My therapist once told me that in order to get better, things may have to go downhill first. Not only because of the inevitable detoxing phase, when you put an end to your high and finally begin to suffer the repercussions of your foolish actions, but also because sometimes, we need to make mistakes so we can learn from them.
She did forget to warn me that getting better once doesn't mean that I would never hit that rock bottom again… Which I soon experienced painfully on my own skin on a Friday morning, three days after the ill-fated interview.
Admittedly, I've already been feeling on edge ever since the disaster of my reunion with my mother. It quickly became apparent that her efforts to put me back in the spotlight were successful, since my official social media profiles literally blew up after the episode's airing. Succumbing to the pressure of my mother's PR team, I posted a short update the day after, informing everyone how excited I am to begin my work for the charity foundation. The tweet quickly gained thousands of likes, which should have made me feel appreciated, and yet, it only served to fuel my anxiety even more.
Anxiety, insecurity, addiction—the unholy trinity of my existence.
It all brings me to this morning and my lazy self getting up after yet another sleepless night, determined to go back to my safe routine of working out, jogging, and meeting H in the evenings. However, all my plans are once again ruined by the arrival of my former PR team member, whom I haven't seen in years. To his defense, he keeps our conversation short, leaving me with a list of upcoming events that I am scheduled to attend in the upcoming weeks.
When he finally leaves, the rest of the morning passes in surprising normalcy, though I should have expected that it is merely the calm before a storm.
The premonition of doom comes an hour later, in the form of my mother once again blowing up my phone. She has called me, multiple times in fact, throughout the last few days, but I never answered. In my eyes, she did not deserve to talk to me after the shit she had pulled.
Yes, she did manage to blackmail me into doing her PR bullshit, but I could still retain what's left of my dignity and ignore her, preferably forever. At this point, it was the only thing I could do to spite her. Now feeling more convinced of being in the right, I switch off my phone, then throw it underneath my pillow where it rests unseen and less likely to tempt me with the idea of scrolling through twitter.
It's about two hours later when the sound of the doorbell disturbs my afternoon ritual of watching ER reruns. Instantly, I am even more annoyed. No one gets in the middle of my young George Clooney time—ever. This show was the shit, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. They simply don't make medical dramas like this anymore.
Munching on my juicy watermelon slice, I ignore the sound. But then it comes back, again, and again, until someone holds the button causing a continuous buzzing to echo through the air.
"Oh, dear god!" I yell out, stomping over to the front door. Whoever's on the other side, is surely getting it. I have reached the brink of my patience, and was now far, far beyond it.
But, as I snatch the door open to reveal a puffy-eyed Sally, her cheeks covered with streaks of smudged mascara, all my annoyance vanishes in an instant.
"Sally?! What happened? Why are you crying?" I bombard her with questions, pressing her trembling body against mine. My mind automatically flies to the natural conclusion—it has to be Baker. "Is it him? Did the bastard try to approach you?!"
I pull her into the house, shutting the door behind us with a loud bang. She flinches, the sound being the catalyst for more sobbing, hiccuping, and unintelligible blabber.
"Okay, deep breaths Sal, what happened?" I press, putting both of my hands on her shoulders.
"How c-can you b-be so calm?!" she stammers, trying to compose herself enough to speak.
"Because I don't know what happened?" I say gently. "So how about you sit down, and just tell me what's wrong, okay?"
She bites her lip, following me into the living room where I promptly force her into a seating position on my sofa.
"Where's your phone?" Her eyes swipe around the room, a look of recognition crossing her face. "I tried to call you… You turned it off again, didn't you?"
"Yea, my sorry excuse of a mother has been trying to call all day," I explain, and when she fails to say anything in response, I feel my heartbeat quicken.
Something is wrong.
My leg starts bouncing uncontrollably as I sit down next to her, growing more and more tense by the minute. Now would be the time to check my phone, but I physically can't force myself to pick it up from my bedroom. It's like one of those moments where you feel like you're standing on the edge of a cliff, and if you take just one more step, you'll fall to your death. I can't take that step.
"Sal, just fucking say it," I mumble, bracing myself for the worst.
"I'm…" she whimpers, lowering down to hide her face in her lap. "I'm so, so, so sorry! This is all my fault! If you hadn't tried to help me- oh god."
Her muffled crying once again breaks my heart, but this time, I ignore it. Her own phone will give me all the answers I need. Tapping in her screen lock code, I am horrified by the first image that pops up.
Myself, half-naked, with my entire back and ass on display. Posted on VIP Model Agency's twitter page, led by none other than Matthew Baker.
"What- how in the world?" I whisper.
My stomach tightens at the next images I see: a sultry look over the shoulder; a flash of side boob; a shot of my bare upper body covered merely by my unzipped dress, all in a seemingly sexual manner.
These are all the photographs that Ryan had taken of me on the beach weeks ago, edited in a way that makes them look like a damn Playboy magazine photoshoot. Even more so, some of the pictures have been clearly tempered with—I am pretty sure they had erased the back of my dress from at least two shots, just to make it seem like I was actually naked. Of course, it's all done in a way that's nearly impossible to spot to an unpracticed eye.
"This is bullshit," I mumble with a grim frown, "These are not the photos we took. I mean, they are, but he messed with them…"
More silence follows, even more tense than before. My heart is already threatening to escape my chest, and I haven't even gotten to the worst part yet: the comments.
"I swear I did not tell him you were involved in the lawsuit," Sally sniffs slightly, looking at me through a pair of glossy eyes. "I don't know how he found out."
"I do," I sigh, trying to appear indifferent, more so for her sake than my own. "He called me after the interview; I guess he just realised that I am the only one with the actual means to help you out."
"He called you?!" she gasps. "You didn't tell me!"
"I didn't want to worry you…"
A good thing, too, since apparently we have a lot to fret about.
"What did you tell him?" she asks next.
I want to tell her all about how I threatened him. I want to tell her that I once again acted upon my impulses, without fully thinking it through. I also want to tell her that instead of keeping my mouth shut for once, I may have only added more fuel to the fire.
But I can't. I can't admit just how foolish I am.
"Not much, but I didn't deny it," I say instead.
"You should have! Can't you see what he's doing now?! This is payback!" she squeaks out, visibly distressed.
"I know."
I can't think of anything else to say, because my mind is momentarily flooded with the realisation of just how much trouble I am in. It's been no more than an hour since the post, and I can already see an overwhelming amount of comments, likes and retweets. Nothing can stop this avalanche from coming down anymore, not even my father.
Oh god. My father. He is going to kill me. Or better yet, he's going to send me there again.
The thought of him makes me spring up from my seat, and I start to nervously pace around the room, my anxiety increasing with each step I take. Now I'm even more terrified of turning on my phone, knowing he's surely called me a bazillion times by now.
"I'm so sorry," Sally repeats like a broken record, tears rolling down her face in thick waves.
I take a deep breath, knowing I need to get a grip of myself. If not for mine, then at least for Sally's sake.
"Listen it's- well, I'm not gonna lie, it's fucking bad," I mutter, "but none of this is your fault. I was the one who basically forced the truth out of you, and then chose to help you. And I am going to live up to my promise, Sal. This is just a…minor setback."
"It's a disaster," she deadpans.
"Yeah, well…" I trail off, taking a deep shuddering breath. "Listen, I need to figure out how to deal with this. You know I think best when I'm alone, so can you…?"
I look at her expectantly, trying to subtly shoo her out of my house.
"I don't think I should be leaving you alone right now," she sniffs loudly, and yeah, I know she's right. But that doesn't mean I'm going to listen to her advice.
"I'll be fine," I assure her curtly.
She gives me a hesitant nod, and I walk her to the front door, where she turns around to give me one last warning, "Please, you need to promise me that you won't read the comments...or the articles. It's all bullshit, they have no idea what really went down, but I know how this sort of stuff gets to your head."
Well, that is an understatement of the century.
"I won't," I lie straight to her face, and she just smiles solemnly, probably seeing straight through my bullshit.
"Please call me tomorrow," she simply requests, then leaves after giving me a short, tearful hug goodbye.
After seeing her disappear behind the fence lining my property, I numbly walk to my bedroom. The blinds are down, and the only light is courtesy of the candles I had distributed around the room earlier. I lay down, hoping to find solace in my room, and pretend, just for a while longer, that nothing bad is happening.
Ever since I've stopped numbing my mind with prescription drugs or other…things…denial has become my chosen method of therapy. If you act like something doesn't exist, then the problem disappears, right?
I wish life could work this way.
With a sigh, I reach underneath my pillow to pluck out my smartphone, waiting with a thrumming heart until it comes to life. After erasing the overwhelming amount of notifications—thank god for the magical 'X' button—I open the Twitter app and click on the comments section under the thread with my photographs.
Do you guys remember the rumours from a few years back that she's gone off the deep end after her grandma died? Well…
Golden girl gone bad... She's kinda hot though.
Anyone else think the charity foundation is just damage control? I bet Daddy wasn't too happy when he found out about these pictures.
Granted, not all the opinions are as spiteful. Some have mentioned that I am free to do whatever I please with my body, and it's no one's right to judge me for taking part in a nude photoshoot. Sadly, the majority seems to derive much pleasure from watching me make mistakes, like some damn animal in a zoo.
I've gotten away with so many bad decisions in my life, and one time that I actually didn't do anything wrong, I get shit for it. Go figure.
I saw this girl about two years ago in a club in NY...as high as a kite. Y'all should stop laughing, she needs help not all of you putting her down. Honestly I'm surprised this is the first time she's pulled shit like this. Her father must have had fun cleaning up her mess throughout the years.
Someone call this girl's PR team asap.
I plop down onto the bed, feet pathetically hanging off the edge, then pull a blanket over me as if it could protect me from the horrors of social media. Maybe this is just a test. Maybe life has thrown this obstacle my way just to check whether I would revert to my old ways…
With a frustrated huff, I chuck my phone across the room, where it thankfully bounces off my sofa and right onto the fluffy carpet on the floor. It's hard to say whether I'm more relieved, or annoyed, that it hasn't shattered to pieces.
I just want peace. Is it too much to ask?
Throughout the next few minutes, I bounce back and forth between considering calling my father just to ask him to deal with this bloody mess, and simply ignoring the whole situation whatsoever. Truth is: these things are harsh, but they blow over eventually. It just takes time, and some new, more interesting topics the public can move on to, like Leo's next 'barely out of her teens' girlfriend, or some ex-boybander getting in trouble.
Yeah. That's it. I'm just going to hide away in my bedroom for a few weeks, no biggie.
But, as minutes pass, I find myself more and more anxious, up to the point of tears. I've never been much of a vocal crier—in my case it's more of the 'silent tears rolling down your face' situation. I may not be wailing my heart out, but the intensity of my heart clenching in my chest is quickly threatening to push me over the edge.
Through blurry eyes, I stare at the vase proudly displayed on top of my vanity. If I could just…
I get up, taking a few hesitant steps towards it, but a sound of my phone going off halts me mid-step.
H
I stare at the screen, my eyes glued to it as if it were an alien calling me and not a real person.
"Hello?" I answer with an awkward cough.
"Hiiiiiiiiiii, it's me," a voice drawls, "H."
"Uh, I know. I have your number saved, remember?" I quip, regaining some of my usual bravado.
"Then why do you sound like I'm some…alien calling you?" A grin spreads across my face when he says the exact same thing I had been thinking just now.
"Because we don't usually call each other?" I remind him.
"New rule: you don't answer for eight hours straight, I call." I can basically feel the bastard smirking on the other end of the line.
"You texted? Sorry, I got wrapped up in some stuff…" I mumble my apology out, gnawing on my bottom lip. I plop back down onto the bed, now thoroughly distracted from my earlier destructive ideas and thoughts. "Also, clingy much?"
"Mhm, so I've been told," he scoffs, quickly adding, "Book club meeting in two hours?"
I roll to my side, trying and failing miserably to contain the giddy smile that slips onto my face. Instantly, I cringe at myself, forcing my lips back into a narrow straight line.
Dear Lord, forgive me for I have turned into that girl: the disgusting giggling fool.
"Don't you have any other friends—ones that you can actually, y'know, hang out with without your fence acting as a chaperone?" I joke.
"I do, but where's the fun in that? You're so much more entertaining."
"Well, I'm glad you find me so amusing," I say coyly, "I might just show up at your house tonight to amuse you some more. But only on the condition that you provide food and beverages."
"What's your choice of poison, Miss?" he plays along.
"Beer, tequila…or water, depending on what kind of fun you have in mind," I banter.
"The refreshments shall be waiting on your side of the fence at ten P.M. sharp," he says in a posh accent. "Please do bring a warm covering for the night, everything else will be provided by the party organisers."
"Sir, are you assuming I will be spending the night? How bold of you!" I tease.
"I have much confidence in my… choice of beverage," he chuckles slyly, clearly intending to get me drunk. Although I must say that I definitely do not fancy the idea of sleeping outside his house drunk out of my mind. Yeah, people barely ever walk past there, but it's still a public spot that anyone can access.
"Okay, hang up now you idiot," I giggle.
"Rude," he grumbles, "but you'll come, right, Cherry?"
I just scoff in response, "Bye, H!"
"Byeeee…"
I laugh out loud as soon as he hangs up. Most of the tension that had radiated off me just moments ago is now gone, replaced with nothing but giddiness.
Goodbye anxiety, hello distraction.
__________
I don't know if H somehow sensed my distress during our phone call earlier, but he definitely went overboard with all the preparations for tonight. Along with a blanket, drinks, and a plate full of food, he had also left scented candles and pillows on this makeshift futon for me. There's also a note, this time with a poem, something about 'golden' and 'the door being open'. I squint my eyes at his messy scrawl, casting candlelight onto the words in an effort to decipher his writing, spotting his signature '- H' at the end.
"Is this from one of our poetry books? I don't remember it," I say as a way of greeting.
"You came!" He's excited, as if he didn't know that I would never turn down his invitation. "No, it's somethin' else. What do you think?"
There's a certain amount of wariness in his tone, and it makes me smile.
"It's shit," I deadpan, instantly hearing an 'ouch' from the other side. "No offense, but this is like kindergarten rhyming level, H. Also… Golden," I spit out the word as if it's poison. "I absolutely despise this word."
"Why?" H asks, curious.
"It's just got too many bad connotations for me," I admit, hoping he won't catch on to the hint of sadness lacing my tone. All my life, everyone has referred to me as my father's 'golden girl'—be it my family, friends or the media. Because of this, what should have been a flattering term, has become a curse to me.
"Well, I will do my best to change your mind 'bout it," he promises, "because I happen to think that this word is beautiful."
This time, I am the one to ask, "Why?"
"Because you can use it to describe so many brilliant moments, sensations, or people… Even you," he teases, "You're so golden, Cherry."
"No, oh dear god, anything but this," I cringe.
Of course, I should have kept my mouth shut, because that's just made him more determined to prove his point.
"But you are! Everytime I hear you laughing, I think of how bright your smile must be, which in turn makes me think of the sun," he chuckles, and I groan, covering my flaming face in embarrassment. Why must this guy be so… ugh? "And guess what word is perfect to describe the sun?"
I sigh, "Please don't say it."
"Wait for it…" he pauses for a dramatic effect, "Golden."
"No!" I whine.
"Look, even this sunset is golden," he argues merrily.
Looking up, I realise that he's indeed right. The orange gold stretches far along the horizon, casting shadows upon the darkened ocean. It's like the day and night are battling each other for dominance, yellow against the red, together merging into one damn colour: golden.
How many times am I going to repeat this damn word in my head tonight? Golden, golden, golden…
"I hate you," I mutter, earning a laugh in response. "If I agree that this…term...can be nice sometimes, would you leave it alone?"
"For now," he bargains.
"Fine," I amend with a grin. "For now."
We spend the next hour going through volume four of the poetry series we have been reading, occasionally interjected by our food and drink breaks. The deep timbre of H's voice is so pleasant to my ears that I find myself requesting for him to keep reading despite it being my turn. This, of course, brings about a round of teasing, as well as much embarrassment on my part.
By the time the clock hits midnight, I am halfway into the tequila bottle, and admittedly more than a little bit dizzy. I can tell H is beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol as well, as made apparent by his merry mood. Judging by the last time I've seen him intoxicated, his drunk phases are much like mine: euphoria, horniness, and eventually, the darkest depths of depression.
But, once my phone pings with an incoming text from my father, I realise that I may just be skipping straight from phase one to three tonight.
"Fuck," I curse loudly.
"Everything alright?" H frets, stopping in the middle of his reading.
"Yeah, I just got a text, um, I need a minute," I stumble over my words, and I'm sure he's noticed it.
Ever the gentleman, he ignores my odd behaviour by simply saying, "Sure."
Taking a deep breath, I glance down at my phone, my face turning white once I skim through the contents of the text messages. I can tell how pissed off my dad is, just by the simple fact that he split his thoughts into several texts instead of keeping them all in one organised paragraph like he usually does. And the worst part is: I can basically feel the fury radiating off him.
Dad: We had a deal: stop causing trouble, and I'll leave you alone.
Dad: And yet, you continue to be an embarrassment to this family.
Dad: I am flying over to see you tomorrow. I hope you know that this means our deal is broken and you WILL be facing consequences.
My breath is coming out in short puffs of breath, and I'm suddenly overcome with crippling fear. Springing up to my feet, I let out a small pathetic sob.
"Cherry, you sure you're okay?" H asks, having picked up the low sound of my crying.
"I'm fine!" I call out, trying to quell the panic which is now threatening to take over.
However, all my efforts to calm down are reduced to dust once I read my father's last message.
Dad: Your grandmother is turning in her grave.
I let the phone fall to the ground with a loud thud, my hands flying up to cover my face. My entire body starts shaking with violent sobs, and there is a shortness of breath that I can only attribute to an oncoming panic attack. Well, there goes my 'silent crying'...
"Cherry!" H calls out, this time urgent. "What's wrong? Talk to me."
"My father… He's going to take me away- Oh god I can't go there again," I choke out, dropping to my knees with my hands clutching the metal poles of the fence.
There is a momentary silence, before H firmly says, "I'm coming over."
"No!" I yell, my chest heaving, "You can't! Please, you're just going to make things worse-" I cut off, wheezing slightly.
Now more than ever, with those humiliating pictures out in the world, I can not let him know who I am. He is the only person in my life without the means to judge me, and I am terrified of losing him.
"Hold on, take a deep breath," his voice is soothing, though I can spot an underlying hint of panic in there as well. "In, and out. Again…"
He repeats the same words several times until my breathing begins to gradually slow down. His method seems to be working very well, especially when two large hands appear in the gaps in the fence, wrapping around mine in a comforting gesture. The sensation is soothing, and I find myself resting my cheek against our linked hands.
"It would be way easier if you just let me come to your side so I could give you a hug," he jokes in an effort to lighten the atmosphere. "I swear a twig is poking straight into my eyeball right now."
In my mind, I see a weird British dude on his knees, shoulder-deep in a bush in an effort to comfort some odd girl camping outside his house. The mental imagery makes me snort, and H echoes my laugh with his own.
"If only someone snapped a pic of me right now," he muses, "Paps would be having a field day."
He stops himself short, probably realising his little slip-up. But, I have been aware of H's famous status since Asa's investigation of my new mysterious friend, and so I remain completely unmoved by this bit of knowledge.
"Don't flatter yourself, you're not that interesting," I quip, but still, he remains quiet. Perhaps he is realising now that I too, for reasons very similar to his own, don't want to meet face-to-face.
I'm about to say something meaner to move away from the uncomfortable topic, when my face flares red at an unexpected touch burning against my face. H's thumb is grazing my cheek now, eventually moving up to wipe at the tears that had gathered underneath my eyes. Finally coming to my senses, I spring back, leaving his hand hanging limply in the now empty air.
"I-I'm fine now," I breathe out. I don't even know where all this embarrassment is coming from—it's not like his touch was anywhere near intimate. Nope. This was no more than an innocent stroke of a finger, and I need to stop overreacting like some bloody hormonal teenager. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he says softly in response, his large hands disappearing in the darkness. "Do you want to talk about it, love?"
"No, but I appreciate your…concern," I tell him honestly, sniffing lightly.
"Well, I'm here if you need anything," he repeats, causing my heart to stutter painfully in my chest.
"Read to me some more?" I ask in a small voice.
"Absolutely," he agrees cheerfully, "Thought you'd never ask! I reckon some poems containing the word 'golden' are in order…"
"I hate you so much," I whine, wiping snot from my nose.
"Sure, sure," he murmurs in a low rasp, "We both know you love me, Cherry."
I lay back down with a blanket haphazardly strewn across my body, H's deep voice gradually working to calm my racing heartbeat.
__________
Aaand the drama begins... What do you think is going to happen with the pictures now? Where does Cherry's dad want to take her away to? Also, how cute is Harry?!
Next chapter is going to pick up exactly where this ended, I needed to split it in half because it got too long. So, expect a quick update.
And remember, only two chapters left before they finally...
Xx Cathy
💫 Please remember to vote by clicking the little star. It is the biggest encouragement a writer can get. ⭐