I Always Will

Improvising

Author's Note: I imagine the performance later in the chapter is something like "The One That Got Away" by The CIvil Wars.

Row, New York

Late Night Talk shows used to be predictable. Lately, the hosts have gotten just as bad as tabloid journalists. It all started a few years back when David Letterman raked Lindsay Lohan over the coals. Now, you never know what to expect from these guys. Sometimes they will follow the interview prep as planned, and sometimes they will absolutely fuck you and your brand on national tv.

I am a rich, privileged Hollywood baby. A cheater and a drug abuser. Just the kind of celebrity that Corbin Frey likes to shame so he can own social media tomorrow and up his ratings.

I would cop to everything awful I've ever done, except for the fact that I don't want to hurt Riley. He's so private. I know the last thing he wants is our love life made into a joke on national television.

He's been unsurprisingly strategic in the negotiations of the interview prep—the biggest interview of the press tour. Not only are the standard questions about the show and upcoming season on the slate, he's also approved juicy questions about reconciliation, his accident, his injuries, and my recent guitar comeback on Instagram in exchange for disallowing questions about my "alleged" affair. But just because we've approved a host of questions and denied others doesn't mean anything.

He knows that. He knows I know that. I'm going on in twenty minutes, and we haven't talked about that.

He's sitting on a couch behind the stylist's chair. His eyes are on his phone; my eyes are on his reflection. He looks calm. I'm not. Maybe for the first time ever, I'm freaking out about a TV appearance.

He feels my stare and looks up. A five second evaluation of me pulls him to his feet. Without so much as a wince. His new pain management plan has been a lifesaver. We've been traveling for the press tour for over two weeks now, and I haven't read more than late-night fatigue or maybe a little morning stiffness in his expressions. Right now, there's no pain at all on his features. Only concern for the anxiety he's reading in me.

"Give us the room," he says.

Low-level staffers ignore him.

"I need to plump her lips more," says the night show's makeup artist.

Riley smiles. He thumbs his phone. When the person on speaker answers in her brassy, over-smoked voice that everyone recognizes as the show's producer, Riley says politely, "Joy, we'd like the green room, please, but your grips are deaf, your production assistants are pricks, and your makeup artist shocking overvalues her contribution. I have a great deal of perspective from nearly fucking dying recently, and Rowan inherits a trust fund soon. You need us much more than we need you."

"Give him the goddamn room," she squawks. Then puffs. Then exhales, as everyone shuffles out.

Riley shuffles toward me but I twirl the makeup chair and meet him halfway.

He grabs my head and ruins my lipstick with a fervent kiss. "You look stunning, Rowan. And that is nothing compared to how you played and sounded at rehearsal. You're going to be flawless. I have no doubt."

"Thanks." The new 'do does make me feel more confident, and I'm just doing a simple acoustic version of one of the songs from Girl Band's last season soundtrack but he's right, rehearsal went great. "I feel good about the song, but Riley, listen...Frey is notorious for being a jerk and going rogue on his guests . What if he hounds me about Aidan?" I ask.

"Darling, I have the up most faith in your media training," he says lightly. He should; he trained me. "You tell me what happens if Frey hounds you about Aidan."