Page 51 of Holiday Star
Once I hang up with my mom, her words bounce around in my head, as heavy and loud as bowling balls. The concern and fear in her voice replays in my mind. I flop on the couch, laying on my back with my eyes closed, and go over everything she said.
I hate like hell to admit it, but she did have some points.
Caleb and I are very different people, from very different backgrounds. We’ve been sheltered, living in this Christmas-themed snow globe of a house. It’s let the tendrils of our new relationship take root and grow. A tiny seedling, thriving on a diet of good conversation and laughter with a hearty dose of mind-blowing sex.
But what happens if that little plant is taken out of this greenhouse and exposed to true daylight? How will it respond with the sun glaring down and no place to hide? Will it wither? Be burned by the harsh atmosphere?
What about the secrets Caleb hides from me? Why didn’t he tell me about those girls? Why has he never mentioned this Lola chick, who, if Jenny is to be believed, he was in a relationship with? What’s in the notebook he’s always writing in?
That’s when I do something bad.
Something I swore I would never ever do.
I Google him.
Typing Caleb Lawson into the search bar brings up literally thousands of results. He’sallover the internet. Articles about his movies, biographies about his rise to fame, exposés about his drinking and relationships. It’s all there in gory Technicolor detail.
I glance at the stairs, worried about getting caught, as guilty as a kid looking at pornography. Caleb’s voice murmurs above me. He’s still on the phone.
In a rush, I skip the articles and go straight to the images. The page fills with tiny thumbnail pictures of Caleb. Photos ranging from him as a little kid to the present day.
The most recent photos are at the top. I see the one that Jenny showed me, the wreck of his car. There’s another picture of him, obviously drunk, his shirt half-unbuttoned. His arm is thrown around the shoulder of another famous actor as they stumble out of a club in West Hollywood.
Many of the photos are of Caleb with a gorgeous woman, a total bombshell. She’s tall, even taller than Caleb in her heels, which are all spiked stilettos, the kind I could never wear. I would break my ankle for sure in those shoes. The woman has an exotic look to her, like she’s of Italian or maybe Mediterranean descent.
She has glossy black hair that hangs in perfect beachy waves down to her low back. Deep brown eyes are framed by lashes so long they have to be fake. Her lips are so plump that I imagine kissing them would be like falling into a soft, memory foam pillow.
She’s exquisite.
I check the name under her picture.
Lola Monroe.
Fuck.
How the hell am I ever going to compete withthat?
With a thunk, I slam the computer shut and slump onto my back, throwing an arm over my face, unable to look at any more pictures of Caleb’s life.
Hisreallife.
He’s never lied to me about any of this, but I still feel betrayed. I keep my eyes closed, those photos playing like a movie through my mind as my thoughts descend into panic and despair.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that maybe Caleb didn’t lie, but there are things he hasn’t mentioned. Like those girls from caroling or this stunning ex-girlfriend.
Whatelseis he not telling me? I roll over onto my belly and stare at the bottom of the couch.
There it is.
That little black-and-white checkered notebook, one of its corners barely sticking out. I glance again at the ceiling and listen. Caleb’s low, muffled voice drifts down the stairs.
Good.Still on the phone.
My attention is drug like a magnet to the notebook. It’s practically begging me to come take a peek. Without a doubt, I know I shouldn’t. It completely violates Caleb’s privacy, an invasion I wouldn’t want directed at me. A tiny voice in the back of my head tells me it’s only fair. That this is his punishment for withholding from me when I’ve been so open and honest with him.
I almost convince myself that I’m doing it for us. To strengthen our relationship. To know him better so I’ll be prepared for any more sneak attacks, like the one my mother just sprung on me.
With the devil’s voice whispering in my ear, I lean over and pick up the notebook. I stand up with it in my hand and pace, slowly flipping through the book.
