Chapter Twenty-One Lacey

Chapter Twenty-One

Lacey

H E DOESN'T CALL, OBVIOUSLY.

Not that Lacey thought he was going to, but.

She hoped.

She flies back to LA the morning after their horrible fight in his apartment. After all, what else is she going to do, spend the rest of her life alone in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Baltimore wearing her stupid Jimmy Hodges jersey? Not like she's never been dumped before, she consoles herself. She still has the playlist on her phone from last time, so. That's convenient. It's called Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle , which Lacey thought was very clever seven months ago but now just kind of makes her want to barf.

Javi picks her up and they take the service elevator downstairs beside a maintenance guy clutching an industrial vacuum cleaner and not even bothering to pretend he isn't staring at her. "Tough break last night," he says sympathetically as they whoosh toward the parking garage. "How's your boy Hodges doing?"

Lacey musters her most beguiling smile, hoping her face isn't noticeably puffy, that this stranger isn't going to think too hard about why apparently she slept here last night and not at Jimmy's condo in Fells Point. "Oh, he's fine," she promises airily. "He'll be okay."

She knows he will, too, the way he's wired. That's the worst part.

The problem with the tour being over is there's nothing to do to distract herself. Back in Malibu she wanders the house feeling restless and edgy and out of sorts: picking things up and putting them down again, walking into rooms before abruptly realizing she has no idea what she's there for. She picks a low-hanging fight with a Republican sports columnist from the Wall Street Journal . She calls her real estate agent and asks him to put together some listings in the Hollywood Hills. She writes a moody piano ballad, the chorus of which is an extended metaphor about Miss Havisham from Great Expectations , then rips it out of her notebook and throws it into the garbage.

"What do you think about me doing some surprise dates while I'm here?" she asks Maddie, the two of them and Claire eating superfood-packed grain salads from Erewhon in Lacey's backyard as a pair of hummingbirds zip though the jasmine that rings the pool.

"Here?" Maddie asks, sounding surprised. "Like, in LA?"

"Yeah!" Lacey says, briefly buoyed by the idea. She learned her lesson about lying, though she hasn't told the two of them the whole truth, either, just mentioning as casually as possible after her trip to Baltimore that she and Jimmy had decided to lie low while he focused on the playoffs. "At the Greek or someplace, maybe? Something intimate, just real fans. We could run a contest for tickets."

Maddie's gaze flicks for half a second over to Claire. "We could," she hedges, "but the logistics of that might get complicated on such short notice."

"Well, sure," Lacey says, "but not so complicated that we couldn't make it happen, right? I mean, we've certainly done harder things."

"We certainly have," Maddie agrees carefully. "I do think, though, that in light of the headlines, there might be some danger of overexposure."

"Oh," Lacey says, feeling abruptly foolish. The press coverage has been... bad, pages and pages of commentary about how Lacey is directly responsible for the collapse of Jimmy's career, the Baltimore Orioles, and major league sports in general. It's not that she didn't expect that—of course she expected that—but she's surprised by how true it feels even though it's objectively not, even though his team just took the League Championship and the prevailing wisdom seems to be that they've got a pretty good shot at winning the World Series, too. Of course, Lacey is out of his life now, so. Maybe everyone else knew what they were talking about after all. "Right. Totally."

"Could be better to let people miss you for a few weeks," Maddie continues, spearing an artichoke heart on her fork.

"Besides," Claire jumps in, "you've been going a million miles an hour for months now. No shame in taking a break before the European leg."

"Of course," Lacey agrees. "I should rest."

She... doesn't rest. She can barely even sleep, just lying there all night, every night tangled in the sheets, rehashing that last argument with Jimmy over and over in her mind. She doesn't know why this feels so much worse than it did with Toby, why it feels like some kind of yawning hole has opened up where her heart and lungs used to be. She and Jimmy barely knew each other, she reminds herself. Whatever happened between them was, unequivo cally, a rebound fling. He'll go off and play in the World Series and she'll go to Europe on tour and they'll be funny, slightly wistful anecdotes in each other's memoirs one day, and if, in the meantime, she keeps thinking about his stupid farm and his stupid horses and his stupid good face, the tiny crow's feet around his eyes when he smiles, well, that's nobody's business but Lacey's own.

She googles Jimmy Hodges + postseason.

She googles Jimmy Hodges + breakup.

She throws her phone across the room.

***

D AYS PASS. L ACEY WALLOWS. S HE SPENDS LONG NIGHTS IN HER leggings with her laptop warm on her lap and her phone in her hand, reading through Tumblr posts and Twitter threads, clicking over to the Explore tab on Instagram. She taught the algorithm a long time ago to feed her basically only posts about herself, which used to feel satisfying but now just feels a little bit sick, like she's an ouroboros consuming her own content in an endless, queasy loop. She needs to get a hobby. Hell, she needs to get a life .

There is one post that catches her eye, though, a cheeky selfie of Henrietta Lang in front of a cluster of palm trees: Los Angeles, the caption reads, I am in you! Come see us tonite at the El Rey The atre. The photo is time-stamped from this morning, which means the show doesn't start for—Lacey clicks over to Henrietta's website to confirm—a little over six hours.

Which is, she thinks, a smile spreading over her face alone here in her bedroom, plenty of time to decide what to wear.

Powered up by a sudden burst of energy, Lacey throws off her covers and scampers toward the bathroom for a long-overdue shower—then stops in the middle of the rug and feels her shoulders drop, reflexively beginning the long and laborious process of talking herself out of the idea. She thinks of every talking head on ESPN accusing her of turning the Division Series into a circus. She thinks of Maddie's warning her she's already overexposed. Still, Lacey thinks, it wouldn't necessarily have to be a huge deal, would it? Maybe Jimmy was right, that people are only weird about her because she expects them to be, because she invites it. Maybe it's possible to fly under the radar after all.

Lacey picks up her phone, starts a new text to Javi. Hi! she begins, her heart thrumming with the disproportionate thrill of doing something brave and spontaneous. Something that's just for her. I'm going to go see Henrietta Lang at the El Rey tonight and would like to travel light.

Sure, Javi texts back. Though I think a team of three would be more appropriate for a venue of that size.

Lacey bites her lip. She knows this is as close as Javi will likely get to telling her he thinks it's a bad idea, and normally it would be enough to cow her, but instead she sets her jaw. I think it'll be fine, she insists, hoping she sounds more confident than she's necessarily feeling . I'll sneak in late and leave early.

Claire texts her fifteen minutes later, predictably. Hey there! she begins. Javi told me you're planning to go to the Henrietta Lang show tonight. So cool! I did just want to share that I reached out to the venue and they can provide a seat in a private area up on the second level but won't have any extra security available. I know Javi mentioned you wanted to travel light so I did just want to be sure we were okay with that!

Lacey chews her lip for a moment, briefly losing her courage. Probably after everything the smart move would be to just stay in tonight. She could invite Claire over to watch a movie and order ramen; they could get ice cream sandwiches from Van Leeuwen, try some of the million high-end beauty products Lacey's always getting sent in the mail. She's almost decided to scuttle the whole endeavor entirely when all at once she shakes her head, remembering how disappointed she was with herself when she chickened out and missed Henrietta's show back in New York. Maybe she doesn't have to submit her every decision to focus-group testing. Why shouldn't she just do what she wants to do?

Yup! That's fine! she types, hitting send and marching herself up to her closet to pick an outfit.

***

L ACEY HAS NEVER PERFORMED AT THE E L R EY—SHE GOT HER start on the festival circuit, state fairs and opening gigs for boy bands, then quickly leapfrogged to headlining arena shows of her own—but she's always loved the look of it: the enormous chandeliers and the art deco sensibility, the brilliant neon lights of the marquee. She sneaks in just as Henrietta's opening band is finishing up later that night, smiling her thanks to a gawking attendant and following Javi across the lush red carpet of the lobby. What she really would have liked to do is disappear into the crowd down in general admission—she used to love to do that when she was younger, to stand crushed shoulder to shoulder in a thick, anonymous sea of bodies, her arms thrust into the air with wild abandon—but she knows that's ridiculous, so she trails Javi obediently up a narrow flight of stairs to the box reserved for her up in the mezzanine, sitting down in one of the two folding chairs lined up side by side. Lacey glances at the empty seat for a second, trying not to think about anyone who might or might not be sitting here beside her in an alternate universe, but before she can start to feel too sorry for herself the lights are going down and the crowd is whooping and clapping and cheering, Henrietta is stepping onto the stage in wide-leg jeans and an oversized blazer, slinging the strap of her guitar over her head.

Lacey leans forward and rests her chin on the railing, unable to keep a slow, reflexive smile from spreading across her face. This is what she loves about music, the way it engages her brain and her heart and her body. The way it calms the endless churn of her mind. For a moment it doesn't matter that Toby's spreading garbage about their breakup or that she besmirched Jimmy Hodges's precious postseason. All that matters is the sound of Henrietta's voice ringing out in the darkness. All that matters is the beat of the drums. Lacey loses herself completely to the melody and the lyrics, and later it will occur to her that that's why she doesn't notice when the energy in the room starts to change.

It's whispers at first, a general restlessness—at least, she thinks it is; by the time she registers the sound it's turned into a murmur, some commotion at the back of the lower level near the doors. Lacey sits back in her seat, glancing over her shoulder for Javi and trying to ignore the creeping instinct for approaching danger she's honed over a dozen years in the spotlight, but when she turns back around and chances a look down at the crowd, she realizes with a start that Henrietta has all but lost them. Almost nobody down there is even facing the stage anymore, all of them craning their necks and peering curiously up into the mezzanine.

Almost everyone is looking for her.

That's the moment when a hand drops onto her shoulder; when Lacey turns around to look at him, Javi's face is grave. "Hey," he says, and she can tell by how preternaturally calm he sounds that this is about to be a total shitshow. "We've got a little bit of a situation."

***

W ORD IS OUT, J AVI TELLS HER. S OMEBODY POSTED A PICTURE OF her on Instagram; there's a group of fans outside the venue, trying to push their way into the building. They need to get out of here, and they need to get out of here now.

"Okay," Lacey says—nodding obediently, already getting to her feet. The crowd in the mezzanine has grown by at least half since she got here, she realizes suddenly; there are people on the stairs now, the venue's security trying unsuccessfully to clear them out. "Let's go."

Javi takes her arm as they head quickly toward the staircase, doing his best to clear the path in front of them, to shove the grasping limbs out of their way. "There she is!" someone shouts, and Lacey feels herself flinch. She moves as best and as quickly as she can, ducking as people grab at her, touching her hair and her clothes and her hands. She trips on the last couple of stairs, stumbling for one terrifying second before Javi pulls her roughly to her feet.

"I'm sorry," she says, but he doesn't reply so she repeats herself once, then again and again until it's just a chant she's muttering over and over as he steers her along. This has happened twice before—once at a concert in Singapore, and another time at a radio festival in Nashville—but both of those times she had the whole team with her, a phalanx of protection to get her safely into the car. I think it will be fine! she told him this afternoon, like some kind of idiot. She's never felt like such an amateur in her entire life.

"Keep your head down," Javi advises, raising his voice so she can hear him over the screaming. Dimly she can hear that Henrietta has stopped playing; faintly she's aware of her asking everyone to please be cool. "Let's just get into the car."

"Should we—"

"Into the car , Lacey." It's the most sharply he's ever spoken to her in all the years they've known each other, and it's not until that moment that Lacey is really and truly afraid.

The air changes after what feels like an eternity, the smell of the night and the pavement all around her, and Lacey realizes all at once she's been squeezing her eyes shut; when she opens them again Javi is shoving her into the back seat of the SUV. Her driver in LA is usually a guy named Kevin, but Kevin is on vacation and so it's someone else tonight, Steven or Stephen. Normally Lacey is much better about getting names. Shit, she's really rattled. This was such an enormously bad idea. "What the fuck ," Steven/Stephen says as Javi climbs into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. He's bleeding a little, Lacey sees with a gasp, right at the side of his mouth.

"Just drive," Javi orders.

"Yeah, I'm trying!" the driver snaps, leaning on the horn, the sound of it enough to make Lacey cover her ears. The crowd is too thick: they're pounding on the roof, on the windows, the sound of it like a hailstorm. Like bombs falling. Like the end of the world. "I'm going to fucking kill someone."

"I'm sorry," Lacey says over and over. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Javi ignores her. "Is one of them on the—one of them is on the fucking car."

It's more than one of them, Lacey realizes with horror. It's three and then four of them like something out of a zombie movie, all of them banging on the windows, all of them screaming her name. It occurs to her, not for the first time, that her fans may love her deeply, but also if given the opportunity they might tear the flesh right off her bones.

At last they break free from the crowd and pull off down the street, Lacey going limp in the back seat with sudden safety, with the feeling of a near miss. "Fucking insane kids," the driver mumbles.

"I'm so sorry," Lacey says again. Already she's planning how she's going to handle this with him and with Javi, with a bonus or vacation time or a Rolex. She'll send something to the staff at the venue. She'll smooth it over with Henrietta.

But Javi isn't listening, craning his neck to look out the window. "We're not done," he says grimly. "On your left."

Lacey's heart sinks at the sight of the black SUV creeping up behind them. Still, "It's fine," she insists. She can recognize photographers when she sees them. "The windows are tinted. They're not going to get anything."

"Maybe," Javi says, pulling out his cell phone. "But I'm not taking any more chances tonight, are you? I'm calling the cops."

"Don't bother," the driver says, stepping on the gas. "I can shake 'em off."

He can't, though; Lacey watches in horror as the second car pulls up alongside them—way too close, incessant. "They're going to run us off the fucking road," Javi says, then turns his attention to whoever has picked up on the other end of the line. "Hello? My name is Javier Mendoza. I'm head of security for the entertainer Lacey Logan. We're headed south on—" He cranes his neck. "Where the fuck are we?" he asks, or starts to, and the last thing that Lacey remembers is the shriek of the tires on the pavement. The jolt of the crash in her bones.