Follow Me Back Page 12

THORN: I’m not… I wasn’t trying to be cute. I’m just not in the mood for stupid questions.

  INVESTIGATOR: You know, Terry and I could do this all night. So if you just want to sit around and insult our intelligence—

  THORN: No, no, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just a little thrown right now. There are other things I would prefer to be doing. I’m sure you understand. So could we please just cut to the chase?

  INVESTIGATOR: And what other things would you prefer to be doing, Eric?

  THORN: Well, I’d like to speak to Tessa, for one thing.

  INVESTIGATOR: You care about her.

  THORN: Of course.

  INVESTIGATOR: And she cares about you?

  THORN: Yes.

  INVESTIGATOR: That’s sweet. Isn’t that sweet, Terry? Really heartwarming. You ever write a song about her, Eric?

  THORN: What does that have to do with anything?

  INVESTIGATOR: Oh, I’m just curious. I’ve got a niece. She’s about fifteen years old. Huge fan of yours.

  THORN: I’d be happy to sign an autograph for her.

  INVESTIGATOR: Now that’s not necessary. Just answer the question, if you don’t mind.

  THORN: What was the question?

  INVESTIGATOR: Did you ever write a song about Tessa Hart?

  THORN: Really? I have to answer that?

  INVESTIGATOR: You just put out a new single, right? What was that one called?

  THORN: “Snowflake.”

  INVESTIGATOR: That’s it. “Snowflake.” Pretty song. Did you write that song about Tessa?

  THORN: I really don’t talk about the meanings behind my song lyrics.

  INVESTIGATOR: Don’t you? I got the sense that you and Tessa talked quite a bit about the meanings behind your song lyrics.

  THORN: That’s different.

  INVESTIGATOR: How so?

  THORN: I talked to her about things that I can’t tell other people. Personal things. She’s the only person I could talk to about a lot of stuff.

  INVESTIGATOR: Because those conversations took place within the context of a private correspondence. A private relationship, you might say?

  THORN: Right.

  INVESTIGATOR: And there was one other way it was different too. Wasn’t there?

  THORN: What do you mean?

  INVESTIGATOR: I mean, she didn’t know it was you, right? She thought she was talking about your song lyrics with somebody named Taylor.

  THORN: Right. Exactly.

  INVESTIGATOR: “To lure someone into a relationship by means of a fictional online persona.”

  THORN: Sorry, what?

  INVESTIGATOR: That was a quote, actually. Let the record show that my previous statement was a quote from the Oxford English Dictionary, third edition. That was the second definition of the verb “catfish.” Did you know they put it in the dictionary?

  THORN: It wasn’t like that.

  INVESTIGATOR: OK, Eric. You want to cut to the chase? Let’s cut to the chase. Did you, or have you ever, lured someone into a relationship by means of a fictional online persona?

  THORN: That’s a crappy definition.

  INVESTIGATOR: The Oxford English Dictionary?

  THORN: It wasn’t catfishing. It wasn’t like on the MTV show.

  INVESTIGATOR: That’s the defense you want to go with? It wasn’t like on the MTV show?

  THORN: Come on. You know what I mean.

  INVESTIGATOR: I’ll admit, I’m not totally up-to-date with MTV’s programming.

  THORN: Well, maybe you should ask your niece.

  INVESTIGATOR: Maybe. But then again, my niece isn’t involved in a criminal investigation into false impersonation, fraud, unlawful surveillance, and stalking.

  THORN: Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa—

  INVESTIGATOR: So why don’t you just go ahead and spell it out for us, Eric? How would you define catfishing?

  THORN: I didn’t do anything illegal.

  INVESTIGATOR: But you did, in fact, lure Tessa Hart into a relationship by means of a fictional online persona, correct?

  THORN: You have to understand the position I was in.

  INVESTIGATOR: What position was that?

  THORN: She was my fan. She practically worshipped me. Catfishing is when you set up a fake profile to make yourself into someone more attractive. That’s the opposite of what I did.

  INVESTIGATOR: So you set up a fake profile to make yourself less attractive?

  THORN: No. It wasn’t about being attractive. It was about being anonymous. It was the only way I could be myself.

  INVESTIGATOR: By pretending to be someone else? By willfully misleading someone about your true identity?

  THORN: Look, I’m not the villain here. I know how it must seem, but you have to understand that I started talking to Tessa in…What? August? It didn’t change all at once. It snuck up on me…on both of us. I didn’t even realize where it was heading until about a month ago. Almost Christmastime.

  INVESTIGATOR: And what exactly changed for you a month ago?

  THORN: I never meant for it to go the way it did. I swear. I just wanted to talk to someone. I didn’t mean to fall in love.

  16

  WHITE CHRISTMAS

  December 3, 2016

  “OK, Tessa. Last week you planned to accompany your mother on a brief outing to pick out a Christmas tree. How did that go?”

  Tessa idly traced the pattern on her bedspread with her thumb as she paused to gather her thoughts. Her therapist sat across from her in a folding metal chair. Dr. Regan had given up on the beanbag somewhere around month four of therapy, after it burst beneath her weight in a cascade of flying beads.

  Tessa could feel Dr. Regan studying her as Tessa’s own eyes wandered around the room. She’d strung a strand of Christmas lights across the footboard of her bed, and they cast her therapist’s face in a glow of pale green and red. Tessa’s mother had taken the lights out of storage to decorate the tree, but it looked like the Christmas tree might not happen this year after all.

  Tessa hadn’t even made it past the driveway when they went to pick it out. Her mom had left the car idling outside, and everything went smoothly until Tessa slid into the passenger seat. She’d turned toward her mother with a triumphant smile—only to be blinded by a camera flash.

  “Tessa?” Dr. Regan prompted.

  “Yeah, I kind of bailed.” Tessa fiddled with a loose button on her cardigan.

  “What happened?”

  Tessa couldn’t even explain it to herself, much less to her therapist. Maybe if her mom had warned her, instead of trying for a candid shot…

  At least she managed not to vomit in the car before she abandoned the passenger seat and went scurrying back into the house.

  Dr. Regan asked her something else—something about her mother. Tessa didn’t quite hear the question. She jiggled her foot impatiently, counting the minutes until the session came to an end. She’d agreed to switch her weekly hour with Dr. Regan to an evening time slot, but she regretted it now. She forgot that she had a date with her TV tonight. Eric Thorn was slated to give a live performance at 8:00 p.m. Tessa had her DVR set to record it, but she couldn’t bear the thought that she might not get to watch him in real time.

  “Tessa?” Dr. Regan spoke a bit more sharply. “Did you hear me?”

  “Sorry. What did you say?”

  Dr. Regan had her head bent forward, leafing through the pages of Tessa’s thought journal. “In your entry this week, I see you saying that you feel judged by your mother. Could you tell me more about that?”

  Tessa heaved a sigh. She hardly saw the point of hashing it all out again. Her mother had stomped all over the house after the incident in the driveway. She didn’t even try to understand what Tessa might be going through.

  “Honestly, what’s the point?” Tessa said in a dull voice. “As far as my mom’s concerned, I’m the worst thing that ever happened to her. I ruined her life from the moment I was conceived.”

  Dr.
Regan’s face remained expressionless, but she made a careful notation on her pad. “Have you told your mother any details about last June?”

  Tessa shook her head. “She would only blame me. She’d say I must have done something to bring it on myself. I must have led him—” She broke off and clapped a hand across her mouth.

  Dr. Regan raised an eyebrow. “Go on, Tessa. What exactly would your mother say you brought on yourself?”

  “What?” Tessa’s hand lingered at her throat. “No. Nothing. I just meant that she blames me for everything. That’s all.” She held her breath, hoping that Dr. Regan wouldn’t press her further. It would only trigger a flashback, and Tessa didn’t have time for a panic episode. Not tonight.

  Dr. Regan removed her reading glasses and left them dangling on the chain around her neck. “And how does that make you feel?”

  Tessa didn’t answer. Some questions were safer to ignore. She darted a surreptitious glance at the phone that sat beside her on the bed, and she scowled to herself as the screen lit up. Already seven forty-five.

  “Tessa?”

  “Huh?” Tessa’s head snapped up. “Sorry.”

  Her therapist smiled tightly. She moved to put her notepad back in her briefcase. “You seem a bit distracted. Perhaps we should pick up here next week.”

  Tessa nodded. With a tiny sliver of guilt, she stood to walk her therapist to the door. She knew she’d wasted Dr. Regan’s time tonight, but she couldn’t help it. She’d spent the whole day preoccupied with the same thoughts circling around and around inside her head: Would Taylor be online tonight? Would he get off work in time to watch the broadcast with her? Maybe she could convince him to live chat…

  • • •

  Eric fished in his pocket, groping for his phone. He only had a few minutes to hide out in his dressing room before he headed back on set—just long enough to respond to Tessa’s latest DM.

  He flicked to open Twitter, and he frowned. The damn thing kept signing out of his account lately. It started acting up after the latest software update, although the glitch only seemed to affect his second username. Every time he shut down, he had to reenter his password to log back in.

  He didn’t have time to worry about it now. He quickly filled out the information:

  Username: @EricThornSucks

  Password: password

  Then he navigated over to the message thread.

  Tessa H: Taylor, are you there?

  Taylor: Yeah, I thought you had therapy.

  Tessa H: Just finished. The show starts in fifteen minutes! Are you watching?

  Taylor: Can’t do it, sweet pea. Gotta work.

  Eric knew he needed to wrap the conversation up. He was performing tonight on live network TV: one of those star-studded December Christmas specials, complete with Santa hats and mistletoe. Eric was supposed to spend the final moments before airtime running through the lyrics of his solo, “White Christmas,” but his attention kept getting sucked back in to Twitter.

  Tessa H: Seriously, you can’t take a break for ONE hour? Not even for Eric Thorn?

  Taylor: I wish I could, Tessa…but it has nothing to do with Eric Thorn.

  Tessa H: Who? Ariana Grande?

  Taylor: Since when was I an Arianator?

  Tessa H: I’m just guessing. You’re a guy. She’s probably your type.

  Eric snickered. Where did Tessa come up with this stuff? His type? The truth was, he and Ariana were slated to perform back-to-back that night. He’d been passing by her dressing room all afternoon, but he hadn’t even bothered to poke his head in. What made Tessa think that he had any interest… Wait a minute. One corner of his mouth hitched upward as he texted back.

  Taylor: Is that a hint, Tessa? Are you secretly an Ariana Grande look-alike?

  Tessa H: Yep. Currently lounging in my thigh-high stiletto boots. I can send you another foot selfie if you like.

  Taylor: Feel free, but I might need to see an entire leg this time.

  Eric had yet to see a picture of her. He didn’t want to push his luck after the fiasco with the feet. But they’d been dancing around the topic more and more lately. He could tell he was slowly gaining her trust. It was only a matter of time before she sent him a selfie, and he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t dying to see.

  Tessa H: Legs? What legs? I thought I was green and spherical?

  Taylor: Then where do you put the boots?

  Tessa H: OK fine. You got me. I have legs. Two of them.

  Taylor: Interesting. Anything else you care to tell me about these legs?

  Tessa H: Nice legs. Not gonna lie.

  Taylor: Yeah. I had a feeling.

  Tessa H: You should really stay online, Taylor. Who knows what other body parts I might mention in the next hour…

  Eric covered his mouth with the back of his hand to wipe away the sly grin. She had no idea how much he wanted to stay and chat. That had to be the most flirtatious thing she’d ever said to him. Dammit, why did tonight’s show have to be a live broadcast?

  Taylor: Oh man, you’re killing me.

  Tessa H: Stay!

  Taylor: I can’t. I’m late. I gotta run. I’ll catch you later, OK?

  With that, Eric glanced up at the lighted mirror to check if he’d smudged his makeup. He nearly fell over at what he saw reflected in the glass. His manager leaned against the half-open dressing room door, with his feet crossed at the ankles and his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets.

  Maury cleared his throat as their eyes met in the mirror. “Sometime today, perhaps?”

  “Sorry.” Eric swiveled to avert his face. He slipped his phone into his back pocket and turned to leave the room, but Maury stood squarely in the doorway.

  “No problem, buckaroo. You wanna let me in on who the lucky lady is?” Maury tilted his head in the direction of the phone, and Eric stopped in his tracks. How long had his manager been standing there?

  “What lady?” Eric replied, striving to keep his voice light. “What are you talking about?”

  “Eric, you spent the past ten minutes giggling like a schoolgirl at your phone.” Maury pulled down a sprig of mistletoe from above the doorframe and tossed it in Eric’s direction. “You know you’re supposed to disclose if you have a new girlfriend, right? The publicists appreciate a heads-up.”

  The mistletoe landed at Eric’s feet, but he ignored it. Apparently, his manager was spying on him now. Good to know exactly where he stood.

  At least Maury hadn’t discovered the fake Twitter account, as far as Eric could tell. He tried again to step past his manager into the hallway, but Maury didn’t budge. “Yeah right,” Eric said at last. “Like I have time for a relationship.”

  “Maybe not a girlfriend, then. But definitely a girl.” Maury nudged him with an elbow between the ribs. “It’s fine, Eric. About time, if you ask me. Just tell me who she is, and I’ll pass it along—”

  “It’s no one.”

  “No one, huh?” Maury scratched his chin, studying Eric’s face. Eric stared back with wide, unblinking eyes, the picture of choirboy innocence. “That’s a little more serious,” Maury said. “Don’t tell me you’re in love.”

  Eric rolled his eyes upward and planted them to the ceiling. He could feel his manager’s gaze on him, and he couldn’t suppress the guilty flush of color that rose above his shirt collar and worked its way up his neck.

  “You know you’re the color of a pomegranate right now?” Maury’s voice shook with laughter, and Eric turned his face away, bracing himself for the coming onslaught. He knew how Maury operated. His manager would be peppering him for weeks with obnoxious jokes.

  But to Eric’s surprise, Maury stopped chuckling after a moment. When Eric met his eyes again, he almost thought he saw a trace of sadness in his manager’s expression. With a sigh, Maury stooped to pick up the mistletoe and tossed it in the trash. “What happened to you, Eric?” he said softly. “You used to tell me everything. I used to be your guy.”

  “Maury—”

&nbs
p; Maury just shook his head. Eric watched him spin around and head down the long corridor toward the stage. His manager’s final words floated back to him from the far end of the hall. “It’s no one, huh? You’re a crappy liar, kid. Always have been. Only this time, I can’t quite tell if you’re lying to me…or lying to yourself.”

  17

  BOUND AND GAGGED

  Eric steered his baby-blue Ferrari around the hairpin turns of Mulholland Drive, reveling in the purr of the engine as he pushed down on the accelerator. It felt great to be behind the wheel again. He’d spent too many nights in the back of a limo lately, and he missed the feeling of control that came from driving.

  He’d bought himself a Ferrari 458 Spider a little over a year ago to celebrate his latest album reaching multiplatinum status. But so far, the odometer only registered a few thousand miles. Maybe he should bring his car along on the tour kicking off soon. Leave the tour bus to the roadies. Eric made a mental note to float the idea by Maury in the morning.

  Maury…

  Eric drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He couldn’t get that awkward conversation with his manager out of his head. Maury didn’t know what he was talking about, obviously. All that nonsense about love… His manager had only leaped to that conclusion because he didn’t have all the facts. He didn’t know about the fake Twitter account—or that the girl on the other end of the conversation was a fan. How could Eric Thorn be in love with a fan? A random fangirl who wouldn’t even tell him her last name or where she lived? A girl whose picture he’d never even seen?

  “Ridiculous,” Eric muttered as he pulled his car into the long, gated driveway of his house in the Hollywood Hills.

  He rolled to a stop and popped the car door open, bracing against the chill of the night air. His hand reached automatically for the phone in his pocket as he made his way inside, but he stopped himself. Maybe he needed to give it a rest—spend one night without pouring out his every passing thought to Tessa. It would be the first night in months that he hadn’t fallen asleep reading her messages and imagining her voice whispering him good night.