LOW: A Rockstar Romance (13 page)

Chapter 25

Zoe

Sometime during the night, I woke up with a crick in my neck and the whole right side of my body numb. I disentangled myself from my brother and crept back to my room to fall face first into my bed.

I was still in that position when my east facing window got hit with the full sun of late morning and my room started heating up like a greenhouse. I woke up, soggy, and stiff, and rubbed my face in confusion at the still quiet house. Only then did the drama of last night replay itself in my head.

My night with Low, my wonderful, incredible night, had caused exactly the kind of disaster that all along my gut knew it would. Here I had gone into this...this
fling
, consciously ignoring all of the warning signals, hell-bent on having a little bit of fun...

And then this had happened.

It was like the universe was sending me a clear and direct signal.
Zoe
, it said,
dating a rockstar is just a fantasy. This is not real life.
 
This is not YOUR life.

This is not for you.

I numbly stared at my ceiling, running through the facts as I saw them, numbering them on my fingers as I did so.

Low and I clearly had...chemistry. If chemistry was an adequate word for the spontaneous fucking combustion that had happened between us. And he told me he was falling for me and I knew, on some deep and personal level, that he always told me the truth.

But
he was a fucking
rockstar
and anyone with eyes could see that he was poised to be a huge star in his own right.

Number one: Why on earth would he want to settle for an inexperienced, unemployed, slightly chubby chick in the first place?

Number two: And even if he did want to make a go of it with me, what would he do once he found out that I was packaged together with an unpredictable younger brother with autism?

Number three: And that I might have to care for that brother, or at least check in on him, for the rest of my life? 

Because I might find a job. I might lose this weight.

But I was never going to lose Max.

Who would be there if Max got to be too much for my parents in their old age?

Me.

I needed to stick around, be available, helping out...

Forever.

And truth was, I was fine with that. I loved my brother and accepted that loving him meant responsibility.

But very few other people would.

I took a deep, gulping breath and then reached inside myself and
shoved
down the feelings of denial and sadness that tried to worm their way to the surface. This wasn't time for a pity party. I'd deal with those feelings later.
Maybe never.

Once I got the facts straight in my head, the next thing to do was figure out how to move forward. I narrowed my eyes at the ceiling and tried to make a plan.

I could sit down and explain things to Low. Talk rationally and calmly, like an adult, and list out all the reasons why this wasn't going to work. Maybe I could graph it out in some kind of, I dunno, flowchart or something.

Maybe get some posterboard and a laser pointer while I was at it.

I closed my eyes and pictured a whiteboard on an easel, the kind that we had in the conference rooms at
Grip
. In my mind, I dragged the dry-erase marker down the center of the board, separating it into two columns, and then wrote the title at the top.

The Pros and Cons of Telling the Truth.

If I told Low everything now, it would save us both from getting in too deep.

That was a definite Pro.

But if I told him, I'd have to explain about my brother and there was very little chance he'd understand.

That was huge and insurmountable Con.

When Max was first diagnosed, my parents and I made an agreement. We weren't going to make this about us. When the time came and he was ready, it would be up to Max who he wanted to tell about his challenges. But until then, we would only share with the people who absolutely needed to know. Doctors and teachers and close family friends who had to interact with him regularly. Like, Jason. Not people who didn't need to know. I didn't need to try to excuse his behavior to the busy-bodies at the playground. My mother didn't need to defend herself against the judge-y stares at Target. We were strong enough to suck it up and smile without needing to explain.

We decided this as a family and as a family we stood firm.

Telling Low would mean taking him into my confidence and exposing my family's private struggle. It would mean telling Max's story for him, something I swore I wouldn't do. It would mean I thought Low had a right, no a need, to know. I'd be letting him into my confidence. Was that really something I wanted to do with someone I'd be breaking up with anyway?

And how could I explain why I wanted to break up in the first place? Saying,
I can't see you any more because my brother has autism
made it seem like I was ashamed of my brother.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

What I really needed to say was,
My brother's future is more important to me than this fantasy, no matter how hot it is.

But how the fuck was I supposed to say that?

Maybe it would be better to just not say anything at all. I could wait it out, and just let Low naturally lose interest like he surely would.

That would be easier on my heart and expose my brother to less scrutiny.

That was it. I knew what I needed to do.

I nodded at the ceiling like the two of us had come to an agreement and then rolled over to get up for the day. I expected to feel relieved and accomplished after reaching my decision.

I was surprised to find that I was actually really fucking sad.

Not resentful, not guilty. Just quietly... sad.

I crept silently past my little brother's room, sneaking a peek in through the slightly opened door.

Max approached sleep the same way that he approached everything else, with wild, full-throttle abandon. This morning, he was completely upside down on his bed, one foot on the pillows, the other hanging off the edge. His hair flopped into his eyes and his wide-open mouth had a puddle of drool pooling on the sheets below. Last night's trauma seemed to have left no mark on him save the dried trail of tears down his squished up cheek.

My heart squeezed at the same time tears pricked my eyes.

I smiled and gently shut his door, just in time to mask the sound of metal clanking against the floor. "Son of a beeswax," my stepfather hissed downstairs.

I stifled a laugh. "You okay, Greg?" I called softly from the top of the stairs.

"Yeah," he sighed from the direction of the dining room. I headed down to make sure he wasn't lying.

He wasn't.  He sat at the table, pieces of something vaguely electrical spread out in front of him. After a second, those pieces resolved themselves into the doorbell that had refused to work for the past three weeks.

"Hey Pops," I said.

"Hey there Sunshine," my stepdad sang out.

I shuffled to the doorway and peered at him skeptically through the curtain of my hair.

"Did you have fun last night?" he asked, all full of innocent curiosity.

I folded my arms across my chest and regarded him. "Are we going to talk about the meltdown?"

He looked over his glasses at a coil-y spring looking thing. Maybe it was actually a spring. I had no idea. "Nope," he said.

"Really? You don't want to say anything about how I was right and how you should have called me right away?"

"Nope." My stepdad grinned. "First and foremost because I would
never
admit you were right, Sunshine. It's in the parent's code."

"Oh yeah? Has Mom read that? Because she tells me I'm right all the time."

"I was wrong. It's the
step
-parent's code."

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"And besides, your mom would agree with me," he went on, ignoring me. "We wouldn't have called and interrupted your date. That's not how we roll."

"I thought we were a family and we supported each other."

"Yeah Sunshine. This was
us
supporting
you
for once."

He nodded once.

I swallowed and nodded back.

And that was that.

That's how discussions went in my family. Growing up, I was always aghast when my friends would talk about hours' long, screaming fights with their parents. Mom and Greg never did that to me. I said my piece. They said theirs and then the matter was settled.

"Anything you need help with?" I asked, scraping a chair across the floor and plopping myself into it.

"Hand me that wrench?"

I looked where he was pointing, closed my eyes, and took a guess as to which metal thingie was the wrench. I handed it to him, and he nodded his appreciation while furrowing his brow.

"You know that I am perfectly capable of driving to the store and buying you another one of those, right?" I pointed out. "You don't have to repair everything. We live in Whittier, not 1930s Oklahoma."

I knew this was a futile point. Greg loved nothing more than tinkering with busted electronics, worrying at them for days on end until finally something clicked and he could triumphantly call us into the room to demonstrate his mastery over objects. It was a trait he had passed to his son. Max was already showing signs of tinkering, though the things he tried to fix tended to stay broken. In a million pieces.

"It's Saturday, Sunshine," Greg said, his tongue poking the side of his mouth. "Relax."

"Like you?"

"If you say so."

"Teach me your ways, old man."

My stepfather grinned. "If you haven't learned them by now, then there's no getting through to you," he growled in mock seriousness. I laughed.

There was a sound upstairs, a herd of elephants trampling across a pile of dishes. Greg raised his eyebrows at the din. "Well, here's something you
can
help with. Max is up. He's going to want his Froot Loops and I'm in the middle of all this."

I stood up. "You got it."

Max appeared in the doorway rubbing his eyes. His fine, sandy brown hair was sticking up at crazy angles all over his head, especially in the back where it stood straight up, like peacock's tail.

He was so freaking cute I could barely stand it.

"Hey bud, can I have a hug?" I asked, holding out my arms.

My brother shuffled silently to me and turned his body to the side, allowing me to hug him but not hugging me back. A year ago this would have bothered me, especially after how he'd clung to me last night.  Now I knew he was most likely touched out from cuddling, and feeling overloaded. I was grateful that he loved me enough to let me have the hug I craved. I wondered how much effort it was costing him to stand here.  

"Hey Maximus," Greg called holding up his palm. Max wound up and gave his dad a bruising high-five. The little ghost of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth and he started to reach for the pieces of doorbell in front of his father.

I moved quickly to redirect him. "Want some breakfast, dude?" I asked, knowing that he wouldn't answer me, but he would most likely follow me into the kitchen. I set out the same breakfast he always ate; Froot Loops in the purple plastic bowl, milk in his orange cup and the vitamin gummies from the red jar, not the green one. He plopped his little bony butt directly on the table and kicked his feet as he ate his Froot Loops one by one, staring out the window at the sky.

Last night with Low was a fantasy.

This was reality.

And there was nothing wrong with that.

"What should we do today, little man?" I asked my brother.

"Go to park?" he ventured hopefully.

I smiled and ruffled his messy hair. "Okay, bud. Let's go to the park."

Chapter 26

Low

"Hello? Low? Did you fucking fall asleep?"

My whole body twitched awake. "No, no man. Sorry," I mumbled into my phone. Then I closed my eyes again.

Keith sighed explosively. "Did you hear a word I just said?"

I blinked and rolled to the side, and thought for a minute. "Nope," I finally confessed. "Missed it completely." I rubbed my face with my hand. "Honestly I don't even remember answering the phone. Why the hell are you calling me so early?"

"It's eleven AM! Why the hell were you up so late last night, huh? I noticed you didn't head home when the rest of the guys did."

"And girl," I corrected, reminding him of my sister's existence.

"No, you headed back up the stage like your ass was on fire. Were you meeting someone?" Keith sounded like he wanted to come over here for the express purpose of elbowing me suggestively. "Having a bit of fun with your newfound fame, you dog?"

I closed my eyes again, trying to recall the nice dream Keith's call had woken me from. Something about spotlights and warm lips and....

Zoe.

Shit.

Suddenly I was remembering more than the way the white glare of the spotlight got tangled in her hair. Instead, I was remembering the promise I'd made just before I fell into bed.

I need to end this.

I wrenched my mind back to the present. "What were you calling about, Keith?"

Keith cleared his throat. "As I already mentioned," he said pointedly, "Florian Wyss is looking for a new spokesperson."

"What the ever-loving fuck is a Gregorian Wisp?" I wanted to go back to thinking about Zoe's face as she came.

"Boy you really can't take the boy out of Buffalo, can you?" Keith snorted. "Florian Wyss, the Swiss watchmakers? They make watches that last like three hundred years or something?"

"Still not following."

"A watch, Lowell. How do you feel about posing for pretty pictures while wearing a watch that costs more than most people's mortgage?"

"I don't wear watches," I told him. "I'm a fucking drummer, they get in the way."

"You're more than just a drummer now, baby." He sounded like he was laughing at me.

"Yeah, how about no," I said, irritated. "Not my scene."

"Okay," I heard the rustling of paper, and then Keith clearing his throat. "Well, I hope you're fully awake now because I have about fifty billion more offers for you. Modeling jobs, endorsement contracts... oh, hey look at this, somebody wants to give you half a million to come to their club opening," Keith said. He couldn't keep the delighted sounding giggle out of his voice.

"Hey, Keith?" I interrupted him. "How about no?"

"To which one?"

"To all of them. I'm not a model. I'm a drummer." I really fucking needed to get that forehead tattoo.

"You can say no to anything you want, baby. I'm just not really sure people will want to hear it."

"What you mean?"

Keith sighed, and I heard the creak of his desk chair as he sat back on it. "Here's the thing, I get it. You and I, we've been working together a while now. I get you. You're a behind-the-scenes guy, and all this attention...." He trailed off into silence, making wonder what he was going to say before he thought better of it. "Yeah I get it. It's got to be fucking with your head." His desk chair creaked again. "But Low, you got to listen to me, baby. You have
got
to take
control
of your image. You're a commodity now, your popularity has gotten wildly out of hand. If you don't rein it in by saying yes to one or more of these offers, then... well let's just say your image won't be yours anymore."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I demanded. A creeping, crawling, sliding sensation inside of my stomach was making me feel ill.

"I'm saying, if people want you, people are going to have you, one way or another. You can either give it to them on your terms or give them nothing and risk them taking whatever they can get. And if they
take
it, well, then it's out of your hands."

"What's
it
?"

"Your image."

"I don't
have
an
image
," I seethed. Fuck, I sounded like a petulant child. I looked down and saw that I had balled up the sheets into my fist.

"Then they'll give you one. They'll dig around your personal life for scraps and they'll craft an image
for
you. Then they'll hold it up to the world as
the real Lowell Stowe.
" Keith paused. "And if they do that, I can guarantee it won't look like anything like the person you think you are."

So my manager was resorting to scare tactics now. "I think you're being really fucking paranoid," I scoffed. "Do you really want your cut this bad, Keith? I thought you were better than this."

"Listen, I've seen it happen before." Never had I heard Keith sounding so earnest, and that scared me a little. "These meteoric rises, when suddenly someone becomes the 'it guy,' or 'it girl,' or... whatever, 'it couple.' Some people, like say the Kardashians, they know how to work it, how to keep in the public eye, and have it be on their terms. Other people, like more than I can count, they
don't
know how to play the game, and the end result is that the
game
plays
them
. They get washed up, chewed up, spit out, and are left as nothing more than a punchline when the game is over."

I took a deep breath but the knot in my chest wouldn't release. It only gripped me tighter. "I didn't want this," I told Keith. "I never wanted this."

"Yeah, but you've got it now. So how are you going to deal with it?"

"I'll let you know," I said. Then I hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

Something I've never done before.

I needed to clear my fucking head. A run was the only thing that stood a chance of giving me clarity. But there had been paparazzi camped out across the street from my building for weeks now, ever since the ad went viral. And those fuckers would follow me and get in my way.

There was no way I was getting a good sweat in if I stayed in my neighborhood. I needed to go run somewhere...normal. Someplace where I could blend in and be a regular guy.

I grabbed my keys and headed downstairs to the garage. With any luck, I could leave without anyone seeing me and giving chase.

Fuck this rising star bullshit
, I thought, leaning back in the driver's seat. A fleeting, wistful thought scudded across my consciousness. It was useless to regret the past and the decisions you made, I believed this with all of my heart. I only looked forward. The past was too fucked up to be worth a second glance.

But still, I thought, I liked my life before this ad took it over.

I want things to go back the way they were
.

But then I'd never have met Zoe.

But I'm going break that off.

When was I going to do that?

Soon. As soon as possible. As soon as I can.

As soon as I am able to.