Page 14 of Keep Me Close

But it’s terrifying.

Britt’s a talented singer, and the long-running reality show our family has become synonymous with was originally built around her. After she left, Mom shoved me center stage, pushing me to sing, as if I could somehow fill the void my sister left behind.

“I don’t know what life without the show looks like yet.” I barely remember what it was like before we started filming. In a way, it feels like I grew up in front of the cameras.

“The good thing is that you don’t need to have it all figured out right now,” she replies. “Just don’t let Mom force you into something you don’t want.”

Easier said than done.

“I won’t. Once I make a decision, I’ll deal with Mom.”

“She won’t tell you to take as much time as you need, but I will. This is your life, Chey. You’re allowed to question whether or not it makes you happy.”

Tears prick the backs of my eyes. No one ever says things like that to me. We talk about contracts, filming schedules, branding deals, and how much of myself I’m expected to hand over before people are finally satisfied. Hearing Britt say it so simply, as if my happiness actually matters, makes my chest ache.

“Thanks, Sis.”

“Anytime. And I mean that.”

“Love you.”

“Love you right back.”

As soon as we hang up, I lie in the king-sized bed for a few seconds and stare at the ceiling. My heart feels too full and too unsteady all at once. Kind of like I’ve been standing on the edge of a cliff for a while and only just realized I might jump.

My phone lights up again. For just a second, I think it’s Britt until I see the name flash on the screen.

Sharon Benson.

Momager extraordinaire.

My stomach tightens. Instead of answering, I let it go to voicemail. A second later, my cell rings again before an incoming text chimes.

Mom:

Call me ASAP

I huff out a sigh, and wish that at age twenty-six, I wasn’t still intimidated by my mother.

Hey, I give the woman a lot of credit. She was working as a nurse when a video of Britt singing and playing the guitar went viral, and she’s the one who parlayed that into a reality show centered around our family. Think Keeping Up with the Kardashians but bigger. Younger me was enamored of the spotlight. Now, it’s a monster I just want to escape from.

If I talk to her now, she’ll pull me right back in before I’ve had a chance to think things through. And I don’t want that.

I need some time and space.

Instead of dealing with her head-on, I pull on a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and a sweatshirt. Then I throw my hair into a ponytail, and skip the makeup routine altogether. When I glance at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize the person staring back at me.

Good. That’s exactly what I want.

Gone is the woman with glossy hair, perfect skin, and a carefully chosen outfit that photographs well.

It’s just me. Or, at least, the closest version I can manage at the moment.

I grab my keycard and slide it into the pocket of my leggings before heading to the door and slipping into the hallway. A few minutes later, I’m striding through the lobby. Even though it’s early, there are a dozen or so people milling around. Not a single one of them glances in my direction.

The moment I step outside, the cold air hits my lungs. Without stretching, I take off at a slow jog. It’s one foot in front of the other. The rhythm is familiar and predictable.

And it feels so damn good.