her eyes shifted away, already on task. The audio started and visuals onstage began to play, and we waited for our cue. Being near Rose now gave me a tiny thrill, as I recognized my feelings. It was as if, once I’d learned that there was a possibility she could like me back, my brain gave itself the go-ahead to run full throttle into crush mode. She’d murmured a good morning in Copenhagen that had liquefied my spine.

I’d stayed in my own room in Paris, worried that another night with Rose would lead me to do something reckless and stupid.

But we played a rousing show in New York—the first of two—and after we were bussed to our hotel, Rose waved me into her room. “I figured out your leak,” she said once the door was closed. “It’s Lucy.”

“Lucy?” I repeated. That didn’t make sense. I’d been so wrapped up in my broken arm and the tour that I hadn’t even talked to Lucy in weeks.

“It’s just the type of attention-seeking shit she would do,” Rose insisted. “Like going to the Oscars in a fairy-princess gown, on the arm of a man twice her age? Then he dumped her and the tabloids are going on about how lovesick she is. Wouldn’t you want to feed them something in exchange for some peace and quiet?”

“How would she know about it in the first place? Why talk about me?”

Rose shrugged and popped an after-show Diet Coke, one of six that she had required in her rider to be in every hotel and dressing room on the tour. “Maybe you didn’t kiss her ass enough, worship her fragile ego?”

“I guess it’s possible . . .” Perhaps Lucy speculated just to make conversation, and hit too close to the truth. As Hollywood royalty, her word might be deemed trustworthy enough by the tabloids. I felt awkward in the ensuing silence, as I found myself staring at her mouth again. “Okay, well, good night?”

“You don’t wanna sleep here?” she said, and her voice was clear and bright after her first pull of soda.

“I didn’t think . . .”

She leaned back against the headboard, avoiding my eyes, and set the can on her nightstand. “Don’t tell anyone,” she said slowly, “but I don’t sleep very well. But when you were in Copenhagen with me, I . . . I felt . . .”—she groped for the word—“I feel okay with you.” She glanced at me, assessing my reaction. I continued to stare at her, riveted, as she flicked her two-toned eyes away again and studied her hands. “And yeah, sometimes I just need to feel okay. And you make me feel that.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to say. A small quiver in my rib cage. I didn’t know how to tell her that her words made complete sense. “Sure. I can stay.”

I took my last Vicodin in the bottle to soothe my throbbing arm, which always seemed to hurt more when I was trying to fall asleep, and laid next to Rose with a wide berth between us. We woke up in the center of the bed, having gravitated toward each other in the night, our hair tangled together on the same pillow.

WE DROVE THROUGH the night and reached Hartford a little before sunrise. The bus slowed and bumped over speed humps in the hotel parking lot.

Ian stood at the front of the bus and barked, “All right. We have two radio promos before you get your free afternoon. Merry, you wanted off-site today, right? That’s fine, as long as it’s after radio. Then tomorrow: phone interviews with Variety and Vanity Fair, and then the show.”

Emily, who was on a separate bus, joined us outside the hotel with Penny. Once in the room, I called my parents in Houston to let them know we’d arrived in Connecticut safely, then turned off all phone ringers so I could contemplate in silence. My mind, now that my Vicodin bottle had emptied, was sharp again, and the thoughts I’d been keeping at bay were now floating to the surface.

Was this just a one-sided crush? Or was it worth trying to find out if Rose felt the same way? Did she feel okay about me, the way that I felt okay about her?

I tried to nap in my own room but then admitted defeat and shuffled, hesitantly, to her door and tapped on it lightly. I just had to know.

She wasn’t asleep, either. Her curtains were drawn save one stripe down the middle where they met, and she looked disheveled and unfocused.

“Can I hang out in here for a while?” I asked, suddenly nervous. I’d felt nervous around Rose before, but this was a different kind.

She shrugged, back to being her cold self, and retreated to the mini fridge for a Diet Coke.

I closed the door and crept toward her slowly, marveling at the soft halo backlighting her messy hair.

“Rose,” I said softly, “why do you tell me that I make you feel okay and then ignore me later?” She went still. “I mean. You talk to me, sometimes, I guess. But when we’re in the whole group . . . you always want to move on to work.”

She shook her head and popped the tab; a crescent of bubbles decorated the heart of her left palm.

I reached out and clasped her wet hand.

I heard her breath catch as I drew her hand to my lips, dipping my head to kiss the foam from her wrist.

“Cassidy . . . ,” she whispered. She didn’t remove her fingers from mine.

I murmured into her palm. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

“What have you been thinking?” Her voice was uncharacteristically low, a voice I’d never heard her use.

“That . . . that I think I have feelings. For you.”

She set the can down on the desk. She stepped closer to me now, bringing her free hand up to caress the side of my face. Her fingertips were cold, the condensation streaking along my jawline. The air stirred lightly, bringing with it the scent of her—her spiced neck, her vanilla lip gloss, Diet Coke, her conditioner.

“You have feelings for me?”

“Yes.”

“I have feelings for you too,” she said softly. “But this can’t happen.”

But when I opened my eyes she was so close, so close.

“Why not?” I breathed.

“It’s already complicated . . .”

“I don’t mind complicated.”