Brendon knocks at my door.

        Movies never feel like real life. They're manufactured dreams brought to life so we can pretend they're achievable realities. I've never been fooled by the idea that my life could ever resemble a movie, and, as such, use them as a way to escape my own for a few hours at a time.

        But movies are supercuts of the best parts of life we find solace in because, whether we choose to believe it or not, they are very much reflections of reality. I learned that on a larger scale when we played at Madison Square Garden or saw our names up high on a screen at the Grammys. Those are all moments I've replayed a million times over in my dreams.

        I've also learned it in the smaller moments. Cheesy as it may be, opening my hotel room door to see Brendon leaning against the frame as he waits for me feels like a moment plucked straight out of a movie. And, without realizing it, I've written myself into this screenplay.

        "You look nice," he comments without letting his eyes travel down my body.

        "Thanks." I tuck my hair behind my ear and open the door so he can come inside. "I'm almost ready."

        Brendon takes a seat and flinches when Lauren's voice makes a surprise appearance.

         I forgot she was still on the call.

        "Is that Bash?"

        He smiles. "Is that Lauren?"

        "You actually have great timing. How long does your race thing go on for?"

        "First race is beginning of next month and the season goes until December."

        Since I'm running out of time, I rush to the bathroom and spritz dry shampoo in my hair. The two of them continue their conversation while I finish up.

        "Shucks. So you wouldn't, perhaps, be free sometime in the summer?" she asks.

        He hesitates. "We have a summer break but it's usually in August. We don't race every week, though." Brendon pauses. "Are you... planning something?"

        "We were just going over possible album release dates," Lauren relates. "And, you know, album release parties. All that stuff."

        "Depends on the weekend but if I'm free—"

        "Great!" Lauren interrupts. "Stevie will fill you in when we have an official date."

        "Sounds like a plan," he says.

        After a final check, I exit the bathroom and walk over to him, a trail of gardenia notes following behind me.

        "I gotta go, we're heading out to Mav's show," I tell her. "Hopefully he's not late this time."

        Lauren laughs. "Best of luck."

...

Maverick is late.

        While it's not as big as Madison Square Garden, it's still a decently sized crowd, and even though they've been sitting here waiting too long for him, the excitement still sits in the air.

        "I can't believe I already lost," I grumble into Brendon's ear. The poster board I'm holding under my jacket digs into my side and I shift it to a comfortable position.

        Like clockwork, the lights dim at the same time the music crescendoes into silence signaling our special guest's arrival. The three of us stand to get a better view of the stage and watch as the opening notes of I Liked Us Before The Lyrics Said So float across the stage and into the audience. Everyone cheers and I turn to watch Everleigh as Maverick jumps onto the stage. Her face breaks into a smile as she claps, cheering his name.

        While I'm an innocent bystander in the development of Everleigh and Maverick, I feel a sense of pride in helping facilitate her seeing him for the first time in concert. Music means a lot of things to different people, but to me, it's the ultimate language of love, and these two understand it better than most.

        "Hey, New York!" Maverick calls out from the stage after his first song ends. "Sorry about being so late. Lights were acting up."

        Everleigh and I both groan in sync while handing Brendon his hard-earned cash. "You win this round, Ellis."

        "Do you mean me or the baby?"

        I hold my hand to my mouth while Everleigh leans over. "Not your stepdaughter this time!"

        Looking back toward the stage, my eyes connect with Maverick's. His eyes flash with recognition over what's happening, and he shakes his head in a mixture of disappointment and humor. I pull out the poster board I managed to snag from the hotel lobby on my way up from lunch this afternoon. I do my best to hold it up high so he'll be able to see it on stage, but Brendon has to help me since he's got the height advantage.

        Maverick squints to read and lets out a snort-laugh seeing "LATE AS ALWAYS" in big, bold letters.

        "Yeah," he laughs, "that's fair." Maverick tears his eyes away and looks out at the crowd of adoring fans. "What do we think, new song for making you wait so long?"

        The crowd erupts into a roar.

        "Took you long enough, bitch!" I shout.

        Maverick turns to the accompanying musicians playing backup before the melody rings out around us. Some songs creep up on us slowly, taking their time to settle into our chests, but I can tell from the first few seconds that this is an instant hit. It isn't until the lyrics unravel that I realize how much weight the song carries.

Green light, perfect night / 'bout to tell you I love you /
Cut me off before I could say it / made me think, shit /
Did I read the room wrong? / Thought we were on the same page /
Now I'm feeling strange / God, babe, please say I'm not wrong

Never been to Carnaby street / fly around, keep me on my feet /
Don't even know where in England you're from / London, Oxford, or maybe Kingston /
No, wait, that's me / you're the only one to use the G-O-V-T /
Somehow it's better coming from you—

Ever leave a flight and wish you'd got back on? /
The world keeps turning as I write you this song /
Never felt so strong / Want you along for the ride /
Why don't we step inside? / Now a mile high flier /
On a trial by fire / Yeah, you got me fucked up

        Maverick is not subtle.

        I brave a glance to the side but Everleigh is fixated on the stage, or, more specifically, on the bozo singing his heart out. Because music is the ultimate love language and all that. This isn't a conversation I'm willing to interrupt.

        The three of us enjoy the rest of the concert. Even though Everleigh and I joke around about never listening to his music, we sing along to every single word. I even dance with the pair of girls sitting in front of us who look back during the concert and recognize me. Thankfully, they promise not to draw too much attention. I can't help but smile when they even give Brendon a thumbs up saying they're rooting for him to win the World Drivers' Championship next season.

        Since Maverick said it was okay to come backstage, we make our way to the security checkpoint. I recognize one of the guards from a previous show and make small talk before they let us through.

        Skipping ahead of the other two, I laugh.

"Musician privileges are so fun!"

         A black curtain separates the backstage area and since I make it there first, I pull it back, ready to walk through, when something unexpected appears in front of me.

        There, off to the side, is Maverick with his arms wrapped around Rhylan, his ex-fiancee.

        Spinning on my feet, I yank the curtains shut. Judging by how preoccupied Maverick and Rhylan are, they don't notice me.

        "Uh—" What follows is another example of why I'm never winning an Academy Award. "Did someone accidentally leave their phone by the seats? I just remembered seeing something on the ground—"

        Everleigh gives me a funny look. Brendon picks up on the nervousness of my tone and panicked expression.

He's also not winning any acting awards, but he makes a valiant effort to help distract Everleigh.

        "Look at that, my shoe's untied. Can't take me anywhere. Wait up." He bends down and unties the strings before Everleigh takes notice.

        Everleigh barely spares him a glance, shooting me a questioning look instead. I laugh nervously and shrug.

        She impatiently walks toward me, and since I'm half her size I can't do anything to stop her. My shoulders tense in preparation for the messiness about to unfold. Brendon straightens, equally as distressed, even if he has no idea why.

        "That's...interesting."

        Everleigh is stoic, her words coming out flat and neutral. On the surface, she appears unbothered, but even I know this is anything but the truth. And I can't quite explain why, but it hurts. Hurts to see her hurt. While I'm not privy to the details of their relationship, I assume Everleigh isn't the type of person that opens up to just anyone. And if Maverick has become as significant enough of a fixture in her life to warrant meeting her parents, even by however goofy means he orchestrated himself, it's worth something.

        "I—uh—"

         If Rami were here, he'd be the angel on my shoulder telling me to calm down because it's none of my business. These are three adults in their own relationships that have nothing to do with me.

        But, hell, I'm the kind of person that leads with my heart, and the flash of irritation guides me forward until I drag him off to the side, leaving Rhylan awkwardly standing there and the other two doing god knows what.

        "Kingston John Maverick." I push him forward where he stumbles a few steps. "What the fuck are you doing?"

        "I—look, I didn't know she was—It was a surprise—"

        "You knew Everleigh was here!" Decorum, who? If Maverick can't be subtle, neither will I. "And who said you had to make out with her just for showing up unannounced?"

        Checking off another box on my list of reasons why men are never allowed into my shows for free, he replies, "I didn't mean to—"

        "I didn't mean to shove my tongue down my ex-fiancee's throat, your honor," I reply mockingly. "I'm innocent. Bullshit."

        "Stevie—"

        "I can't believe you." Maverick retreats. A scared animal trapped in a corner, making me the apex predator out for blood. "I'm really about to give Wolf of Wallstreet a run for its money with how many times I'm about to scream 'fuck' at you."

        He shakes his head. "I don't know what you want me to say."

        "I really want to know what was going through your mind when you thought kissing Rhylan backstage at a concert that your current whatever Everleigh is also at was a good idea. Especially when that new song was clearly about her, you fuckin' spoon. Not even a good spoon. A fuckin' spork. Nobody likes sporks."

        His expression shuts down. Maverick has left the building. Part of me feels a bit of guilt creeping in, but it rushes out of me as soon as he opens his mouth again.

        "Kettles and pots, man...."

         It halts me in place. "Excuse me?"

        "It's...not worth it. Never mind."

        "No, you already said it. Out with it."

   "It's—You know, there's something to be said about kissing the wrong person. Or other."

         My brain rattles against its cage. There's a distinct aftertaste of disdain in his words, but the root cause of it slips past me undetected until I give it a second thought. Picking up on his choice of words, my brain is rewired into overdrive with the worst possible destination plugged into the GPS.

        "I know you're not about to say what I think you're gonna say."

        "It's—I'm not saying kettles and pots, but..."

       "Use your big boy words, Kingston."

        His eyes flash with something. A hint of regret, but he's on an upward trajectory even he's unable to turn away from. Maybe this is the time when I take back everything and excuse myself, let them work things out themselves. Maybe this is when I realize I'm not the one who should be pushing him.

        "Those photos really looked bad, Stevie."

        It's not like he knows. Is there ever a good time for me to phone a friend and tell them I was accosted in a club about pictures some sleazy paparazzi took of me and some guy months ago in Melbourne?

        But even without context, it's a shitty thing to bring up. And red floods every sense without a fighting chance of making it out of there with a clean slate.

        I don't know what comes over me, but without realizing what I'm doing, my hand flies up and smacks his cheek, leaving a tinge of red behind and staining him with my anger. My eyes widen for a second at what I've just done, but it's not something I can take back. And maybe it makes me a shitty friend but I'm not sure I want to.

        "Oh, fuck you, Kingston."

        "I don't—No, that was low." His features twist, but I'm too angry to care. Not even just at him. At the rest of the world. At nothing in particular. Maybe at me for allowing myself to be this vulnerable. "I'm sorry—"

        Stepping forward, I jab my finger into his chest. This time, he doesn't back away, because there's no room for him to move but also because he's already wishing he could take it back. For my own sake, I wish I hadn't pulled him aside. If this is to be his own mess to clean up, let me leave without turning into one myself.

        "For your information, that happened way before Brendon and I started hanging out more. And you have some goddamn nerve bringing up pictures of my privacy being invaded by some stalker getting paid to sell those pictures to the highest bidder. I did not invite anyone to take pictures of me. You, however, knew we were here and coming backstage. You fucked up and now you're deflecting your mistake onto me and that's a shit move."

        "You're right, I'm sorry."

        "Sorry doesn't take back what you said or make me feel better about the fact that someone accosted me in a club and slut-shamed me for those pictures. You should be way better than that."

        It's not his fault that guy said any of those things to me, not his responsibility. But I can't help it. This gnawing feeling bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to burst out of my chest since the flight over, and even before that.

        "Someone what?" he asks, eyes wide.

        Before the angry tears can spill over, I back away. "I'm not doing this."

         I storm back toward the group staring at us, aware of the dreaded slap. Embarrassment runs so rampantly through my entire body I can't bear to look at either of them. Instead, I turn to Rhylan, still struck with shock.

        "Good luck with him. You're gonna need it."

        Wordlessly, the three of us return back to where we came from at a much quicker pace. A bunch of bandits running away from a fight. Or so it feels. Something feels wrong about leaving Maverick there, but I don't stop myself and nobody else cares to give that suggestion.

        To our bitter luck, paparazzi are waiting outside for us. Even in New York City, the idea a lead singer, Formula One driver, and mystery headline darling can get away unscathed is a fallacy. Brendon does his best to shield me, taking the brunt of their blinding flashes and careless words. All of their questions blur together until it's a jumbled mess.

         "Are the rumors true?"

        "Rumors?" Everleigh asks. A mistake I should have warned her about but is too late now. Feed those dogs a bone and they'll take your entire rotting body with it.

        "Relationship rumors. Between you and Maverick!"

        "I am definitely not dating Maverick." The last name sticks out like a sore thumb. A sore thumb that she's not stitching up for nobody. It's practically screaming 'bleed your fucking heart out, Maverick.' "Thanks."

        Everleigh is too stoic to do anything and I don't blame her. I'm a blubbering mess that's trying (and failing) to keep myself together. Brendon is tasked with hailing us a taxi, his arm still wrapped around my shoulders. Once we escape, it's silent the entire ride back to our hotel. I only look up at him for a split second, and he's begging for someone to say anything, but I can't find the words, and I'm not sure we want to hear any from Everleigh at this point.

        By the time we make it inside the lobby, I've stopped crying but my face is all red and blotchy.

        Everleigh gingerly grips my bicep to keep me back. As I turn around, I catch a glimpse of Brendon continuing and sitting on one of the chairs off to the side.

        "Stevie, can I do anything to help? Right now? I'm so sorry that he's an ass—"

        "I'm—" An involuntary sniffle. "I'm fine. He was in shock. He didn't mean to say any of that."

        "Doesn't mean you have to be okay with it," she says. Nurse Meadowlark to the rescue.

        "I don't know, that slap felt pretty good. Hopefully he doesn't change his mind and press charges. Marty will be mad." I try to laugh but the sound comes out strangled.

        "He wouldn't. It's okay." Everleigh makes her own strained sort of laugh. "Slap looked pretty good from what I saw."

        I groan into my palms, shielding my face from the rest of the world. "I can't believe I did that. I don't usually slap people, I promise. That's so embarrassing."

        Everleigh steps closer. "I don't really know what he said, but he probably deserved it. If probably means definitely and definitely means thank you for trying to help."

        "I just—I don't know how to say this delicately." I can't exactly spell it out her right in the middle of the hotel lobby, nor is this where I want to explain why I slapped him. I settle for beating around the bush. "But I didn't want you to see him. You shouldn't have had to see that. And I know it's not my business but I was just mad."

        "I'm an adult," Everleigh replies. "And his actions aren't your fault. Thank you for trying. Genuinely."

        Just when I think we're in the clear, my heart shatters into a million pieces when a tiny tear slips down Everleigh's cheek. She tries to wipe it away quickly but seeing even the most minuscule of cracks in an otherwise tough facade is something easily spotted.

        Without thinking, I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her tight and wishing I could take the pain away. "That was a shitty end to the weekend. I'm sorry."

        She stills. "Still not your fault."

        I pull away. If I could, I'd smooth all of the worried lines away. "Are you gonna be okay tonight?"

        "I'll be fine. Yeah. Don't worry about me."

         "Okay." I nod. "Okay, yeah. You should get some rest for your flight tomorrow. Meet for coffee before you leave?"

        Everleigh nods. "My treat?"

        "Sure." A quick glance reminds me Brendon is still waiting. "Goodnight, Everleigh. Please get some sleep."

         "You too, lovely."

        Everleigh waves as she walks to the other end of the hotel where her elevator is. Brendon and I veer in the opposite direction, walking slowly next to each other, still not saying anything. Honestly, I'm not in the mood to talk. Not really in the mood to think about anything.

        When we get to our floor, Brendon stops next to his door. Without thinking, probably on either of our ends, he gestures to his room and I follow him. My moves become robotic, a numb feeling taking over. I try to stop replaying those comments from the club but it's a broken record that keeps going, and going and going. Before I know it, I'm crying all over again. Maybe the first time was for the conversation with Maverick, and this one is for the night at the club when I couldn't.

        Hard exteriors are for stone walls and places that need protection. But I'm not a place, I'm a woman. And when I crumble, it's as messy as trying to capture a gallon of water in my bare hands.

        Brendon removes my outer layers of clothing and hands me a change of clothes to sleep in. When I slip it on in the bathroom, it smells of him. Like I'm being wrapped up in his hug.

        The lights are off when I exit and he's in bed having already changed into his pajamas as well. Without saying a word, I climb under the covers and wrap my arms around his waist, snuggling my face into his chest. With each rise and fall, each stable beat of his heart, I rock myself to sleep. Like a flower along the crest of a wave.