Page 12 of The Ex-Best Thing
This isn’t a fun game. “Shoot, I think my wifi is tripping.” I move my laptop screen up and down a few times. “Better let you go.”
“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Justin says through frustrated laughter. “Call me tomorrow, Ben.”
“How about you count on it being a no, and I’ll call you if I change my mind.” I end the call to the sound of Justin’s laugher and close the computer all the way. Leaning back in my seat, I rub my eyes. There has been no favoritism here. If I’ve written more for Bree, it’s because she always wants my songs, and I like how they sound when she sings them. She doesn’t know I’m the guy behind the pseudonym, so it means nothing. My anonymity is airtight. My mom doesn’t even know I do this. She thinks I buy and sell houses all the time and sit around playing music no one will ever hear.
Little does she know, she hears a few of my songs every day when she goes to the grocery store or the bank or turns on theradio. They’re just being sung by a half-dozen of America’s hottest stars.
There are a slew of awards in my closet to prove it, too, but they will continue gathering dust there forever.
I’m waiting until I have ten so I can bowl with them. I’m almost there.
But none of that solves my immediate dilemma. It’s been twenty-four hours since I’ve spoken to Bree, and I’m itching to walk next door and check on her. We haven’t seen each other in ten years, and now I can’t go one day without searching for an excuse to pop in and make sure she has enough to eat? I feel like Grandma when Colby had his appendix removed. She was at his house for every meal, making sure he was eating, drinking, and healing properly.
Bree is here because she needs to heal from something, obviously. Big, famous pop stars rarely hide away for no reason. If she needs to heal, she needs food—if Grandma taught me anything, it’s that.
Maybe I’ll text Bree. I have her number. That’s not weird.
I pull out my phone and write a message.
Benny
Have you eaten lunch?
Bree
No. I was thinking of walking down to the fish and chips place
Okay, bad move, Benjamin Rhodes. Now she’ll expect me to join her. I can’t tell her I’ve already eaten when Ijustasked her if she’s had lunch. I can’t go with her, because…I’m feeling confused. The distance is good. We aren’t friends.
My phone starts ringing. Panic shoots my pulse into overdrive until I see Colby’s name flash across the screen: my cousin, who got work photographing with elitist magazineThe Architectural Journalfor a book collaboration. He’s renting out hishouse while he’s traveling. I help manage his Airbnb occasionally, since he’s often in remote areas with no reception.
“Your current tenant is a piece of work,” I tell him, going to my kitchen for some water.
“Hello to you too. How’s the weather back home?”
“Colby.”
“Ben.”
I inhale. “Weather’s nice. Mid-seventies and sunny. Your house is fine. The guest tried to break into my house at one in the morning, so that was fun.”
“Sorry, man. Any damages? I’ll cover them.”
Do damages to my mental state count? I’d rather not clue him in on those. He’ll worry about me. I breathe out. “Nah, it was a misunderstanding.”
“Beats my weekend, then. I was the last one in the car park at an abandoned ruin out here and they locked the gates. Completely shut me in, man. I had to sleep in my car. But I did get a killer shot of the sunrise.”
“Are we sure theJournalshould trust you with this project? You’re liable to send in images of Paris, Texas when they ask for the Eiffel Tower.”
“Joke’s on you. I’ve shot in France already and they didn’t want anything related to Paris.”
I pull out a cup and fill it with ice water from the fridge. “Where are you now?”
“Italy. Should I call the guests?” Colby asks. “Are they upset?’
The way he’s asking puts to rest the brief thought I had that he might know who his guest actually is. “No, we worked it out. But it’s weird to wake up in the middle of the night to a woman climbing through my window because she thinks she’s locked out of her rental.”
“Sounds more like a fantasy than a nightmare, man.”
