Page 9 of Your Play to Call

Willow.

What I'd do to just spend some time with her. The rumor mill says she went through a nasty breakup and is off the grid. She wrapped up a massive tour and sort of disappeared into thin air. And not just any tour, but the most successful and lucrative tour of any artist. Ever.

You can’t blame someone for wanting to take a break.

I step into the shower and start singing along—no shame in knowing these lyrics.

Chapter 7

Willow

When my heels sinkinto the red carpet, gasps ripple through the crowd before I’m met with the typical shouts and pose requests. Cameras click and flash. It’s impossible to make out anyone’s face.

My backless Chanel dress slinks down, grazing the red carpet as I take my first few steps. The front has a decent plunge, nothing too scandalous, but shows just enough of my skin for me to feel sexy. With a slit that hits the top of my thigh, my muscular legs are on display with each step. I’m wearing one of my favorite pairs of Christian Louboutin heels; the pair Dexter would throw a fit over if I wore them. He didn’t want me to be near his height. And definitely not taller than him. That was tough when he was only 5’8”, even though I’m only 5’4’’ on a good day.

The satin top of the dress clings snugly to my skin, its fabric shimmering subtly under the lights and camera flashes. As I run my hands down the sides, I feel the structured boning of the dress, highlighting my curves. This type of top is perfect for my shape and I know it. I’ve never fallen into the too-skinny-popstar stereotype. I’ve always been all thick thighs and, as Claire says, “tits that don’t quit”.

With each second, I feel more and more rejuvenated. I move through poses—grateful for muscle memory. It’s only a matter of time before the barrage of questions hit me like a wave: "Where have you been?" "Is your heart still broken?" "Did you go to rehab?" “Are you still in contact withDexter?” The lack of boundaries at events like this is staggering, which is something I definitely didn’t miss.

I’m almost near the end of the walk when the energy and focus shifts from the carpet to a black car pulling up. Sometimes, the paparazzi feels like a living thing, a monster with a camera trying to capture their prey.

I slowly turn my head to see who it is.

My stomach drops.

Tripp Owens—I’d know that face anywhere. The night of the Super Bowl comes roaring back. I still can’t believe he jumped in and helped me when I didn’t even know his name.

The media was all over Tripp Owens after that night.

First, it was the most adorable photo of him and his mom right after his team won the Super Bowl. They’re both crying and he leans into her like he needs her to help him stand. She pulls at his jersey. It’s the sort of picture you couldn’t stage if you tried.

Second, it was him being the Super Bowl MVP. The tears on his face when he held up the trophy.

Third, it was the video coverage, and photos, of him going wild with Champagne for me to make my exit. Something he absolutely didn’t have to do.

I know there was speculation about Tripp being an alcoholic after the Champagne incident. Who knows what shrew started that rumor. Here’s the thing, I remember him in the locker room. He was having a good time, but he had it under control. I’d put money on him being sober but one hell of an actor, all in the name of helping a complete stranger.

I never got to thank him.

I pause for my last set of photographs, still looking in his direction. He catches my eyes with his, flipping my stomach again, and I smirk in response. When I offer a tiny wave, I swear his cheeks get a little pink,deepening his olive complexion. He nods to me in recognition, wearing a full smile, before turning back to the cameras because we both know if we have too long of a moment, it will be all over every single website and trash magazine tomorrow.

Smart.

Ridiculously hot.

He’s wearing a dark gray suit. And I meanwearing. His tailor deserves some sort of award. Do they have those? This suit is a perfect fit, showing off his muscular build in a way that I’d love to see him take that jacket off, roll up his sleeves…

Wow. That escalated quickly.

Tripp pulls on the front of his suit jacket before putting a hand in his pants pocket. From here, I can tell he’s much taller than me, even as I wear my highest heels. His chest is broad, and there’s no way this man can buy a jacket off the rack. He lifts his face towards the cameras, his jawline is strong, and his lips pull into a coy smirk before he winks at me.

Before the wide smile, and my flushed cheeks, are caught, I slink into the awards show, leaving the paparazzi with Tripp.

Tonight is what you’dexpect: excellent wine, solid food, and truly decadent desserts. And I’m never one to turn down dessert, no matter how many times the tabloids get a photo of me enjoying one and pair it with a disgusting headline about my weight and lack of discipline.

I'm thankful everything was pretty lowkey as I sat with some industry friends and acquaintances. We’ve kept in touch while I’ve been out of the public eye, but I’m relieved when no one asks about Dexter.

Now’s the time when everyone goes their separate ways or to the after-party.