CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CLOUDBURST

( — a sudden and very heavy rainfall. )

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          GINNY'S SHAMPOO IS NOW MICHAELA'S FAVORITE SCENT. It used to be mint, but, now that Ginny's sitting next to her, flipping through the TV channels in search of something so stupid they don't have the time to be so sad, she decides things have changed. Lincoln has always been the reason behind her sudden affection for mint-scented things, as it's in his cologne, in his after-shave, and in the chewing gum packet he always carries with him.

          Ginny's damp hair smells like strawberries. It's sweet instead of fresh and it numbs Michaela down instead of waking her up—it all she needs right now, as being alert and attentive to her surroundings would only remind her of the reason she's not at home or even at Lincoln's apartment, where she woke up not even that long ago.

          It's like she's missing a limb. She absolutely hates that—she hates that she's still giving him the power to get woven in her brain, even now that she has decided she doesn't want to see or to talk to him again.

          Ginny and Roya have been kind enough to let Michaela take a quick shower and even let her borrow fresh clothes, and, when she stepped out of the bathroom, hair as fluffy as a cloud, she had to force herself to remember sometimes people are kind just because. With no hidden reasons behind it—they're doing this because they're her friends, because they care about her and her well-being, because it's what's expected from human beings in their situation.

          She doesn't want to be pitied and they're not giving her that. They've left her alone, letting her move around freely and watch bad television with them so she can distract herself, but they're not constantly shooting her concerned glances and asking her if there's anything they can do.

          Roya steps out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs of coffee and lets her take the first one before sitting down and handing Ginny hers, complete with a hot-pink sleeve surrounding it. Michaela's doesn't have one, probably because she likes feeling the warmth of the porcelain caress her skin, and Roya's doesn't either, so she decides to not try to read much into it.

          Still, Michaela knows they'll have to address the big elephant in the room eventually. They'll have to talk about the reason she's here, the reason she was bawling when she rang the doorbell, and the reason they wanted her to come here before doing anything in the first place. She doesn't feel able to speak, at least about all that, and tries to focus on the episode of The Biggest Loser they're watching.

          She feels like the biggest loser in this room. It's been a while since she last felt this way, absolutely defeated, without it being a work-related occurrence. It's clear evidence she needs to leave UD as soon as possible before she has a meltdown, but she can't possibly think it's plausible to spend the rest of her life running from everything that leaves her minimally stressed out.

          It's different when you get your heart broken. It's even worse when you get your heart broken by the same person who had done it before, even after you decided to give the two of you a second chance. Betrayal is the worst part, though—having your heart broken by anyone is painful enough as it is, but heartbreak never comes from your enemies. They can turn into that when you're blinded by your rage and hurt, but they were never your enemies at first.

           "Mich," Roya begins, never looking away from the screen, but Michaela knows she's not paying it much attention. Michaela herself can't focus on it for too long either, with the contestants being put through arduous work-outs—and even throwing up every once in a while. "There's something I need to tell you."

          Michaela sighs. "You two are getting married?"

          Roya's facial expression remains expressionless, courtesy of her robotic tendencies, while Ginny chokes on her coffee, coughing. "We started dating not even a week ago. Lay off the marriage rumors, will you?" Michaela tries to smile—she really wants to—but all that comes out is a grimace and she's thankful Roya isn't looking at her. "I know you don't want us to look into this, but it's my job as your friend and as a blogger—"

           "Roya, no," she begs, forgetting about how much Roya hates to be interrupted, and straightens her back when her friend briefly shoots her a murderous glare from the corner of her eye. Michaela blinks, wondering how Roya can say and hear stuff like that and keep a straight face, knowing she'd instantly break into some sort of microexpression. "Sorry."

          "As I was saying," Roya continues, twirling a strand of dark hair around her index finger, "I've been bombarded with requests ever since those photos surfaced because people are desperate to get the inside scoop. They want to hear Lincoln's thoughts on it"—Michaela winces at the mention of his name and Ginny's hand gives her a gentle squeeze—"and they most certainly want to hear what you think of all this. Needless to say, everyone knows he was singing about and to you last night—at least most of the songs on that setlist were about you—and, now that he has been photographed kissing another girl that clearly wasn't you, their curiosity levels have been peaking."

          "Wonderful," Michaela mutters, through gritted teeth.

          "Of course I'm not going to interview you about this. Out of all the things I could interview you for, trust me when I say your relationship with Lincoln definitely isn't one of them. I've always thought there were more important things to discuss in an interview with the one and only Michaela Tate." Roya finally turns to face her, sitting with a leg beneath her and an elbow set on the pillows of the couch. "Since I'm clearly not hurting you even more and I certainly don't want to hear a rat's side of the story at the moment, I've been doing some research on Beverly, just to try and figure out how and why this whole thing began and blew up."

          "Yeah, Roya, I don't see how that's relevant," Ginny states, finishing what's left of her coffee, while Michaela stares down at her knees. It's not something she wants to discuss with them, even though she's aware she'll have to talk about it with someone at some point. "Just . . . let it be."

          "No, my dude. I'm doing this." Roya leans forward to grab her laptop and opens it, waiting for it to load. "It's what I've been doing all morning, besides arguing with trolls on social media. I think I've found a new favorite hobby. Anyway, Beverly Kean—actress, born on August 24, 1991, in Boston, Massachusetts . . . this is all irrelevant . . . her last movie flopped at the box office and her publicists are grasping onto every thread they can possibly find to keep her reputation up. I'm sure you know where I'm going with this."

          Michaela knits her brows together. "I'm afraid I don't."

          Roya huffs. "Frankly, woman, how bad is your intuition?" Michaela doesn't answer. It's easier that way, at least when it comes to Roya. "Lincoln has a book coming out, the UD spring edition has been selling like crazy thanks to that interview"—Ginny's lips twist into a smug grin, even if she's still watching TV—"and everyone just remembered he can also sing and has this stupidly pretty face. No offense. If Beverly's reputation is down at the bottom of a well, Lincoln's is simply flying through fluffy clouds and hanging out with sparkly, pink unicorns."

          Ginny shifts on her seat. "Roya, no."

          "Roya, yes! I'm a hundred percent sure people saw Mich and Lincoln last night and, since those photos were taken days ago, they decided to tip that celebrity account just to throw more ashes to the fire instead of, you know, letting these two live their happy lives together." She throws her hands up in the air, shrugging. "I'm not saying Lincoln and Beverly's relationship is a PR stunt, but Lincoln and Beverly's relationship is a PR stunt. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out, but, of course, you have to be in the right state of mind to do your research. It's a pity, though. I interviewed Beverly last year, I think, and she was a total sweetheart."

          Michaela sinks into her seat, trying to digest Roya's words. Roya does this for a living, digging out dirt about celebrities without being awfully obnoxious like the celebrity account and being the nicest person ever while interviewing them, and she knows what she does, much like she knows she's good at it. Hell, Lincoln himself told her he could explain everything, but she bolted out of his apartment before he had a chance to say anything else.

          Even if it's awful that people have resorted to insulting Beverly all over social media, calling her a homewrecker, among other not so nice things, Michaela feels terrible. Even if the relationship is fake, being nothing more than a PR stunt created by her publicists, it's still not fair for her to be insulted over something she might not even have had a chance to say anything about. Even if she did, it doesn't justify the hate she's been getting—she didn't destroy their relationship because there simply wasn't one to begin with.

          It still doesn't explain why they're together. Why choose him, out of all people? Michaela doesn't want to sound snobby, but why didn't her publicists speak to someone from the acting world, or even a model or a singer? Why branch out to the realm of writers, who mostly keep to themselves and run away from the spotlight—even if they're young and/or good-looking with flawless reputations, if there's even such a thing?

          She's awfully bitter over it all, though. Of course Beverly would be a tall, beautiful blonde with a promising career, even if her most recent movie was a flop—Michaela remembers seeing posters promoting it on Times Square, even if she didn't watch the movie.

          That doesn't make her any more willing to talk to Lincoln and let him explain everything, if Roya's theory is even true. He still had no right to keep this relationship a secret from her, even if it was in his contract—there are things that are stronger than contracts, and she certainly thought his decency and his commitment to her were—and he has been stuck in it since before the concert. He has been stuck in it since before she kissed him and since before they slept together.

          He has been stuck in it since before he told her he loved her last night and that's what messes her up the most.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          MICHAELA RETURNS HOME A FEW HOURS LATER. Her apartment is freezing cold, as it has been empty for almost twenty-four hours, and the first thing she does after closing the front door is turn on the heating system, letting the numbness of her limbs and fingers slowly vanish. She throws her jacket to the back of a couch, stretching her arms above her head, and her stomach grumbles, reminding her she has barely eaten all day.

          There's barely any food in the fridge and in the freezer, though. Saturdays are her designated grocery shopping days and, since she has spent the entire day doing nothing productive in Ginny and Roya's apartment, she conveniently ended up ruining her weekly routine. Thus, she has nothing to eat except plastic containers of homemade soup, courtesy of her parents, who think she has been failing to nourish herself properly, and she was feeling something that would leave her . . . fuller.

          Granted, she could very well go back downstairs, grab her car and go buy something to eat, leaving grocery shopping for tomorrow, but, after the day she's had, the only place where she wants to be is her bed, making an exception for her couches. Huffing, she pulls out one of the containers from the fridge, empties its contents into a porcelain bowl, and shoves it inside the microwave, counting down each second until it beeps, and she finally gets something inside her stomach other than coffee.

          She's letting it all drag her down, which is so unlike her. Michaela knows she's supposed to be stronger than this, but the numbness from before has, once again, given place to brutal feelings of despair whenever she remembers why she felt that way earlier today. She has spent the whole day stumbling between moments when all she can do is stare blankly at a wall or at the TV screen and pretend she cares about what she's supposedly watching and periods of time when the memories and the betrayal hit her, and she realizes just how miserable she feels.

          Michaela knows she should talk to her parents, but Yvonne would only deliver her a disappointed, condescending speech about how she should have known better instead of jumping back headfirst into a relationship that was bound to fail once more, while Ulysses would track Lincoln down and give him hell for years—at least as long as they both lived. She's not in the mood to have people yell at her or remind her she keeps making bad decisions, one after the other, even if it's true, so contacting her parents will have to wait until everything cools down.

         If it ever does, of course. Michaela, a known pessimist, doesn't think it looks particularly bright for her.

          Jillian calls after a while, apologizing profoundly for not having said anything sooner, but she has been swamped with work all day and it's only now that she has managed to find some time to breathe and get back in touch with her. Hearing her best friend's voice brings Michaela to tears for the thousandth time today, with Jillian having to try to calm her down for ten minutes straight, but it clearly doesn't work.

         Most of the conversation is Michaela sobbing about how ridiculous and used she feels, and Jillian tries to offer her some words of comfort, but Michaela still knows there's something else going on. Jillian never calls for just one reason.

          "Michie, listen," she begins, her voice slowly trailing off, as if there was something on her side of the line threatening to steal her attention from the phone call, "there's something I need to tell you."

          "Roya has been in charge of the whole investigation, if you must know." Michaela sniffles, swallowing a spoonful of soup. "I don't think there's anything you can tell me she hasn't found out."

          "I was actually the one who introduced Lincoln and Beverly last year." Michaela holds her breath and swears Jillian does the exact same thing. "They hit it off, but he said he wasn't looking for anything and she was in a relationship at the time. We were all hanging out and I thought it'd be rude for them to stand next to each other without anyone introducing them. I still hang out with Bev and she's the sweetest person ever, I swear"—Michaela clenches her jaw, as hearing about how sweet and nice Lincoln's supposed new girlfriend is, no matter how true it might be—"but she has never mentioned him before. I swear."

          "Jill"—Michaela pinches her nose bridge—"I don't care. Honestly. It's his life and he can do anything he wants to, but he should have said something before . . . before shoving us all into this mess and trying to shrug it off. It's just not right."

          "Still." Jillian sighs. "All I'm trying to say is . . . look, she's actually here with me. She just went to the bathroom and there's a lot of paparazzi outside, so I think we'll be here for a while until they start dispersing. Do you, uh, want to talk to her for a minute? I'm sure she can explain it a lot better than I can."

         "Fine."

          "Okay. And . . . Michie? If there's anything I can do for you, please tell me and I'll do my best, okay? I can't go back to New York just yet, but, as soon as I can, I'll be there. In the meantime, we'll have our phones and social media, even if it really sucks sometimes."

          There's really not anything Michaela can say other than thanking her and waiting for Beverly to come to the phone, but the wait is exhausting. Her heartbeat instantly races in anticipation, worrying about what Beverly might have to say, as they've never spoken to each other (though Beverly has just followed her on Instagram, but Michaela still hasn't followed her back; nevertheless, she's sure someone else must have noticed this and word has already gotten out) and everyone keeps bragging about how nice the girl is.

         They never say those things about her.

         "Michaela, this is Beverly Kean." Michaela instantly freezes when the unknown voice echoes in her ear. "I'm sorry for all this mess. Do you mind if we talk for a little while?"