Garrick and I don’t talk that often—we’re not even a step above acquaintances as far as I’m concerned. I’m the homeless girl with a questionable job that he took in because he felt bad, so he doesn’t need to tell me what he does or doesn’t do. But a warning would have been nice since he knew where I was going today. He’d stopped at the end of the stairs I’d descended from on his way to the garage door, gave me a slow once-over that had made my toes curl in my flats, and said, “You look lovely today, Rylee.”
He wasn’t pleased when I told him I had a meeting with Sarina, but didn’t voice his objections either, especially when I told him I had my reservations about it.
In the almost two weeks I’ve been staying here, the man from down under had made it clear time and time again that he’s no longer the hardcore partier he once was. He’ll still get pictured with random women on occasion, that much is clear from the Instagram photos he’s tagged in every day and the articles that surface online, but they never look like he just hooked up with them somewhere public like old times. Not once has he stayed out late or come home drunk or tweaked like I would have expected the younger version of him did, and he even goes to bed earlier than I do claiming he has an early start to his days that he needs rest for.
It isn’t like I don’t put an effort into having conversations with the Matthews boys. The few times I’ve talked with them, it never lasted beyond me asking if their days were good or if I could help with something around the house. Chase would always give me a funny, cautious look, and Garrick would simply smile and tell me what he did. But not before his little brother would give him a quick glance of warning, as if anything they say could wind up in the next breaking news story their phones chirp with when something juicy happens.
It’s a reasonable reaction, which is why I try to stay out of their way and stick to my room as much as possible. I don’t want to act like I’m prying or digging up anything for Sarina or the press to dissect.
Usually, the moment I close my bedroom door I walk over to the double pained private balcony doors—which Garrick said every bedroom has to show off the beautiful view—and sit in the sunlight to research other story ideas and new apartment listings that I can’t afford yet. Garrick has invited me to eat with them sometimes when we’re all home, and I’ll typically agree so I’m not rude, but nobody says more than a general thanks for the food.
Last night, Garrick made my favorite homecooked meal after he found out I loved meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and although I’d never admit it to my mother, his beats hers by a long shot. I even had seconds which is rare, making the man who cooked it beam in ways I’ve only seen Moffie do when someone tells her they love her quirky outfits.
Chase always goes out after.
Garrick escapes to his room or the small home gym I discovered he had after looking around once when I was home alone.
Moffie and I will text back and forth almost every night before bed to check in, never breaking our routine once. I never tell her where I am or what’s been going on, and I pray she can’t tell that there’s cause for concern or else she’ll spend her hard-earned money to fly here and check in on me in person.
It feels like hours go by as I sulk against the front door and read through various news articles when the front gates open. I perk up, expecting to see Chase’s BMW roll in, but it’s Garrick instead.
I stand up, joints stiff from sitting for so long, when he parks his Mustang next to my car and quickly walks over to me. “What are you doing on the— Shit. I never gave you the code for the door, did I?” He’d given me the gate code and told me he’d write down the one to the door too, but he got distracted when his manager called him, and they got into some argument about doing interviews to balance out the things being said online ever since audio was released of what sounded like Zayne’s drunken voice telling someone he didn’t want to be in the band anymore.
I never pushed Garrick on the code because I didn’t want to demand anything from him. Taking a bed, a space in the home he got by all his hard work, is enough.
I offer a measly, “It’s okay.”
He shakes his head, eyes hard. “How long have you been out here? I would have expected Chase to be home by now.” His eyes go to the fancy smartwatch on his wrist. “He was only supposed to look at a few estates today, and that was hours ago.”
I brush it off, trying my best to pass it off as no big deal. “He’s been out more. And I haven’t been out here that long. But I do need to use the bathroom so…”
I’ve had to pee since I got here but distracted myself with photos of Zayne that have been making waves across social media. It hurts to see the tall, good-looking drummer in some of them knowing the short time we spent together years ago. In most of the ones he’s tagged in on Instagram, there’s always women surrounding him, some perched on his lap, others kissing his neck while he grins, and all of the beautiful women looking like the exact opposite of me.
When I’d first taken on the story Sarina wanted, I knew I’d have to blend in, but no amount of tight clothing and done-up hair and makeup gave me the unashamed
