Chapter 8 : : -(

Oh, Hollywood, such splendor! Such magic!

You zoom northbound along the Pacific coast, listening to some good stuff on your iPod, Cascada obviously, but also Boy Kings, especially their second album, Boys in Love. That's the one they recorded when you first started dating Joff. When he called you every single night and mailed roses to the townhouse every single day. It's always been so sad that he lives on the other coast. You only get to see him when you're in town recording, staying at the Santa Monica condo, but even then, you're busy. And when you were recording Still Ur Girl, he was on tour with the Kings, a world tour, the coolest, most important thing ever.

So basically you haven't been in the same city in over a year, since recording your second album, Taking Flight. Like, mostly you text, but it's always worked. Because you're going to be together forever, duh, and you're going to end up in L.A. no matter what.

You're here now, watching the ocean glitter like a bowl of sapphires. Imagine if you could see it every day! That's the dream! That's your dream; you made that one up yourself. And Joff's pretty voice comes through your headphones like an angel: there's this girl, girl girl. With hair so red, red, red. She's on my mind, mind, mind. She's my princess. And the chorus, oh my gosh! Let's ride away, to the sunset, I'll be your prince, you're my princess. Royal girl, royal girl, royal girl so ruby red. I love my royal girl, royal girl, royal girl, she's my princess!

So already you're in the best mood, imagining Joff sweeping you off your feet and loving you forever, but Littlefinger is in a good mood too. He stops at Starbucks and get this: he buys you a strawberry cream frappuccino! Grande! With whipped cream! "For my little princess," he says, which is so silly, because Joff's your prince. He's technically going to take you away from Littlefinger and your extravagant NYC dungeon, but you kiss his cheek anyway, and smile all the way to the Hollywood Bowl.

Unfortunately you have to do a little extra rehearsal. The stage is different, because it's raised up from the audience already, and totally massive. You won't shoot understage and rise up from the middle, you have to do a boring, but very glamorous, strut in from the side. You practice that with frap in hand, flip-flops flip-flopping, because it's SoCal, outdoors, a balmy seventy degrees in February. It's a total breeze, so you mostly gossip with your dancers. They all like boys too, and they're so stoked that Joff's coming to see you. Maybe they can have another one of the Boy Kings. Aegon definitely seems a little gay.

They all agree.

You and chat and chat, and oops, your eye is wandering. Don't look at him, you tell yourself, but ugh, yeah, he's there. The Phantom of the Opera. Good thing he doesn't rig the lights or anything. He'd probably make them fall on you. Instead he sets up his stupid booth, and for this show he gets to be on your level, off in the wings. At least a giant screen will cover him up audience-side, like, imagine if your fans had to see him! They'd get so scared!

Soundcheck is fine. Business as usual. Except you're still thinking about the plot of Phantom of the Opera. The movie is pretty good, Emmy Rossum is sooo pretty, but you like the musical better. Sandor won't kill anyone tonight, but he definitely tried to steal you from Joffrey. Rude! He thinks just because he controls your mix he can date you too. He's so wrong it hurts.

You sing extra well during soundcheck to prove it, and you don't even care that Sandor is glaring daggers from his booth, like, get over it!

When no one else is looking, you stick out your tongue at him.

He laughs. Shakes his big head of stringy hair, flashes his fangs, and laughs.

So, yeah, you're totally over him! Good riddance!

But then soundcheck is done, and it's like, where's Joff?

You texted him good morning, and he hasn't texted since. Weird, because he's in L.A. Did he have a photoshoot he didn't mention? An interview, maybe? He's supposed to surprise you with the flowers during the show of course, but you wouldn't mind if he came earlier. You didn't want to seem so high maintenance, so you left him alone. You left room for a little romantic magic.

No such luck, yet.

So the sun sets, no Joff. You get dressed in your baby doll costume, no Joff. He really is good at suspense! You idle backstage, jittery, listening to the audience buzz like a swarm, you check your phone a hundred times, not a single message from Joff. You look at Randa, she says, "Haven't seen him, bluebird." So you send him, see you soon! Love you lots!

Traffic, it's just traffic. And the flowers too! Maybe the pickup ran late. He's hurrying as fast as he can, and maybe his phone died. Besides, this is all a surprise! Be calm. Be calm.

You want a white rectangle, the most chill pill of all, but you don't get them before shows.

Hyle fixes your earbuds. Randa takes your phone.

Okay, no more worries. Showtime.

Have you talked about shows? You disappear during shows, truthfully, so they can be hard to recall. Your brain separates from your body and your heart takes over. All you have to do is listen to the thud in your ears, a wordless command, then the lights hit, the mix kicks in, and you float. It's angelic. It's xanax and coke. Your songs flutter up straight from your soul and into thousands of willing ears, and here's a fun fact, Sandor sneaks their applause into your mix (otherwise you wouldn't hear a thing!) It's just a smidge, mostly in between songs, so you can hear the prayer they shout back:

WE LOVE YOU, WE LOVE YOU, WE LOVE YOU, SANSA STARK!

And you say in return: I love you, Hollywood!

You change from baby doll, into school girl, into your pretty blue ball gown. It has a skirt like a half-dome of sparkly, snowy sky, and puffed sleeves as big as cantaloupes. You toss yourself around on stage to the tune of Prom Princess. I'm the belle of the ball, the girl every boy wants. But there's only one for me, the handsomest prince of all. Arthur is your prince for the song: he wears matching light blue regalia, twirls you around, gets down on one knee. You accept his proposal and fly in the air, he catches you, you dip low, and close, so somberly, but this happily ever after is only one night, after all.

The rest of the boys descend, swallow you up, chase you dramatically off stage. This always has the audience gasping, they totally want your happy ending, and for some reason, Sandor plays it extra loud in your earbuds tonight. As Merry and Mary undo your spotless gown backstage and fix you into the tattered one, tilt your tiara askew on your loose curls, you listen to a thousand iterations of bated breath and stifled whispering. It melds with your out of control heartbeat, the pitch-perfect soundtrack of anxiety.

You pad back to the stage on bare feet. Misty-eyed, you look to the front row.

No Joff.

You look to the wings, left and right.

No Joff.

Your dancers, their prince outfits frayed and torn, wheel out the white grand piano. You can wait as long as you want here, standing center stage, looking wistful. Most of the time the tears are for show, a skill well-mastered. But tonight, the whispers drag out true sorrow.

The king is dead.

And where's the prince?

You curtsy, low, then tiptoe to the piano.

It's time for Yours.

The tears fall as soon as your fingers hit the keys, but they're precious as diamonds, you let them happen, and you sing, "Heaven is the home where I met you, where we spent sunny days side by side, I walked on clouds for years, and I want a hundred more." You try to tug in your next breath, but it shatters into a sob. Your head drops, water spills onto the keys, you whimper wetly, "I miss you. "

He's not coming.

"I'm lost."

He doesn't love you.

"Far from home."

He never did.

"All alone, lone, lone."

And now you really sob, because reality like a lightning strike rips through your chest, and it's Sandor's fault, you're crushed, you don't have breath, like maybe he actually made the two-ton light rack fall. You want to be so angry, you want to shoot lightning right back, but when you rub your eyes and look out to his booth, he leans over his machine, he mouths something. One word, the same word, over and over. Sing, and through angular slashes of stage light, you know his brow is slanted, but upwards, like he's begging, like he really, really needs this. And slowly, he brings the audience into the mix. It's quiet at first, but the voices pick up, "Small, in the snow, you gifted me the sun." They're singing your song for you. They get louder, oh, they know all the words. They know daddy's song. "I'm the flower, you're the warmth," and you pick your head, find the slippery keys, belt out, "I'm yours, yours, yours."

You decide you're done with the piano. You make your way to the very edge of the stage, which is totally not part of the routine, but the floor lights dim, the spotlight follows you, and alongside so many strangers, not one of them Joff, you sing to you father, eyes on heaven above.

"Home is my heart, home is in sky, we'll live in the clouds together, a bird in the sunshine."

At last, you collapse on your knees, and more song, a true song, comes before you can stop it.

"I tried to find you, daddy,” you sob.

"I tried."

When silence falls, you look up, and he's there. Your lips form his name, but your heart doesn't stitch itself up, because you can't undo lightning strikes.

He's frowning.

And Margaery stands at his side.

Electrocuted head to toe, you flee the stage, pure bright panic in your veins. You zip through Rainbows Forever. The encore is demanded, okay, you bust out three classics, and end, as always, with Over the Rainbow. Done. You don't give Joff a second look. You scurry to the dressing room. Merry and Mary strip you down, Randa is there, kinda quiet; Littlefinger is half-hard and staring. That's enough!

Don't they realize the world is ending???

"Why is she here?" you scream-shout, in nothing but your bra and thong. She ruined everything! But no one will answer, because of course she would get an invite, no one would ever stop her from getting what she wants. Besides, you're supposed to be friends. "I want her gone!" you wail.

Littlefinger takes a call, then disappears out the door. Randa pecks furiously at her phone. You force Mary to help you into your post-show dress, like what you should be wearing on your Rodeo Drive Valentine's date, to Spago, tonight. It's sleek, sophisticated, spaghetti-strap, scoop neck, floor-length shiny pale gold silk. It turns your hair into radiant fire, especially when Merry gets out the hot iron, and makes the perfect flickering curls.

Littlefinger returns just as Merry finishes touching up your makeup (she went with waterproof eyeliner and mascara, you noticed).

"He'll meet you in the green room," Littlefinger says.

"And her?"

"She'll wait outside."

Fine. The whole entourage tails you down the hall to the green room, stocked as usual with your Rococo furniture, golden-framed with puffy pink cushions. You go in alone. You perch on the chaise lounge, and wait. What’s taking so long? Like what, is he stealing your fans? Oh no, Margaery is, that stupid slut. It’s way past time for your date. Ugh!

You eye the bowl of strawberries on the marble-topped side table. A particularly fat one sits on top, the kind of mutant strawberry that looks ventricular, two swollen halves of a heart. You pick it up, hold it outstretched in your palm. A swift knock sounds. No announcement, but Joffrey comes in. You smell him, clean laundry and sunshine, a cloud of Boy Funk.

"Hi baby," you whisper, but you don't get up. No, you shelter the berry in your lap, safe in two cupped hands, the way little boys catch bugs.

"We're over," Joff says.

Squash. Strawberry jam. It squishes between your fingers, drips onto your silks, and fresh tears quickly join. Oh, you're definitely not looking up. "It's her," you bitterly whisper. She. Ruined. Everything.

But Joff comes back with, "No, it's you, you sneaky little slut."

"No," you gasp. Joffrey comes at you, oh God, he's so handsome tonight with his white polo and tousled sunshine curls, and even his anger is hot. It would melt you to slime but it's so hot you're dry, evaporated, shards and dust. He lands in front of you and thrusts out his phone. No, oh my God, no, no, no. It's a picture of you and Sandor, the day you came back from holiday. You're leaning into the monitor booth, with your hand curled around his neck.

From that angle, it looks like you're kissing.

"It's not what it looks like," you whine.

"It's exactly what it looks like. And you fucked him, too."

"No!"

"Yes." Joff grabs your chin so hard it hurts. He does this when you’re bad. "You can cut the bullshit. I know about the hotel. You fucked an ugly old man and you thought I wouldn't find out."

"I didn't fuck him," you say, because that's the truth. Crushes aren't cheating! It just happened! But like, did you just happen to visit him the night he saved you from falling off the stage? Was it an accident that you made Randa invite him to the Bellagio? Did you really, really, choose Sandor?

Did you choose the monster over the prince?

Joffrey drops his face to yours. "You're a lying skank." His breath is a summer's kiss. "I should have known—your pussy was always loose. Do fuck the Kettleblacks, too? Or do you at least have the decency to sleep with rich men? I know there's a reason the Walders sign you, and it's certainly not your shitty voice. You've got as much talent as a corpse."

The strawberry mush is warm between your palms. You stand on shaky legs, the legs of a baby bird, taking the hand on your chin up with you. Squish me, I dare you, but you know he won't. He's not half so strong, and besides, someone else cracked your shell first. Your hand shoots out, splat, you drag red fruit guts down the front of his clean white shirt.

"I have a pretty flower," you say, waterlogged. "Sandor said so."

Joffrey's face twists into a terrible shape. Smooth skin, finally, wrinkles. He has pores. He has texture. His skin is more than spotless, soft gold.

"He's way nicer than you."

You stare off. Those were the eyes of your first love. Maybe you still love him. He's too pretty to hate. You want to be as pretty as him, no, prettier. Things were supposed to be pretty. But that was before Sandor came along. He turned things inside out. You're a little bird. You're also the boss. So you look Joff dead in the eye, and say, "Let me go."

He scoffs, his hand goes away, but it plunges into the bowl of strawberries. He catches your wrist before you can escape, holds his fist above your head, and squeezes. Juice rains down and that's not enough for him. He smashes the pulp against your chest, rubs, drops it into your dress so it collects between your barely-there boobs and slithers towards your belly.

"I hate you," you whisper.

"You love me," Joff snaps back. "You were always so fucking clingy."

You jerk your wrist away, and Joffrey frees you so you can stumble. "I hate you!" you shout, because if you repeat things maybe they'll come true, and you try to take the strawberries out of your dress but were they rotten? It's total jam, stuck in paltry cleavage, slipping between your fingers. You can't stay here cloaked in carnage. Tears and juice drip from your lashes and the tip of your nose. "I hate you!" and Joff laughs. It's a horribly beautiful sound; it brings the walls in.

You have to get out.

You charge to the door, now sobbing, and there's so many people outside it, watching. All these stupid fucking faces that haunt you, day in, and day out. You hate them all. And HER! Margaery is there, as promised, with her own royal guard, her stupid doe-eyes lined in unblemished makeup, framed by the prettiest side swept bangs. And she has a Birkin bag on her arm?? No fair!

You stomp over in your kitten heels. "You can have him. He's a horrible boyfriend."

She smirks and flutters her heavy lashes. "He’s not my boyfriend," she says. Her hand slides up the Birkin’s strap, and on her ring finger sits fifteen carats, princess cut, set with blazing rubies.

"No," you breathe.

"Yes. We're engaged. We'll announce it tomorrow, now that" —she gives you a snotty once over— “you’re out of the picture.”

That's the final straw, the lights have really come down, glass shatters, steel crushes, and most of all: the world goes dark. It's sharp and heavy black behind open, wet eyes. "Let me go," you sob, because hands like severed tentacles reach out to grab you. "Let me out of here."

Exit, exit, exit. That you can see. Bright red, luring you to OUT to NOT HERE and BEYOND. California air is a sweet veil on your sticky face. The bus! The bus is there, in the loading dock, safe. You have at least three more suitcases inside it, full of all the things of yours that Littlefinger hates. Well, fuck him too! You want Puff. And you want to wear pink.

There's for sure a Kettleblack behind you but you storm over to chubby old Dontos, who stands dazedly by the bus door. One look at your sorry state, and he fumbles for the keys. "Sorry, miss, uh, here, let me—" He opens up. You turn, yep, it's Osmund, and further back by the exit, ugly, tall Brienne, pudgy Randa, and him, the man who gave you Joffrey, just to take him away.

So everyone knows what's what, you shout: "Leave. Me. ALONE." And then, " FOREVER!!! "

You slam the bus door behind you. It has latches on the inside too, for security and so the door doesn't pop open while you ride. You slide them, top and bottom. Good. You crumple to your knees, rest your forehead on the door's glossy, mock-wood lining, and cry.

But a terrifying sound yanks you out of your sorrow: a growl, achingly low, hungry, carnal.

"Little bird," says the Hound. "I knew you'd come."