Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,52

doubts in your head, now we find out he’s a fame whore?”

I almost choke on my water. Manic laughter bubbles in my throat. We’ve been at it for an hour, so it’s probably delirium as well, but come on. Oliver? A fame whore? This coming from the woman who lives for the spotlight. And that’s not even the most ridiculous thing she’s said since she and Dad invaded my house.

“He’s clearly using you, Genevieve,” she continues. “How can you not see that?”

“Using me for what?” I retort. Her eyes widen at my rare defense, but bravery is a virus, feeding on itself. Once the truth starts flowing, it’s hard to stop. “His life has just been blown up because of me. Yesterday he was the darling of the NHL. Today he’s—we don’t even know how bad it is yet. What’s he getting out of this?”

She tucks her hands on her hips. “Are you serious? Come now, Genevieve. You’ve always been a bit naïve but—”

“If I’m naïve it’s your fault, Mother!”

She gasps, but I don’t retract my statement.

“Do you know who taught me how to use a knife? Oliver. I can’t do anything normal twenty-two-year-olds can do thanks to you. Who gave me the strength to face the darkness that’s been drowning me? Oliver. Who helped me not be afraid of my own fucking reflection?!”

“Genevieve!”

“What?!” I scream back. “Don’t curse? Oh no. Someone might hear it and post a critique. Alert the press! Genevieve Fox used a naughty word! Guess what, Mom? Fuck! Shit! Fucking shit damn asshole! I know them all!” I wave my hand and lean back in challenge.

“Foul language is a sign of the unimaginative,” she huffs, crossing her arms.

“No. You know what’s a sign of the unimaginative? Singing someone else’s damn songs all the time. Performing the same safe drivel over and over again. Building an entire spectacle on a premise that doesn’t even exist because it sells and makes people believe in bullshit. Genevieve Fox is no one, Mom! She’s an artist’s rendition of a human you and the producers and labels invented. It just took me twenty-two years to figure it out!”

My mother staggers back, her hand to her chest as if I’ve struck her. An instinctive retraction rushes to my tongue, a path to smoothing things back to “normal.” But what is normal? Is normal the sliver of light I saw in that brief moment alone in my studio? The blast of color I experience when Oliver is around? No, normal is the absence of pain—and the absence of happiness that goes with it.

“Call White Flame,” I direct to Hadley, while still staring at my mother. “Tell them I’m not coming in for the rehearsal today.”

“What?!” Mom shrieks.

“Sweetie, think about this,” my father says gently, late (and useless) to the party as usual.

I tear my gaze from my parents to rest on Hadley who blinks back with a stunned expression. “Call them,” I repeat.

“Wha—what should I tell them?” she asks.

“Tell them I’m not feeling well.”

I’m not. I feel like shit, actually. I’m feeling like my entire life is a joke. That my world is collapsing around me and nothing makes sense anymore. I’m feeling like there’s no way in hell I can prance around to Julie Sanchez’ polished chart-topper and pretend it’s remotely as fulfilling as that sloppy rough mix of my own song.

“Genevieve, think about this,” Mom says in a low voice. I hear the brush of panic in her timber. She’s fighting so hard to keep it at bay. It’s the same knife’s edge I’ve been living on forever. “You’re making lasting decisions on a temporary emotion.”

“Am I?” I ask, meeting her gaze. “And how do you know that? How do you know the difference between lasting and temporary in my life? Call Devin,” I say to Hadley.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your business. Now that my afternoon is cleared, I have something I need to do.”

“Gen—”

“Stay here, or go home, Mom, but right now I’m busy. I’ll call you later.” I turn and march toward the back stairs.

“Genevieve! Gen! Get back here, young lady! We’re not finished!”

I don’t stop. Don’t even turn around.

The guard at the security gate gives me an apologetic look as he lowers the phone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Fox. Mr. Sanderson said Oliver isn’t home. I can’t let you through.”

I could laugh at the irony, but instead lean my forearm on the ledge of my open car window. The poor guy looks stricken about saying no to me.