stuff like gifts or PDA. She was scared to hope for more, scared to identify where she was on the Jasmine Scale, and her conversation with the Primas of Power hadn’t offered much in the way of clarity. But in all other regards, her Leading Lady Plan was on track. She’d even received some congratulatory texts from her family after Michelle sent them the video of Jasmine’s Latinx in the Arts interview.
Abuelo Willie: good job nena
Abuela Esperanza: You looked so beautiful! Love you!
Followed by a link to a cream for neck wrinkles.
Most surprising of all, her parents had chimed in on their group text chain.
Mom & Dad: Proud of you, honey!
Even Sammy had apologized for his behavior at the barbecue, and asked if he could get Lily’s autograph for his daughter.
Jasmine was riding high when she strolled into her dressing room. She’d just set her purse down when the door flew open and Lily burst in.
“Jasmine, I’m sorry.” Lily’s face was flushed and she looked to be on the verge of tears. “It was taken out of context, I didn’t mean to—”
“What happened?” Jasmine started to go to Lily, but then a jingle played from her bag. She stuck her hand in and pulled out her phone. Ava was calling.
Lily seemed to be in emergency mode, so Jasmine silenced the call without picking up and returned her attention to her on-screen hermana. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
A text flashed from Michelle. Out of habit, Jasmine swiped to read it.
Michelle: Turn off your phone.
With a dawning sense of dread, Jasmine turned to Lily, who held out her own phone. It was open to Buzz Weekly’s website. And there, above a photo of Jasmine and Ashton taken at the Latinx in the Arts Summit, was the word, REBOUND.
Jasmine’s heart sank as the world narrowed to the few square inches on Lily’s phone. She took it and peered closer. Following the headline were two speculative questions: BEHIND-THE-SCENES ROMANCE? OR LOVE TRIANGLE?
Underneath those, a byline: Kitty Sanchez.
Of course.
“I was chatting with some bloggers at the summit,” Lily said in a rush, tripping over her words. “One lady asked what it was like working with everybody on Carmen. I didn’t think anything of it, you know? She asked other questions too. But she must have asked me about you guys, and all I said was—”
Jasmine didn’t need her to continue. It was right there, a little ways down from the photo.
A source close to the couple tells us they get along really well and spend a lot of time together.
When Jasmine imagined Lily saying the words, they were innocuous. But taken out of context, as an anonymous quote? They were heavy with implied romantic meaning.
Fuuuuuck.
Jasmine continued to scroll, skimming past text and more photos from the event, both posed and candid. Farther down, another photo loaded under the word, EXCLUSIVE!!!
Her breath backed up in her throat. The picture was blurry, like it had been zoomed in too much and taken with an unsteady hand, but it was unmistakably the two of them. They stood close, with Ashton’s arm around her while she smiled up at him, caught in a totally candid—and private—moment.
Somehow, Kitty Sanchez had gotten her claws on the photo taken by the grocery store employee.
“She twisted my words,” Lily went on, sounding anguished. “I really didn’t mean—”
At that moment, Ashton rushed in through the open door, eyes wild and hair disheveled.
“Look at this,” he said, and held out a crumpled issue of Buzz Weekly.
They’d made the cover. The posed photo was largest, probably because it was higher quality, but off to the side were two boxes. One showed a paparazzi photo of Jasmine holding hands with McIntyre as they were leaving one of his concerts. The other was the grocery store photo. REBOUND was printed at the top in bright yellow, the word glaring at her just as accusingly as DUMPED had.
In a detached sort of way, Jasmine wondered why and how gossip rags still existed. Wasn’t the print magazine industry dead?
Lily’s face turned even redder and she slipped past Ashton. “I’ll let you two talk,” she muttered, and beat a hasty retreat, shutting the door behind her.
In Jasmine’s hand, her phone rang again. It was Riley this time. She almost picked up, but Ashton was looking apoplectic, so she sent it to voice mail instead.
“All right,” she said, trying to sound calm. “Don’t freak out.”
“Don’t freak out? How can I not freak out?”
His accent had thickened, and she realized her own Bronx