After his meteoric rise to superstardom, Jim O'Brien is no longer a small-town boy who plays in bars and dreams of success. His handsome face is plastered on the covers of celebrity gossip magazines, and his voice alone is enough to make girls swoon...
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I was sitting on the couch with Ava in my arms. Her breathing evened out a while ago. Now, in the dim light from the lamp, I could study her freely. My eyes landed on her delicate fingers and manicured nails first. Ava's palm was resting on my chest, over my heart, burning my skin with its heat even through the fabric of my ironed shirt.
I felt peaceful and serene. The meeting with Wyatt the fucker didn't matter anymore. The commitments, the headache, the neverending demands lost their importance, dissolved in the air, vanished. I felt good, better than I had in a long while. Undeservingly good.
I was a fucking liar, after all. I used Eldridge — my mom's maiden last name — when Ava asked me my surname. I didn't know hers yet, but I doubted she hid as many things as I did.
Of course, I didn't use my chance to come clean when she asked me if I played an instrument. If I told her the truth, she'd probably be impressed. Then, she'd go home and google Jim O'Brien. She'd see the concert videos, hoards of screaming fans, and my stage alter-ego — Jim the showman, Jim the charmer, Jim the singer and the guitarist.
Inevitably, Ava would find pictures of me surrounded by models and actresses at the parties and the after-parties I attended. She wouldn't believe it was purely my job and the image I had to project. She'd probably read all sorts of gossip about Jim O'Brien being a sexy, handsome player, a playboy who changed girls as quickly as he changed his guitar picks.
Ava would stop smiling at me the way she did. She'd grow self-conscious because of dating a celebrity. There would be jealousy and insecurities, no matter how many times I'd reassure her the photoshopped pictures and false claims didn't mean shit. They really didn't, but they were a part of my life and my career. I loathed it, but it was inevitable. Like so many other things nowadays, what the tabloids wrote about me was out of my control.
I did the impossible to protect my family. Some details of my biography — my hometown, my teenage years, and the school I went to — remained private. My parents and my brother didn't have paps following them around, but here in the city, everything was different.
Telling Ava the truth would mean exposing her to the not-so-glamorous reality of my life as a celebrity. It would change her life just as it did mine when walking on the street became impossible without someone noticing me and taking a picture, often without my consent.
Instead of setting us free, the truth would wreak havoc on our lives, and I was terrified to lose the only genuine relationship with a girl I’d ever had. It was new and fragile, but it wouldn’t grow into something bigger if other things and people started to interfere now.
Probably, I was trying to convince myself because I knew I'd have to confess the truth at some point. Fortunately for me, it wouldn’t happen tonight.
Ava stirred in her sleep and buried her face in the crook of my neck. I contemplated my options. The correct one was waking her up and taking her home, saying goodbye while I planted a kiss on her forehead and watched her blush.
