Demi Lovato Imagines

Bad Date pt.2

"Go away!"

She knocks again, the dark shadows of her feet visible underneath the door. 

"I said go away!"

You hurl a pillow across the room with the last of your strength, collapsing back onto the mattress and covering your hot sticky face with your hands. You hate yourself for crying. 

"Come on, we'll have fun! We don't have to go and watch some stupid cushy movie that she would have wanted to see."

You hiccup, rolling onto your side and curling your knees up to your chest. I don't care about the movie, Maddie, you whine inside your head. I just feel stupid. 

She knocks again.

"Come on..." she pleads softly. A full minute passes before the two shadows disappear. Making a fist, you strike your leg hard in frustration. Then again. Then again. You know it's going to bruise tomorrow. Worse because you're not wearing jeans, just a pair of ten-dollar leggings you had to get for some school performance three semesters ago. At the time, you remember wanting to throw them out. Just looking at them in your wardrobe reminded you of how there was no one in the audience to see you. Shame burns your ears as you remember telling Stacey that your parents were already seated, just in the far back corner. In reality, your mom had just texted five minutes before that they wouldn't make it. Demi was having a hard time in treatment. She needed emotional support. Stacey didn't ask why you then needed a lift home. She didn't ask anything at all, actually. You figure that was the tell-tale sign that she knew the truth. And you were relieved that she didn't force you to talk about it. 

So it was almost like deja vu when the phone buzzed on the kitchen counter just after lunch. Sure, it wasn't your phone, it was Demi's. And the message was from her manager, not your parents. But the sinking feeling in your stomach was all too familiar. 

"Seriously?"

"What?" you hummed, tossing another grape in the air and catching it in your mouth. She didn't reply for a long moment, running her fingers through her hair. 

"Rick's just told me I need to do some press thing this afternoon."

"But it's the weekend," you mumbled, squashing another grape between your thumb and forefinger. The way Demi snorted as if to say - Yeah? So?  -  made your blood boil. 

"Sorry, squirt. Maybe next weekend?"

She didn't look up from her phone. 

"Yeah," you said. "Whatever."

She groaned, dropping her arms heavily by her sides. 

"What?"

"What?" you parroted, turning a shoulder away so she could only see half your face. 

"What's wrong now?"

"Nothing," you shrugged. 

"We're not doing this again."

"Fine."

"Ughh, tell me what's wrong!"

You could have smiled at her predictability had you not been so frustrated. Sounds melodramatic but it was as if you could actually see the corners of your vision turning red. 

"It's just typical, that's all," you replied dismissively. 

"Look," she said, pointing a finger at her chest, "I'm sorry, okay? This is just some last-minute thing."

"Yeah. Sure. Sorry. I'll remember that."

You headed for the door.

"It's just the cinema, for Pete's sake, Y/n! Grow up!"