The Way Back Home (11 page)

“How does stuff like that make you feel?” Jase asks softly.

“Oh, like a million bucks,” I say sarcastically. “Thanks so much for your concern.”

“Come on, you have to have seen stuff like that before.”

I dab under my eyelids. “I'm actually telling you the truth when I say I try to avoid it. Nobody around here mentions that stuff. We keep it positive. My
core group
, people who actually hate to see me upset, shield me from as much of this garbage as they can.”

“Speaking of your ‘core group,'” she goes on, in full attack mode, “what really happened with your dad? Why isn't he your manager anymore?” This is definitely not the Jase who's been on tour with me the past few days, and I'm not only fed up right now, but also a little hurt.

“Because it's a lot of work and he decided to put his family first,” I answer hotly.

“‘Family first'?” she repeats. “Then why isn't he here? Who's watching over his teenage daughter?”

“I'm eighteen years old, Jase,” I say, frustrated. “You moved to freaking New York City when you weren't much older, remember? I'm an adult and Dylan's here—”

“To hook up with your best friend,” she cuts in.

I pause and take a very deep breath. I remember dealing with Kayelee Ford last year at the New Year's Eve party, how I let her goad me, how I let her win. I do not want to lose my cool with this reporter.

I collect myself.

It is difficult.

“Dylan is here,” I repeat slowly, “to play in the band and help me out if I need anything. Not to babysit, but so that I'll have family if I need it. As for my father,” I continue, “he
is
putting family first. His own father broke his hip, and as much as it killed him, he and my mom decided to stay in Tennessee and help Granddad get back on his feet. They meet me on the road all the time and will be joining me again at the next stop actually.” Unable to bite my tongue, I give her a fake smile and add, “They would've come sooner, but it's been cramped quarters around here lately with our
Rolling Stone
VIP.”

Ignoring me, she plows forward. “Do you ever wonder if your ‘core group,' as you call them, might be using you? You know, for jobs, money, fame, whatever.”

“What?” I ask. “No.”

“Being in Bird Barrett's entourage is a pretty good gig,” she says.

“They're my family.”

“And you've always said that your family is very close,” Jase continues.

“Yes.”

“Do you think you'd be this close if your younger brother hadn't died?”

“Yes.”

“Care to talk more about that?”

“No.”

“Do you think he'd look up to you if he were still alive?”

“I like to think so.”

“Even with all the catfights you've had with Kayelee Ford?” she presses. “You think he'd admire the fact that you dropped one of your best friends, Devyn Delaney, because she tried to befriend your nemesis?”

I look at her like she's crazy. “First of all, do not even dare to tie the death of my little brother to a stupid spat with a celebrity. That's base and it's vile, and I thought you were better than that,” I snap. “And secondly, get your facts straight,
reporter
, because that's not at all what happened. The only reason I don't see Devyn anymore is because I've been really busy—maybe you've noticed that I'm headlining a
national tour
—and when I am in LA, I don't have time for that party lifestyle. As far as Kayelee Ford is concerned, I have absolutely no ill will toward her. I have no idea how this weird feud got started, although I can tell you that it's been sustained by questions like these. Those girls party, I don't, otherwise we'd hang out. Maybe we will after this tour, but for now, I couldn't even go to any VMA after parties because I had to get back on the road.”

“No time to party, huh?” Jase asks, amused. How can she look so unruffled when I feel like I could explode?

“I work a lot,” I say through clenched teeth.

“And you're too good for that anyway, right?”

I take a deep breath. “It's not something I would make a priority.”

“Interesting,” she muses smugly as she pulls up the photo album on her iPad. “That's not what Colton Holley had to say.” I look at her quizzically. “I contacted him when I saw some photos of the two of you. At a casino? In Vegas? Admittedly, they were grainy, but he confirmed the two of you partied well into the night, although he sadly confessed that you did not make it to his penthouse.”

I am fuming now.

“But he did send me a couple of these pictures.” She swipes the iPad screen as images of Colton and me appear. I look pretty, but in one I am red-faced and sipping from a daiquiri, in another I am screaming as I cheer at the roulette table, and in the worst pic, I look like I'm in love as I snuggle against Colton for an ussie. “Obviously we won't use these because we're
Rolling Stone
and not
InTouch
. But after denying that you're a party girl and selling the world on your goody-goody image, now what would you say to the haters?”

“I'd tell them that maybe I'm not as sweet as everybody thinks I am,” I snap. Then I stand up and point toward the door. “And off the record, Jase, I'd politely but firmly tell them to get the hell out.”

A
NITA
'
S GOING TO
kill me. Anita's going to kill me. Anita's going to kill me.

For the past hour and a half, I have been lying on my bed with my arms over my eyes, replaying the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad interview that just went down and the mixed expression of surprise, satisfaction, and even admiration from Jaded Jase as she scooped up her bag and left my hotel room. “See you at the shoot tomorrow,” she called smugly as the door slammed closed behind her. She's probably on her way to the
Rolling Stone
offices right now, taking notes on how all the haters are right about me.

I look over at my own iPad on the bed next to me and feel tears well up in my eyes. I made the mistake of Googling “Bird Barrett Hate Sites,” and there were so many that I got upset all over again. People hate me. People literally hate me. They don't even know me, but they want me to die or drink their urine or get blown up in the next terrorist attack.
Who are these people? What did I ever do to them?

Tears stream down the sides of my face before I can stop them.

And my music. I work so hard on my music.

“Bird?” Adam calls from the living room.

Quickly, I sit up and wipe my face with my shirtsleeve. “What are you doing here?” I call.

“I came back for a heavier coat,” he says, walking toward the bedroom, “but I must've grabbed the wrong key card earlier. I somehow got yours.”

“Oh.”

“We called and texted, but finally Stella and Dylan just went ahead and got in line and I thought I'd come back and pull you away—” He stops short when he sees my face, and his own looks really worried as he sits down on the bed beside me. “Hey, what's wrong?”

I start crying full out and lean against his chest, his arms wrapping around me immediately. “I messed up, Adam,” I sob. “I just messed up so bad and Anita's going to kill me and Dan's going to be so mad and my fans—” I stop, taking a deep breath, before just crying harder. “My fans are going to hate me!”

“Bird,” he whispers. He shushes me, rocks me, and runs his fingers through my hair as I cry against his chest. “When you can,” he says quietly, “tell me what happened.”

I sniff, lean back, and reach over for a box of tissues. I hate that I'm crying like this in front of Adam, but at the same time, I love that he's here. “Ugh, I feel so stupid,” I say. “I let her get to me. It was just like when I lost my temper with Kayelee on New Year's, and I'm so mad at myself. I try so hard to be nice to everybody, but when somebody pushes me and pushes me and pushes me, I explode.”

He nods.

“And this reporter,” I spit out. I blow my nose and shake my head. “She acted so cool this whole time. I'm following her on Instagram and everything, and I thought, you know, we might even stay in touch. But it's like she was just reeling me in. Like, ‘This isn't an interview, Bird, you idiot. This is just a bunch of friends hanging out on tour for a few days.' And then, bam! She sits me down a while ago and shows me all these hate sites about me and mean tweets and memes and—” I exhale loudly. I take a shaky breath and go on. “I know I shouldn't care what people think about me, but I do. It hurts. They don't know how hard I work and how much I care about my music or what it was like to lose my brother and then ask my family to give up the one thing that kept us together during the worst time of our lives. They don't know anything, but they spew all this venom and—I don't get it.”

Adam nods, his eyes filled with real concern.

“Why?” I ask, my eyes filling with fresh tears. “Why do they hate me, Adam?”

He gives me a small grin and kisses my temple. “Nobody hates you, Lady Bird,” he says sweetly. “You're un-hate-able.”

I scoff. “Not according to the I Hate Bird Barrett Facebook page,” I say bitterly.

“You can't read that stuff,” he says when I reach for my iPad. He turns it facedown and grabs my hands. “You can't let pathetic trolls—cowards who hide behind their computer screens at night—do this to you. You just can't let them. There are people out there who are so miserable that they're not happy unless someone else is miserable. They are broken and bruised and scarred, and the only way they can cope with the depressing lives they are forced to live is to try to bring other people down with them.”

He is staring at me so intently that I finally nod. “I know,” I say softly.

“You can't let broken people break you.”

I sniff and reach for another tissue, letting his words sink in. “I like that,” I say. “You're right.”

“Good,” he says. “Now what's this reporter's home address? I need to go egg her house.”

“Adam!”

“Come on,” he says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. He is grinning from ear to ear. “Wouldn't that be fun?”

“It'd be awesome,” I admit.

I smile over at him, his face right next to mine, his impossibly long lashes low as his face softens. “I really want to kiss you right now, Lady Bird.”

I gulp. “You should,” I say quietly.

And so Adam leans in, his hand tightening around my shoulder as he draws closer, and I shut my eyes. His lips are so soft and perfect against mine that when our mouths meet my whole body melts into his as he pulls me near. It's not our first kiss, but it's gentle, it's sweet, and it's been a long time coming. My heart isn't skipping; my pulse isn't racing. My whole body is relaxed, comfortable, and content, like this is the person I was born to kiss. He pulls away a little, rubs his nose against the side of mine, and lays his forehead against my own. “Bird, I've wanted to do that again since that first time in my truck and every single time I've seen you since that day.”

I pull back some and look him right in the eyes. “I was hoping you'd give us another chance,” I admit softly. “With the tour and my schedule being so crazy—my life hasn't gotten any
less
complicated—I wasn't sure you'd want to try again.”

“Oh, I do want to try again,” he says, kissing me. “And again,” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. “And again.” He kisses both cheeks.

I laugh. “I was talking about ‘us,' but this works, too.”

Then Adam scrunches up his face and pulls away. He licks his tongue on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Oh, there's every girl's dream come true,” I say sarcastically.

“No.” He laughs. “I love kissing you, Bird. It's just—your makeup's smudged all over your cheeks and that last kiss…”

I grab a tissue and stand up, horrified after I run to the bathroom mirror and see my reflection. “I look like a zombie!”

“A cute zombie,” he calls.

I turn on the water and grab my face wash, chagrined that Adam finally kissed me on the day I have mascara streaming down my cheeks and a runny nose. This is what Hollywood always gets wrong. The major moments are never flawless.

When I turn the water off, I hear music as I grab for a towel. I dry my face and apply some moisturizer, smiling as Adam picks out a melody on my guitar that I've never heard before.

“That's pretty,” I remark, walking back to the bed.

He nods and grins up at me. “I think there may be a song in this room.” He stops playing and passes me my iPad. The only app open now is Notes, where he's typed, “Broken People.”

“‘You can't let broken people break you,'” I say, repeating what he told me earlier.

He starts to play again and I nod my head, feeling the notes wrap around me like a warm hug. I start typing quick phrases, images flooding my brain as he strums, and I feel power in responding to the hate that had me in its grip before Adam walked in. Adam: this boy who's like my mirror image in so many ways.

There
is
a song in this room, one beating against my rib cage, one that we're going to write together.