1. Chapter One

Chapter One

EVERYONE LOVES A COMEBACK

"A twink, a tyrant, and a homicidal cat walk into a janitor's closet. That's not a joke. Do you know why it's not a joke?"

"For God's sake. Here we go," I said with a groan.

"Because I'm not laughing, Phillip."

We'd been bickering for almost an hour, ever since our plane touched down in Tallulah. They'd told me a meet and greet had been orchestrated by the production crew; a chance for this queen to grant his loyal subjects an audience. Instead, the second we stepped off the small, regional airport's tarmac, a woman named Brenda— was it Brenda? Perhaps Carole? —had told us the crew needed to set up the lighting for their next shot.

It was absolutely unacceptable. There were tens and tens of fans waiting for me in the airport lobby, and we'd been banished to a compact room that stunk of off-brand, lemon-scented floor cleaner and regret. To add insult to injury, the room was unbearably warm, and I was already sweating through the festive Muscadine Madness t-shirt Brenda- maybe -Carole insisted I wear. The shirt was tight enough—thanks to the extra twenty pounds I'd been carrying around for the better part of a decade—I didn't need it sticking to every hump and bump around my midsection for the cameras to capture.

As my personal assistant-slash-best (only) friend, Jordan Miller absentmindedly tapped his tablet, I took the time to reflect on the life choices that led me to this predicament. Any rational individual would find the fault laid squarely on Jordan's shoulders. He had been the one who came to me with the idea, after all. When he told me about the network's proposition, I laughed at him. I mean, I knew I was never the brightest star in fame's galaxy, but this seemed desperate, even for me. I'd never heard of Nostalgia Nation, but Jordan said they were the number seventeen leading source for America's daily nostalgia; though that didn't sound like something to brag about. Never mind the fact that I hadn't been stateside in over a decade. After my career tanked following a disastrous performance on MTV’s Total Request Live , I fucked off to England, wanting to surround myself with milky tea, delicious accents, and foreskin-rocking daddies who hadn’t seen my on-air demise in 2007. It was a good life, but there were bills to be paid, and Nostalgia Nation was my meal ticket.

Around the fifty-minute mark of our impromptu prison sentence, there was a knock on the door.

"I just wanted to check on you boys," Brenda/Carole said, poking her head through the gap.

"Are you ready? It's a bit stuffy in here," I responded, pulling my sweat-drenched shirt away from my chest.

"Give us five more minutes and we'll be ready to go," she said. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of me. "You might want to fix the hair. It's looking a little rough, cupcake."

I pulled my phone from my pocket and stared at the monstrosity on the camera's display. Rough didn't even begin to describe my current state. My normally short, brown hair had gone frizzy thanks to the hellish humidity, making it seem as if it had doubled in volume. Sadly, the added volume had done nothing to mask my widow's peak. Before I could ask if she could at least grab us a couple of bottled waters, the door slammed shut, and we were left to suffocate in our tomb.

As 'five more minutes' ticked their way into half an hour, a revelation struck me; we were going to die there. It would be an unremarkable end for a star that once shone so brightly, even a midnight mass of clouds couldn't hide him. Jordan and I would go out like a platonic Aida and Radames, hoarding the final remnants of lemon-scented oxygen until the long sleep eventually claimed us. An acceptable comparison considering I was, at one time, pop music's reigning queen. Well, pop music's reigning queer, at least. When they finally unearthed our remains, there would be the customary news reports. With luck, I might even trend on social media.

Mummified body of former boy band member found in Texas airport. In lieu of well-wishes, surviving members of Friendzone have asked for thanks to be sent to the Almighty. #MuscadineMadness #RIP #PhillipFirecracker

The small, orange and white ball of fur purred in my lap as I combed my fingers through Mr. Papadopoulos's coat, fluffing his hair. When he leaned into my touch rather than hissing his displeasure, I knew we were in dire straits.

"Does Papadop look okay to you?" I said. "Dear God, does he seem affectionate?"

Jordan tore his gaze from the tablet and stared at the uncharacteristically gentle tabby. He leaned forward until his face was inches from Papadop's. With inquisitive eyes, Jordan reached down to pet him, and Mr. Papadopoulos lifted his paw, slicing the empty space between them. Thankfully, Jordan escaped Papadop's line of fire just in time. As soon as Jordy was out of arm's reach, Mr. Papadopoulos returned to his default setting; head resting on his paws, radiating disinterest.

"Right," Jordan said, tapping his tablet, his breathing a bit faster than before. "Itinerary. Once we're done here, the schedule says we're headed into the city. They want to get some shots of you for the opening montage. Filming won't really kick off until tomorrow when the festivities begin, so we'll have the evening to ourselves. We'll head out to Grandmama's house when we wrap this afternoon. Tomorrow, we've got an interview booked with Good Morning, Tallulah . After that, we're supposed to help with festival preparations. I don't know why they're insistent upon calling this thing a county fair. Is it still a county fair if there are less than forty-thousand residents in that county?"

"Her name is Aunt Lurlene, not Grandmama. And if you think I'm doing manual labor, you're sorely mistaken." I flung my hand in his direction, palm down, fingertips twinkling in front of his face. "What is this, Jordan?"

"Dammit, Phillip."

I cupped my hand to my ear and leaned in closer. "Sorry, what was that? What is it?"

Another sigh. " The hand of a Goddess. "

"And?"

"And Goddesses don't dally in acts that require physical exertion. Yes, Phillip. I know."

"Exactly," I said. "I'm not erecting carnival rides or serving funnel cakes to the unwashed masses. I know we need this series to be a success, but I draw the line at unintentional exercise."

"Noted," he deadpanned, scrolling down the never-ending email. "After that, we have a few things planned around town for the rest of the trip, but the main events will be the ribbon cutting and the carnival king and queen crowning. I'm still not sure why there's a ribbon cutting at a county fair, but the email says the mayor is insistent that you be there."

I swallowed, though I couldn't swallow down the panic inside of me. The last time I'd been to the Muscadine Madness fair, it had ended with a city-wide shaming session. Jordan didn't know about the night that almost ruined me. The night when the boy with matching names ran off into the dead of night, leaving me to face the entire town's jeers on my own. Or how Rivers Rivera barely looked at me for the next year and a half.

There was another knock on the door, and Brenda/Carole poked her head through the gap. "Alright, boys. We're ready when you are. Just remember, those people out there are here for you, so give them a show. You're Phil Firework, and you're a legend. You hear me?"

I wanted to point out that my name was actually Phillip Firecracker, and seeing as she was at the helm of this soon-to-be shitshow of a docuseries, she probably should have known that. But before I could correct her, the door slammed shut. Mr. Papadopoulos hopped up from my lap and sauntered into a corner, eyeing me curiously as he awaited instruction.

"Time to sparkle, Philly, sparkle," Jordan said. Apparently, everyone was hellbent on shattering the last of my dwindling patience. Rather than threaten him with yet another termination—his seventh of the month—I gave him a pass. He was quoting Valley of the Dolls , after all, and my life's ambition was to be a modern-day Neely O'Hara. Well, minus the addiction issues. From what I'd seen on the endless journey from London to East Texas, Brenda/Carole seemed to have the addict role filled. I'd seen her dry-swallow a handful of downers and two uppers during liftoff. God knew what she took for the landing.

"Jordy?" I whispered, hopefully low enough that the microphones wouldn't pick it up.

Jordan's hand slid into mine, and he gave me a squeeze. "I promise you, Phillip, you have this."

"But what if—"

"No." Jordan spun to face me and gripped my hand even tighter. "We're not doing this. What do we say to the cycles of self-doubt?"

I closed my eyes and breathed out through my nose, the way Jordy had shown me. "I am Phillip Firecracker; I was in the biggest-selling boy band of the early aughties."

"And?"

"And I'm worthy."

"Damn right, you are." Without warning, Jordan wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. "I'm really proud of you for taking this risk. I know it's scary, but I'm right here with you and I'm not going anywhere." His lips pressed wetly against my neck, but rather than scold him for slobbering on me like a madman, I returned his unbearable hug, squeezing as tight as I could manage.

I opened my eyes to a wondrous sight; Jordan's beaming grin, shining out love like a spotlight. "Thank you. I needed that." I reached up and patted my shoulder. "Papadop, come." Then braced for impact as my cat's nails clicked against the sticky linoleum floors. When he reached me, Mr. Papadopoulos lunged upward, his talons piercing through my jeans as he vaulted up the length of my leg. When he finished his ascent, he rested on my shoulder, hissing at the empty air in front of us.

The moment I stepped out of the janitor's closet, I was accosted by the crew's unforgiving spotlight. I winced, hoping I didn't look terrible under the harsh lighting, then pushed my shame aside and walked forward with my head held high. Well, as high as one can hold their head when they've got a murderous cat perched on their shoulder and a sweat-drenched shirt clinging to every nook and cranny.

The small-town airport smelled just as terrible as our tomb had, somehow with even more fumes from the industrial-strength floor cleaner filling the air. The only people in the room were Jordan Miller, myself, and three airport employees at the terminal. One of those employees happened to be our pilot from earlier—Danvers Davenport—a strange name for a terribly strange man. In the small commuter plane, I'd been seated right beside him in the cockpit. Despite my repeated pleas, he'd paid more attention to my crotch than the flashing lights on the plane's console. Honestly, it was a wonder we'd survived the trip. It was also a wonder that he turned me down when I'd asked for his number.

Danvers' eyes dropped to my crotch, and he traced his lips with his tongue.

No. He had his chance.

As we made our way through baggage claim—which was simply an overworked employee carting ten oversized bags on his back—Jordan paused mid-stride. He lifted his hand daintily in the direction of an oversized wall decal that said LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE.

"This place is trash. T-r-a-s-h, Trash!"

"Dial it down, Faye Dunaway," I groaned, leaning in until I was right against his ear.

"I don't know who that is."

I flagged him off with the flick of my wrist. The harried showrunner waved at us, motioning for us to stop once we reached a check-in counter. Ahead of us, there was an archway obstructing my view into the main lobby. At our side, Danvers, the diabolical dick tease, was helping himself to one of the complimentary dust-dry danishes sitting on the check-in counter. The camera crew were still focusing on me, so I scowled at Danvers before staring directly into the camera, blinking slowly. In my mind, I'd thought it would be a fun little Parks and Recreation -adjacent moment where I could break the fourth wall and insult the hillbilly residents for comedic flair. The look the cameraman gave me told me that wasn't the case.

"Alright," Brenda/Carole shouted from the lobby. "We're ready when you are, Phil."

"You've got this," Jordan said with a smile.

Once we made it past the archway, I paused, gripping Jordan's wrist for dear life. There was a small space sectioned off with a red velvet rope, but instead of fans queueing behind it, only disappointment stood stagnant. Despite being told there was a plethora of Phillip's Firecrackers waiting for me, the room was empty. No one had come. Not a single soul. It stung. For God's sake, my own father hadn't even shown up.

It was a disaster. A damned mess of a situation. Still, Brenda/Carole was staring at me intensely, motioning for me to continue filming. Assuming they could simply CGI in non-existent fans during post-production, I pushed down the self-sabotaging thoughts and did what I did best: I put on a show.

Staring into the vacant space where gaggles of thirty-somethings should have been, I gave them my trademark smile—open-mouthed, my teeth not touching—waving ridiculously at my 'public.' Jordan bumped my shoulder with his, trying to get my attention, but I had an endless sea of imaginary fans waiting for me, and they took precedence. Pointing at a vacant space near the double doors, I gave one of my fans a wink and a pointed thumbs-up, clicking my tongue against my cheek.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jordan said.

I waved again, this time to an invisible onlooker by the vending machines. A janitor walked into the path of my wave, and he stared at me curiously. Our eyes met, and he slowly pulled out an earbud before cocking his head to the side. He returned my wave, along with a genuine, albeit terribly confused, smile. The double doors slid open, and a gust of humid Texas heat barreled into the airport, like a sauna located in the innermost depths of hell.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear: there were two souls in this world I hated. One of those was Brian O'Hare, my former bandmate and closet case ex-boyfriend, the other was Rivers Rivera. The man with matching names. The state champion quarterback. Muscadine King. My former science class partner. Owner of an ass sculpted by the gods themselves. Yes, Rivers held many titles, but only one of them mattered.

The boy who ran.

I eyed Brenda/Carole, hoping to get her attention, wanting to demand she have Rivers forcefully removed from the airport, but she was too busy filling her oversized vape with bright, ruby-red juice to notice. The man responsible for holding the boom mic above our heads glared at me before mouthing for us to keep moving. I didn't have the faintest idea what I was supposed to do, so I focused my attention on Jordan, hoping if I ignored Rivers long enough, he would leave.

"Is our driver here?"

Jordan pointed to his right and stared silently at me. The only person in the room—production team and airport staff aside—was Rivers, so I wasn't really sure what he was getting at. There was no limo waiting by the sidewalk, and certainly no chauffeur standing in the wings to whisk us away. Only Rivers in a Muscadine Madness t-shirt and a pair of impossibly tight blue jeans. As if he could read my mind, God's gift to dark denim fumbled with something in his pocket, wedging his fingers into fabric so tight it looked to be painted on. Eventually, he fished out a piece of paper. With a cheeky grin, he unfolded it and held the sheet up to his chest.

Phillip Firecracker, it said, in black permanent marker. There were even five-point stars above each i.

"Phillip," he greeted with a seemingly genuine smile. He was still holding on to the makeshift sign for dear life as I made my way toward him. Sensing my agitation, he took a step back. Then another. We continued the dance of predator and prey until there was no room left for Rivers to walk. His head hit the windowpane with a thud, and his face scrunched up in pain as he rubbed the back of his skull. I snatched the sign out of his hand and crumpled it, tossing it over my shoulder.

"Rivers," I said, hoping my voice conveyed the depths of my disdain. Unfortunately, it must not have, seeing as his smile returned in full force when our knuckles brushed together. He grabbed my hand without invitation and gave it a quick shake.

"Gosh, it sure is good to see you," he enthused. "Sorry about the dark circles." He ran a finger under his eye for dramatic flair. "I hardly slept last night, knowing I was going to pick you up today."

I turned back to Brenda/Carole. "Did you sign off on this? Was this your doing?"

"Phil, we really want to keep filming fluid. The fewer the interruptions, the better," she wheezed out.

"I don't care about your fucking fluids. You see this man right here? He's the single-worst soul that's ever existed. He puts Stalin to shame."

"Jesus Christ," Jordan groaned. "We've talked about this. You can't just compare people to Stalin."

"Oh, can't I? Tell me something. Have you ever been shoved upside down into a locker and left there for four hours? Did you have an entire football team use their bodies to spell out 'Phillip Fletcher is a queer' during the homecoming game?"

Jordan's jaw practically hit the floor. "You did that?"

Rivers shook his head emphatically. "I didn't!"

"No," I admitted. "Well, I'm sure you thought about it, you goddamn sociopath." If the words had stung, he didn't let it show. Instead, he offered me a halfhearted smile. Ignoring our one-sided war, he pointed at a pickup truck blocking the airport's entrance.

"I know it's not one of those fancy pink Cadillacs you used to be obsessed with, but I promise, it's just as comfortable. Probably even more so."

"Pink Cadillacs?" Jordan said.

"He had a thing for them growing up. Used to draw them all over his notebooks in class. That's actually why I'm late. I've been trying to find one for weeks, but it's just been dead ends and disappointment. A lady named Sequoia Sandalwood messaged me today, saying she had one I could borrow. I should have known it was a setup. Half her messages were just heart-eye emojis. When I got to her farm, she kept talking to me about the art of butter churning and asking me how a face this pretty was still on the market."

"It's not that pretty," I grumbled. The words were clearly a lie. He may have been a terrible human being, but he was also one of the most attractive boys I'd ever met, and time hadn't done much to change that. His golden-brown skin seemed to shine under the camera crew's harsh lighting, and there wasn't a single blemish on it. Unlike me, he didn't have the beginnings of crow's feet, or the hint of a receding hairline. His brown eyes—so dark that it was difficult to tell where the irises ended and his pupils began—were just as puppylike as ever. Growing up, his hair hung past his shoulders, but now he kept it short, parted at the side. A bit too conservative for my liking, but somehow it suited him. His beard, cut short and sculpted to perfection, was a deep black with small patches of silver peppered throughout.

As much as it pained me to admit, Rivers was a bit of a babe.

"That's also the reason I couldn't get you a nice 'welcome home' banner," he said. "I'd planned on heading out to Rinna's Crafts and Cutlery to pick one up for you, but by the time we'd gotten to the history of butter in the middle ages, it was already ten 'till. I had to feign tummy trouble and sneak out of the bathroom window just to get away."

"Rinna's Crafts and Cutlery?" I said, ignoring the rest of his ridiculous made-up excuse. I turned back toward Brenda/Carole. "If Lisa Rinna of Real Housewives fame has opened a craft store specializing in forks and spoons just to weasel her way into this series, I'm holding you personally responsible."

She approached like a bat out of hell, driving her finger into my chest with far more force than the situation called for. "What the hell is this? Crafts and cutlery? Kids being shoved in lockers? Our viewers expect to be entertained. This is Nostalgia Nation we're talking about. We're television's number seventeen source for your daily nostalgia needs. These people aren't tuning in to listen to you rant about Lisa Rinna and her decoupaged fucking forks." She reared back her arm before swinging it forward, delivering an emphatic uppercut to the air. "You gotta sparkle, Philly, sparkle!"

"Hey," Jordan said. "That was my line!"

"Can we please stop quoting Valley of the Dolls without getting permission? They'll sue," I said.

"Who is Lisa Rinna?" Rivers asked, offending me to my very core.

"Only the single-greatest reality television villain of all time," I said.

"You see?" Brenda/Carole said, flinging her arms in frustration. "This is what I have to deal with." She pointed at a woman holding an oversized suitcase, snapping her fingers repeatedly. The assistant's eyes blew wide before she propped her briefcase on top of the counter and rifled through its contents, stopping when she found an orange pill bottle. She shook out two pills and paused, eyeing the showrunner. Breathing shallowly, she nodded to herself and shook out another three pills before scurrying over to us.

"Here you go," she whispered as she stared at the floor.

"Thank god for Vicodin," Brenda/Carole popped all five pills into her mouth, dry swallowing them with ease. "I'm going to need these babies flowing like tap water by the end of this. I can already tell. Now," she said, fixing her gaze on me, "what I need from you is quality drama. No more of this Lisa Rinna blood feud. Nobody asked for that. No one wants it. We want more about your time in the band. What it felt like when you found out they reformed without you. As for you, Lake–"

"My name isn't Lake," he interjected, but all it earned him was a throaty growl.

"As I was saying, Lake. You've got this suave deer in headlights look going on. Play on that. Lean into the 'small town man meets his idol' vibe you're throwing out. I want passion. I want angst. And God dammit, I want another Vicodin." Stalking away with her assistant, she let out a string of expletives that should never be repeated, and with that, Rivers led us out of the airport and into what I hoped would be the second act of my career.