Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85135 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
I feel my heart open its tightly locked door, just an inch, and sunshine billows in. Could it be this easy to be with someone who isn’t Matt?
It’s only a few months since we split. I shouldn’t even be thinking about anything but licking my wounds, but Beau makes it so…straightforward, almost like everything before him was complicated—tangled ropes and string—and he’s here, slicing through everything, making everyone around him feel foolish to think life was anything but effortless.
The way he sees the world gives me hope that this is how easy life could be.
“I’m thinking this is wonderful,” I say.
His eyes twinkle. “Good.”
I slide my gaze around the walls, taking in the canvasses. “Can we walk? I want to see up close.”
“Of course. Which way first?”
I’m drawn to a picture of a group of dancers. One ballerina toward the left of the canvas is reaching down to fix her shoe. “This way. This one is so pretty.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about art, as much as I’d like to impress you with my encyclopedic knowledge. But we can have a curator come and talk to us about some paintings if you like?”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. I pull it out to see Tommy’s name on the screen. I roll my eyes and silence the call, then turn it off.
“Your manager again?” Beau asks.
I nod my head, my eyes still fixed on the ballerina.
“He really wants to speak to you.”
I groan. He does. He’s emailed me twice today as well. He sent me the list of possible fake boyfriends yesterday, and I know he wants me to narrow it down so he can start approaching people. “I split up with my high school boyfriend recently,” I say. “We were engaged. Tommy wants me to pick a new boyfriend—a fake boyfriend—so when I do my press tour, people don’t fixate on my breakup. He sent me a list.”
“He sent you a list of boyfriends?”
I glance up at Beau and he looks confused. It must sound ridiculous to him.
“Tommy and my label think it would be good for me to be dating someone new when I start to promote my new album. He wants to get the ball rolling.”
“Wow. I don’t know what to say.”
Beau must think he’s entered some kind of alternate universe. “It’s going to be a setup. There’ll be a contract, a set period of time where we’ll agree to be seen dating each other.”
“So an entirely faked relationship?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I turn back to the painting. It’s like a tour photographer has taken a candid shot backstage. The painting isn’t posed at all. The ballerinas are backstage, either midway through a performance or at the end, waiting for their curtain call. They’re not focused on the person observing them, painting them. They are in their own heads, thinking about what they just did well, what they should have done better. What they’re going to do next—which parts of their bodies hurt. Some look exhausted, others seem bored.
“I love this,” I say. “It feels…authentic. Like the artist sees these women as they are, rather than trying to capture an idealized version of a ballet dancer.”
Beau follows my gaze. “Yeah, I can see that. It’s not the dancers the audience of the ballet see.”
I nod. “Which is the person onstage giving a show. These are the women underneath the costumes.” I have a lot in common with them.
I can feel the weight of his stare on me and I turn to him. We lock eyes, but he doesn’t say anything.
He gets it.
“Do you enjoy performing?” he asks.
“I like smaller shows. Not big tours where it’s night after night, you’re required to slip on this mask and make the audience feel something. I’ve only done a couple of huge tours in my life and at the end…this is going to sound stupid…”
I hesitate because Matt didn’t like me to complain about…really anything. I understand—my life is incredibly fortunate. I never have to worry about money. Both Matt and I come from families who are comfortable but by no means wealthy. I know I don’t ever have to work again in the way my parents had to work to keep a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs when I was growing up. But sometimes, even with enormous wealth, I find the life I’ve chosen for myself challenging.
“I want to hear,” he says.
“I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining. I’m really not.”
“It’s okay, Vivian. Tell me how you feel.”
I glance at him and can tell he really wants to know what I’m thinking. It feels so unusual that he would be interested, but I don’t doubt his authenticity for a second. I take in a deep breath. “It can sometimes feel like you’ve forgotten who you are. And then when the tour comes to an end, there’s a huge…hole, where you’ve stopped doing something that completely dominated your life. It’s easy to feel a sense of loss and relief at the same time.”