Page 135 of Sing For Me

He nods, his face a careful mix of encouragement and sympathy that I can’t help feeling isn’t entirely genuine. “That’s what the great artists do, babe. They take heartbreak like this and they turn it into art.”

Oh, sure. Because what I really feel like doing is taking my broken heart and bleeding it out into a fucking pop song that some suit at the label will inevitably want me to remix into a hot dance track.

I rub my forehead. “I think I’d rather be alone right now, Dennis.”

Of course, at that moment, Marissa calls out from downstairs. “I come bearing all the fat and carbs I could get my hands on.”

His eyebrow goes up. “Alone, huh?”

I wince. “Come on, Dennis. You know you don’t want to sit here with us and watch my sci-fi crap for the next ten hours.”

He laughs, but there’s something pinched to his expression. And it only grows when Marissa reaches the top of the stairs. “What are you doing here?” she says immediately, her tone every bit as biting as it always is when addressing him.

“I was trying to be a good friend, Marissa,” he bites right back. “You’re not the only one who cares about her”

I frown up at him, taking in his flashing eyes and tight features. That’s not exactly right, is it? He hadn’t even known about the break-up before he came. He was only here to get me for the doctor’s visit.

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” Marissa asks through teeth clenched so tightly I’m surprised she hasn’t cracked a molar. Dennis narrows his eyes at her and I look back and forth between the two. They seem to be having some unspoken argument but finally Dennis huffs and then strides across the room where the two of them fall into an aggressively whispered conversation, with plenty of sharp hand gestures.

There’s a familiar alert sound and I reach over to pick up my phone without even thinking. I stop short when I realize the phone is missing my blue case. This phone is on the stack of folders Dennis brought—his phone. I move my hand away but something on the screen has me pausing. My name.

Glancing up to make sure he’s still occupied by his argument with Marissa, I nudge the phone closer and peek at it. The lock screen is up, but the phone must be set to show the first few lines of each incoming message. The one displayed right now is what caught my attention.

JeffClbHnd:Thanks for tip. Cause of breakup? When’s Eve leaving house?

My throat is suddenly very dry. I stare down at the phone, my limbs feeling strangely watery.Thanks for tip. Cause of breakup?

Breakup. A tip. I study the caller ID more closely.ClbHnd. Could that stand for Celebrity Hound, that tabloid that’s been writing shit about me and Will every week since our relationship leaked?

“Dennis.” My voice sounds kind of strange, faraway. “What is this?”

He looks away from Marissa and I can see anger and irritation in every line of his face. When our eyes meet, he seems to purposefully rearrange his features into something more neutral. “What’s what, babe?”

The old endearment had always felt slimy to me, such a cliché of shady entertainment industry players. Right now, it makes my blood boil.

“This text message, Dennis.” I’m surprised by how loud my voice is. How sharp. For someone who spent the last eight hours crying, I sound pretty fierce. “Are you tipping off reporters about my breakup?”

His face pales, just slightly, features going slack for a brief second before his condescending, smarmy expression falls back into place. “What are you talking about, Eva?”

I point at the phone. “Thanks for the tip,” I read out. “Cause of breakup?” I swallow. “When’s Eve leaving house?”

He strides back across the room and I’m struck with the strongest urge to grab the phone so he can’t cover it up. “I just let my assistant know so she could arrange to have flowers sent over,” he snaps. “I was trying to be nice.”

Before the words are even out of his mouth, the screen lights up again. I do grab it, determined to see whatever else is coming.

I almost wish I hadn’t.

Got approval to run story. Sending photogs to house/tattoo parlor.

Holy shit. He really did it. He tipped off this reporter about my breakup and now they’re sending paparazzi here.

I stare up at him, shock and hurt muddling my thoughts. “You did this?”

His jaw clenches. “Listen, Eva. This business—”

“Hang on.” Something else has just occurred to me. “You knew we were having breakfast that morning we were first confronted by photographers. I told you.” I stare at the man who discovered me, who got me signed and started my career. His expression is twisted with annoyance, a fine sheen of sweat dotting his forehead, his hair slick with product, tan a shade too orange. All of a sudden, I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time. “You’re the one who told them we were dating in the first place.”

“You fucking asshole,” Marissa snarls behind him.