Page 53 of Hidden with a Rockstar
Jani calls that night.
“Okay, sis,” she says, “someone sent me a photo. Rhonda Mars, outside a cinema, with a woman whose coat I’m almost certain I’ve seen on my little sister.”
I close my eyes.
“Jani—”
“I’m confused, and butt hurt, and mostly I just want to know if my baby sister is secretly seeing the bassist of the Belladonnas.”
“It might be,” I say. It’s the most I’ve admitted to anyone. “It might be that. I can’t talk about it yet, Jani. I’m not ready. Please.”
There’s a pause, and then she says, “Okay. When you’re ready, I’m here. And Lena? Whoever she is—if she’s good to you, I don’t care what jacket she wears on a stage.”
I hang up and cry.
That evening, my phone buzzes. A notification from Instagram. Someone has tagged Rhonda in a photo. Rooftop bar. Low lighting. The booking agent from last month standing close. The booking agent's hand is on Rhonda's arm—casual and possessive and intimate. Rhonda's body language is polite.
It feels like a slap I’ve been bracing for and somehow still didn’t see coming.
I zoom in on the booking agent's fingernails—red, expensive-looking—digging into the fabric of Rhonda's sleeve. The sleeve is black. Rhonda wore that shirt to my apartment last week.
I open my messages app and send her a text.
Can we talk?
I call her.
"I saw the photo," I say.
"What photo?"
"The one from the rooftop. You and a woman."
Silence.
"That was nothing," Rhonda says. "She's a booking agent. She was just networking."
"Her hand is on your arm."
"People touch each other at networking events."
"Not like that they don't."
"Lena—"
"You know what? No. Don't Lena me. Being private is one thing." My voice is steady. "But me being invisible is another.”
"I'm not making you invisible."
"Yes, you are. The worst part is that I can't tell you to cut it out. I can't saythat's my girlfriend, back off.I can't claim you, do you know how much that hurts? I can't tell people what we are.I can't tell my best friend that I'm in love with someone. I can't post a photo. Officially, you're single. But for me, I don't exist."
"Lena—"
"That photo is going to end up on someone's story. Someone's going to screenshot it. The music blogs are going to pick it up. And I can't even say anything about it. I can't stake a claim. I can't be the person in that photo with you. I have to sit at home and watch other women flirt with you."
"This isn’t fair."
"What's not fair?"
