Just A Little Bit ✔️

10. Riley

Riley Jameson, In Real Life

I've tried to talk to her for ages now, typing texts that never go through. Kinley seems so far away, even though I could've, in theory, booked a plane ticket and been at her door in a matter of hours. London is miles from her, but it would be worth it to see her. She's been online, but only passively, trying to let the backlash die down.

I know the publicists have been working tirelessly to put out the fires. That's what they do: manage our images, curate an artificial persona to be devoured by the masses. I wonder what they're saying to Kinley. I hope they aren't giving her much trouble.

Unfortunately, I don't think she'd tell me if they did.

When she woke up the morning after we wrote All The Things We Never Say, she'd regained her composure and put a block between us. All of the rawness from before was gone. She kept her sincerity but was careful not to reveal too much. I wanted her to feel comfortable enough to vent. I knew she needed to talk to somebody, but that somebody wasn't bound to be me, at this point.

I'll be seeing her tonight, and I try not to be too excited about it. It's not a teenage crush, and therefore requires no giddiness. We're working together, and I need to treat her the way she wants me to. Boundaries.

It's hard to have boundaries when I'm inclined to kiss the daylights out of her most of the time, but I'm working on it.

Los Angeles is never peaceful, but I would reason that the afternoons before rush hour sets in are the closest thing anyone gets. The traffic is hell, but it's not as bad right now, when we've just gotten off our flight and are en route to Kinley's new place. She lives in the Hollywood Hills, an area we're not strangers to.

I slump lower in my seat, using sunglasses to keep from being blinded by the sunshine. Per usual, I'm hungover, and I've already gotten an earful from Stephie about it. She thinks I have issues coping, and I think how I handle myself now is better than when I was getting high. My mum lectured me about my drinking the last time I saw her too.

I expect everyone will be doing that as they wait for me to get my act together. I'm used to people worrying about me. I guess it means they care, which is better than the alternative.

Ted is here, but he'll be going to the hotel while we meet up with Kinley. He's been making countless phone calls and answering emails and texts all day. Once he got off the plane, he was back to being our manager, done with his short break. The guy never sleeps, but we're grateful for everything he does.

"Watch yourselves tonight," Ted warns us, temporarily setting his phone aside. "If the press shows up, don't be assholes. If anyone you don't know is there, make sure you give me time to draw up some NDAs."

"We know the drill, Dad," Gage deadpans. "Don't worry about us."

Ted sighs. "Perry, do me a favor and keep an eye on him."

Perry laughs, her cheeks brightening. "I will."

The glance she and Gage share feels like an inside joke. I'm thrown off by the way their eyes meet, and the way they seem to mirror one another as their gazes meet. In a second, the strangely private gesture ends, and we all forget it ever happened.

We're all best friends, as close as could be. We've grown up, and now we're here in LA, traveling in a private car. The crazy thing is that I haven't gotten used to this. It's a wonder it hasn't gone to my head.

Or maybe it has. That's why I drink so often.

We pull up to the gates outside of her townhouse. Kinley buzzes us in, and she meets us outside of her home, grinning from ear to ear.