Page 3 of Sunrise Arrows

“Don’tanswer her, Mikey. You’ll only encourage her.”

From the front seat, he mimes zipping his lips in the rearview mirror. In return, Briar sticks her tongue out at him and deems him to be a fun-sucker, to which he shrugs and says, “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

“Mikey,” I scold. “It’s been eight years. I think we’ve developed enough familiarity for you and John to use our first names. At the very least to stop calling us, ‘ma’am.’ Right, John?”

“No can do,ma’am,” John answers, briefly glancing into the back seat with a teasing glint in his eye before turning his attention back to the treacherous L.A. traffic.

The rest of the drive home is made in relative silence, my head against the window as I think about what Briar said. Minus her terrible recollection of sports—Corey being a cornerback not a quarterback and her calling gamesmatcheslike it’s tennis—she’s not wrong. This really has been the worst arrangement I've ever been a part of. So much so, I came home a day early just so I could get it over with sooner.

I have very few, but firm, rules and expectations when agreeing to these publicity relationships, and Corey’s somehow managed to fall short on every single one of them. If this were real, he’d be the absolute worst boyfriend ever.

Then again, I’m not exactly a prize myself. I’m a workaholic who has perfected faking it for the cameras, and I refuse to take my mask off and try to be someone real. I don’t even do it for myself, knowing how hard it would be to put it back on if I let anything slip free. Even amongst the people in this car, plus Landon—my first friend in the industry—and Skylar—an actress who grew up as a child star and the only other true girl friend I have—I keep a tight lid on everything from before I came to L.A. I’ve been doing it so long I’m not even sure what would come out if I opened it. I lost who I was the day I accepted that I had truly losthim.

Archer Hayes.

When I was eighteen, he was the love of my life. He still is. Only now, he’s the unignorable specter of regret and heartache that’s been warming my bed ever since I left him ten years ago.

That choice left a hole inside me. One that, the more famous I become, the more success I have, grows. And as it grows, so does the frequency of him coming up in my thoughts.

It’s why I finally produced his album. I thought if I cracked the seal on everything I tucked away, it would bring me the catharsis I’ve been lacking. That I could finally close the void I created.

Turns out, it only served to further highlight how meaningless it’s all been without him.

Not that he wanted me in the end anyway.

I may have fled like a coward, but he was the one who let me go.

It’s that thought that has me jackknifing up in the seat as I scramble for a pen and my journal.

Always anticipating my every need, Briar is shoving both into my hands before I can even reach for her bag and placing my noise canceling headphones over my ears the moment I put ink to paper.

For the rest of the drive, I’m lost in the words as they tumble from my head, onto the paper.

Summer Hazemay have been the high, but this is the come down.

* * *

Per usual,the drive to my home in Bel-Air takes almost twice the amount of time that it should. But that’s life in L.A. and its surrounding areas. Nothing is ever a quick trip.

It gives me the time to write though. A fun fact most people are surprised to learn about my process—I don’t drive myself anywhere anymore, so sitting in the back of an SUV with Mikey or John at the wheel provides me with plenty of additional time to work. These days, 70 percent of my music first comes to life in this backseat or while on my plane.

We turn off the main stretch of the street and stop at the gate that keeps my home secure. From his seat at the wheel, John punches in my security code and tells Mikey to make note that it’s time to change it now that I’m home. They pull through just enough to clear the gate’s track and watch it seal shut in the rearview mirror. It’s only then that the car starts moving again and we make our way up the long, gravel drive to my 1920s Tuscan style home.

Headphones back in my bag with my journal and pen securely tucked into the front interior pocket, I smile at Briar.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, babe.”

Mikey’s opening my door as John gets my luggage from the back when Briar says, “Think about what I said, Tins. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll make it happen. You can’t keep going at Mach 9. Even the great Tinsley Jacobs needs time to relax and recharge her batteries.”

Leaning across the middle seat, I hug my best friend and assure her, “I will. But first, I have to deal withthat,” nodding my head to where Corey’s eyesore of an overpriced car is parked in front of my house.

“Ew,” she draws out, lip curling. “He is the epitome of, ‘a fool and his money are soon parted.’ Seriously Tins, just end it. These things don’t do anything for you anymore.”

I wave her off with Mikey shutting the door as I stretch my legs. Coming around to the back, I fight John for custody of my weekender duffle, proudly slinging it over my shoulder, though I know he let me win. Stretching up on my toes, I hug the man.

“Thank you, John.”

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