Page 67 of Sunrise Arrows

“Goddamn it,” Briar hisses, snapping her fingers at the producer. “We explicitly told them you were a non-topic. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I dismiss, enjoying watching Tinsley in her element. It’s entirely different from seeing her on magazine and tabloid covers or quick clips on social media. She’s effervescent and radiant, effortlessly getting people to eat out of the palm of her hand. For all her stardom, she looks and sounds like someone’s best friend, genuinely down to earth and unaffected by her starpower.

“It’s not fine,” Briar snaps. “It’s a direct steam rolling of her boundaries. Uh-uh, I won’t have it.” She’s off, high heels echoing on the floor in sharp staccato, inviting herself to the stage’s foreground where the cameras and producers are.

I stay in the shadows of the wings watching, unable to help myself as I smile. Tinsley was made for this.

They are a few minutes into the segment—Tinsley graciously trying to redirect Katie’s attention away from our relationship—when Katie asks the audience, “What about you guys? Don’t you want to meet Tinsley’s mystery man? I mean look at him,” she encourages, gesturing behind her where the digital screen of L.A. changes to the tabloid photos of us. “And look at her! She’s glowing.”

Where the show’s producers sit, Briar looks far too calm to be anything but homicidal as she quietly continues to argue with them, her head whipping around to where I am. She shakes her head no, telling me I don’t have to do this. She looks at me too long, however, because as Tinsley’s sweet voice is growing more steely in her adamance about keeping us private, one of the cameras pans in my direction. I jump further back, praying my black t-shirt and dark jeans blend with the shadows and keep me from view.

There’s a reason most of the pictures Katie is showing are from when we landed in L.A.

That first day, I wasn’t prepared for just how intense everything would be. From the second the plane’s door opened, it was chaos with paparazzi taking photographs of her from a distance. The madness only grew when we came through the other side of the private airport and were no longer protected by FAA and TSA security regulations. Even with Mikey and John and members of their team already on the ground waiting, creating a barrier for us to pass, we’d been swarmed. Flashbulbs going off in our faces, shouted questions that rang in our ears, pushing and shoving to get as close as possible.

They were like sharks with blood in the water, an unchecked frenzy as they rushed through and around each other for the best shot and a chance at catching us speaking or her answering a question.

I’ve lived with anxiety my entire life. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t overly cautious, calculating the risks in a situation, or easily overstimulated by the world around me, leaving my skin crawling and agitation on a hair trigger. But I’d never known terror like I did then, feeling my heart seize as my mind became consumed with every possible scenario of how things could go wrong, leading to Tinsley being injured. It was made worse knowing that if something were to happen, it would be seen as an event to capitalize on and not an emergency situation.

She strategically put herself in front of me and held my hand behind her and not at her side acting like a tiny, protective shield. But when one of Mikey and John’s guys lost hold of their line and were jostled closer to us, I reacted by tugging her back and into my side, my arm coming around her and guiding her head into my chest, my own head coming down over hers, effectively blocking their view of her with myself and the brim of my hat.

Since then, it’s become part instinct to keep her cocooned away from them and part a fun game to ruin as many possible shots of theirs as I can to keep them from capitalizing on invading Tinsley’s personal space and privacy. Only problem—the more elusive I appear to be, the more they seem invested in finding me out. Even this damn talk show host.

“He’s very private,” Tinsley insists, her ankles uncrossing as she prepares to stand.

I know right away she’s at the end of her patience and is ready to walk off set. I also know—or can at least fathom—the media shit storm that would cause her. And the last thing I want to do is become a problem for her image. So even though my palms are already sweating and I can’t stop rubbing them on the outside of my thighs, I suck in a breath, check that my glasses are relatively clean, and step out of the shadows.

I wait on the other side of the wings for a moment until our eyes connect. The smile Tinsley gives me is sad and apologetic, and I offer her what I hope is a reassuring one. A camera is quick to focus in my direction and without being asked, someone is manhandling me and shoving a mic pack into the back pocket of my jeans, clipping the small microphone to my shirt. Someone else reaches up to accost me with some sort of powder on my face and my head jerks back. I eye them for a moment and then force myself to relax.

I can do this; for her, I can do it.

Tinsley meets me halfway, and from the blurry corner of my eye I can see the audience light up with phones taking pictures and videos of what’s happening.

Her hand comes over her mic and I do the same to mine.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“You were gonna leave.”

“You're a hard line in the sand for me, Superman. They weren’t respecting you.”

I take her hand in mine and kiss her knuckles, murmuring thank you before leading her back to the couch, her small hand giving mine reassuring, pulsing squeezes as we sit down.

* * *

Wild hair tamedin a knot on her head and her face free of makeup, Tinsley crawls up the bed wearing my t-shirt, slotting herself between my thighs. She props an elbow to my left and rests her chin in her hand. The fingers of her other hand caress the ladder of my ribs on the right side.

She traces the few weeks old ink I had Easton—Ames’s brother—add to my ribs the morning after my confrontation with Hunter.

It’s of a dandelion blowing in the breeze. Intermingled with the puffs that float free are musical notes, and weaving between them are lines from the first draft of “Reckless,” in her handwriting. The final touch is her name that makes up the stem.

I mirror her and glide my fingers up the black t-shirt to brush along the arrow.

“I’m sorry about today,” she murmurs, letting her head fall to my abdomen. “It never should have happened. We made it absolutely clear that?—”

“Shhh,” I soothe, reaching out to pull the tie free of her hair. I comb my fingers through the thick tresses and assure her, “I don’t blame you. Or Briar,” I add for good measure. “I’m learning very quickly that where you’re concerned, people have a lack of respect and boundaries and that’s not your fault. It’ll never be your fault.”

“But I asked you to come.”

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