But she kept smiling. “Then I did a stand-up comedy act for a party my parents threw, and everyone loved it.”
“It was amazing!” Dr. Jacobs agreed. “I don’t know where she gets it from!”
“In August of that year, I started my YouTube channel—beauty, fashion, with a funny edge. But I did it for me, you know? Not for followers. Just to try some things out, to figure out who I was.”
“That’s when we met.” Chase set down his fork. “I didn’t even know she had a channel. I didn’t see how pretty she was, either—I mean, it helped, but that’s not what I was focusing on. I just thought she was incredible as a person. Funny, cool, charming, and deep.” He leans forward. “I’d been dating someone else who was also successful and funny and had a big personality like Fiona’s, but she had no soul. I liked that Fiona seemed complicated.” He inhaled. “I was picked on in elementary as well. I had this stomach flu in fourth grade, and it led to this epic, gross incident of not being able to hold everything in before I got to the school bathroom . . .” He shuddered. “No one would let it go. I was mortified.”
Fiona patted his hand. This was one of the first real conversations she and Chase had ever had: how the both of them—attractive, smart, interesting people—endured brutal teasing when they were younger. It bound them together. Well, that and their love for 1980s movies, shopping at thrift stores, and donning full-body wetsuits and going into the ocean in Santa Monica in the dead of winter.
Fiona wasn’t sure what she’d do without Chase. He understood her in ways no one else did—she’d even told him a little about her rituals and the Voice. But she hadn’t told him everything. No one knew everything. Except . . .
Her mind flashed back to the strange DM. Could someone know? How?
“And this girl who picked on you?” Martie said spookily, as if reading Fiona’s mind. “Has she reached out to comment on what a success you are these days? I’d imagine you’d feel pretty triumphant.”
Fiona exchanged a look with her mother. “Actually, there was an . . . accident,” Rebecca said quietly, setting down her last bite of toast. “The girl is no longer with us.”
“Oh my God!” Martie’s hand flew to her mouth. “How awful!”
Fiona’s heart pounded. Her secret felt like it was only barely hidden, just one onionskin layer down.
Not much later, Fiona’s mother said she had to get back to work. Fiona was grateful to leave. She shook Martie’s hand and thanked her for the feature. She counted her steps as she walked out of the trendy Soho House dining room. She did an extra shuffle so that it was eighty-eight steps, an even number, instead of eighty-seven.
But in the parking lot, Chase seemed reluctant to head to his car. “Was everything okay back there? You seemed a little . . .”
“A little what?” Fiona snapped, sounding more on edge than she intended.
Chase shrugged. “I don’t know, guarded, maybe.”
“I wasn’t guarded.” Her voice rose an octave. “And anyway, you have to be guarded with those people. If you tell them too much, they’ll twist your words into scandal.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have any scandals.” Chase bumped her hip playfully.
Fiona’s mind screamed, but she tried to keep her breathing regular. “Yeah, but . . .”
Chase shot her an uncertain look, then shrugged and gave her a quick kiss. Fiona’s heart thudded as he climbed into his car to head home. Guarded? Did the interviewer think that, too?
All at once, her throat felt tight. She looked around, certain someone was spying on her. Someone knew about Lana. Fiona was convinced, suddenly, that the DM she’d received was legit. Someone was going to ruin her. Unless . . .
She pulled out her phone and stared miserably at the screen. Unless. Some sacrifices had to be made. And with that, she scrolled through her list of contacts and dialed her agent’s number.
JASMINE
On Saturday, Jasmine headed out on her regular visit to her parents’ house in the Valley. As she swung into her car—a Tesla sedan, which she’d bought for herself after an ad campaign with Claire’s, in which she was bedecked in Lulu C rainbows to advertise the jewelry store’s new “Lulu C” earrings line—she called up her texts on the car’s giant touch screen. Usually, she made a concerted effort not to smartphone-and-drive, but her phone had been pinging all morning, and she needed to assess the damage.
The damage. Last night. The aftermath wasn’t so bad, actually. There were shots of Jasmine in the dark club, but not much could be deduced. She was in a mask. The person she was with might be a girl . . . but it might be a guy. Mostly, her fans were just intrigued. Why is LuluJasmine wearing a mask? Is that a long-haired boy she’s kissing? Maybe a famous rock star?
She’d scoured the comments, desperate to see if anyone recognized the girl. Nothing had surfaced yet . . . and that killed her. Jasmine couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. The girl’s lips touching hers. That feeling of, Yes, this is right. Why hadn’t she asked the girl’s name? This morning, she’d even called the party’s promoter, begging him for a guest list of who was there last night. The guy just laughed. “Privacy is the reason we throw these parties,” he reminded her. “If I give you a list of names, it ruins everything.”
But she needed to find this girl. They had such a connection. She couldn’t just let her go.
She merged onto the highway, pressing the button for a new Spotify playlist. Then she noticed Ruby’s name on the list of incoming texts. Ruby had sent sixteen texts since the story broke. Jasmine had meant to call Ruby this morning, but her head was throbbing from the stress, and she wasn’t in the mood. In fact, she decided to turn off the GPS tracking on her phone so Ruby wouldn’t know where she was. Just for the morning. Just until she could screw her head on straight.
She hated avoiding her sister, though. Back in the day, when Jasmine was just starting out and Ruby was more of a personal assistant/part-time college student than Jasmine’s 24/7 manager, they would drive to see their parents together. Strength in numbers, they joked. They would make bets: How many times would Mom complain of a mystery ailment? How many times would Dad disappear outside, saying he was “checking on the plants,” to sneak a cigarette? Would their grandmother be nice to them this visit, or would she be as cantankerous as ever, doting only on her French bulldog, Mr. Snuffleupagus?
But ever since Jasmine’s career hit the next level, she and Ruby had felt less and less like sisters and more like diva and adversary. The only way to preserve their family bond was to sever that relationship . . . but how could Jasmine fire her sister? “Never mix family and business,” a director had told her once on the set of That’s Hot! Jasmine wished she’d listened.
It took only a half hour to get to her parents’ neighborhood. Every time she gazed upon their imposing, sand-colored ranch, with its orange trees and a beautiful front-yard waterfall, the same thought always gonged in her head: Wish I’d grown up here! Not that Jasmine’s childhood home was bad . . . it was just on a much smaller scale.
Jasmine struggled to open the front door, but it was locked. When she rang the bell, a woman in a gray dress and an apron answered. “¿Sí?” she said brightly.