I’ve purposefully not told them they can’t ask me about Indie. If she won’t take my calls or reply to my texts, I need another way of getting through to her.
“No, they haven’t. Indie has been through a lot and she’s the most incredible person I have ever met.”
Maven smiles. “So sweet. How is she doing?”
I take a breath. Denny has hidden Jessica’s suicide, saying her death was the result of a non-alcohol related illness. “She’s heartbroken and grieving, but she’s strong. We’re not together, right now.”
“Oh no,” Maven says.
I nod as my stomach turns to lead. “Having the media follow you and splashing your private life all over the internet is hard. They have no regard for anyone else; no respect for the fact that humans are at the end of these stories. Indie’s a student. She has no desire to be in the public eye but that didn’t matter to them. They took a tragedy and turned it into a circus.”
Maven nods, her eyes tightening like she understands the struggle but doesn’t want to weigh in too heavily against the media. “It’s hard when you still want privacy for your loved ones. Have you spoken to her?”
“Hopefully soon.”
“The platform is yours,” she says, eyes wide with the scent of an exclusive.
I have no idea if there are people shouting in her ear right now, telling her to take back control, or if they’re rubbing their hands together because I’m doing this on their channel.
The latter is my guess, but either way, there are some tight sphincters in the control room.
Ignoring her, I look down the camera. It’s an odd feeling. I’m used to pretending they’re not around. “Indie, baby, I know things are difficult and I have made everything ten times worse for you. I’m sorry that I didn’t foresee this and protect you better. I’m sorry that the media didn’t respect your privacy when you were grieving your parents. I just want you to know that I’ll never give up on you—on us. You’re my whole world, and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. Let me back in. I promise… I’ll make it right.”
Maven’s face looks like she’s cuddling a litter of puppies.
Fuck, this could go either way. I’m taking a massive gamble by talking about Indie publicly. But I have to let the media know they’re not welcome. I have to get the public on side so when they see an article about Indie, they attack the fucker who wrote it. I’m fighting fire with fire because I have nothing else left to fight with.
“That was beautiful, Spencer. I truly hope she gives you another chance.”
“Me, too. I love her… so much.”
Fifty-Five
Indie
The sun is bright today, but it’s still cold. I’m bundled up in a thick coat, scarf, hat and gloves. My heart is heavy as I walk to my parents’ grave. They share a headstone as well as a grave.
The weather isn’t the only reason I feel so frozen. Mila sent me a clip of Spencer’s interview with Maven Wallis yesterday, along with about a hundred heart-eye emojis. Nothing has hurt me more than him opening his heart and bleeding all over daytime TV.
I love you... so much.
Nothing will change how I feel about him, just as we can’t change the situation we’ve found ourselves in. There’s no easy way to fix any of it. I wrap my arms around my stomach as I walk. Every breath creates a visible puff of air in front of me. At least I know I’m still alive.
The man truly is crazy, though. He thought that telling the media to leave us alone by publicly speaking about me would be the answer. To give him credit, their attitude towards me has changed. They’ve not been too bad. I’ve had interview requests, as well as an outpouring of love online. Teenage girls are particularly invested in my relationship with Spencer. They jump on anyone who is negative about me. Articles now say things like ‘STAR TRYING TO WIN BACK CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART’ and ‘INDIE CROFT: AN INSPIRING STORY OF SPENCER LOWE’S LOVE’.
It’s a nice change from them telling me that I’m not good enough.
I walk, eat, sleep, and clean, but there is nothing but emptiness now. Every time I’ve opened my textbooks, the words haven’t made sense.
Sometime soon, I’ll snap out of it. I hope.
I’m trying to be kind to myself. That’s not easy when I kind of hate myself. Why did I start something with Spencer? I knew it wouldn’t work, yet I still jumped in. I’ve seen Anya twice since I broke up with him.
It’s been intense. We’ve gone over a lot of stuff with my parents—how I feel about them now, and what steps I need to take to heal. After both sessions, I’ve taken a long nap.
I gave up my job at The Waffle House. I was on a zero hours contract, only doing a couple of shifts a month, anyway.
Very slowly, I’m healing, but every time I think of Spencer, I come crashing back to Earth.
We could still be friends if I’d just let him stay on the sofa in LA.
Now we’re here. I have no Spencer, no parents, and I can’t even focus on uni.
Good one, Indie.
I crouch down as I reach their headstone. This is the first time I’ve been here since Mum was buried. It’s Anya’s homework. I’ve been putting it off the last two days.
What am I supposed to say to them? I lay a bunch of red and white flowers down.
The problem is that I didn’t really know Mum. How would I have seen the change in behaviour? She was a newly recovering addict. A stranger.
Doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty, though.
“Hi,” I say, wincing. “Um. I thought I would know what to say when I came here. Everyone on TV seems to. There’s a lot between us
