Page 2 of Not My Fault

“Of course.” She laughs.

I get up, changing into a pair of sweats and a crop top, sans bra. I know I’m about to be hoarded by the paparazzi, but it isn’t like I need to look like a top model. I wipe off most of the makeup I’m wearing and look for my phone. It’s probably in the safe, soI unlock it and grab my things. Georgie taps away on her phone, probably ordering food, and follows me out. Security walks us through the door and toward the SUV. I would’ve preferred to take the subway, but it’s safer this way. With more popularity comes more recognition.

“LULY! LULY!”

“LOOK THIS WAY LULY!”

“SMILE!”

“ARE YOU UPSET ABOUT MISSING COACHELLA?”

I stop short in my tracks. How the hell does anyone know about that already. The flash of photography in all directions should blind me, but I’m wearing my extra dark shades for this purpose. Catching my response, the guy tries again.

“I TAKE IT YOU HEARD YOU WERE DENIED COACHELLA FOR A MORE TALENTED SINGER? SUCKS YOU CAN’T PLAY!”

“SHOW US YOUR TITS!”

“LULY! LULY!”

“You wanna see ‘em?” I don’t know what comes over me, but I use my free hand to lift my crop top and show my tits. I spin around, making sure everyone gets a good look and throw up the middle finger as well.

“Are you serious? Em, you know better than to do that!” Georgie scolds me when I get in the car. Sometimes she’s more of a mom to me than my own mother is. She loves telling me to take it easy.

“What? Did you not get a good enough look? I can show you again if you like.” I wink and she blushes, turning red as a tomato even though she’s the straightest woman I know. If you can’t act gay with your bestie, then who can you be gay with?

“You know Viv said to be careful. I’m just looking out for you.”

I take her hand and squeeze it gently. “I know, and I appreciate it. It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t done or shown before.”

The driver drops us off at our apartment, which is one of the securest buildings in the city. I had to move several months ago after things started to pick up, and I wasn’t leaving my best friend behind on the lease. We’ve always shared an apartment, both of us moving here almost seven years ago. We’ve gone from a studio apartment we shared to this, which is a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. I think we’ve done pretty well for ourselves. Georgie’s successful on Wall Street, so even though she doesn’t have to, she chips in on the rent every. She grabs the food, and we head into the apartment. All I want to do is relax with my bestie and maybe take an edible in the bath after.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Viv shouts the second she walks into my apartment. It’s way too fucking early for her. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that second gummy last night but one never seems to be working until I take another.

“What the hell are you shouting about?” I look down and realize I’m not wearing any pants, but hell if she hadn’t bombed my phone with calls until I let her in. I didn’t think she’d be bringing along two of her assistants. They stand behind her feebly, terrified her rage might turn to them.

“Is everything okay?” Georgie comes out rubbing her eyes, but at least she’s wearing pants and a robe.

“No. You want to explain this?” Viv smacks down a newspaper on the kitchen island.

“Uh, you still buy newspapers? I didn’t know they made those everyday anymore,” I muse with a yawn.

“This is why you didn’t get Coachella,” she says sharply, waking me up quicker than a cup of coffee.

“What? But this just came out; they decided about Coachella already.”

“You didn’t get it because you’re always being wild, showing your tits or flipping off the paparazzi.” She scoffs.

“What the hell did you expect? My slogan is literally ‘Great tits, bigger heart’.”

“You need to calm down. I can’t keep doing damage control if you’re always going wild. I can only salvage so much, Emily.”

“I think you’re overreacting.” I sigh. We have this fight at least once a month.

“Coachella reached out today and gave this as an example of why they didn’t pick you.” She sighs. Viv holds out her hand and one of the assistants— don’t know their names because she always has new ones—gives her a phone, and Viv shows me the email from Coachella.

I read it in my head, biting on the inside of my cheek. Fuck. Is she right? I didn’t think I was that bad. Am I?

TWO

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