Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
The radio host laughs. “Well, we’re certainly glad to hear you’re happy. Because you sure didn’t look happy in that picture!”
Another one of the radio people chuckles in the background, and suddenly I feel like I’m part of some farce.
“Ah, yes, no. That was a perfectly good night.”
“Certainly seemed like it for Caitlyn!” the guy says. “We had her on for an interview just a few days ago, and she says she’s never been happier in her life. She talked about shedding old baggage.”
I’m silent after the host says that.
I’m stunned into disbelief, actually. A distant roll of thunder sounds through the air.
There’s no chance he’s actually implying that there’s some made-up world where I got cheated on by Caitlyn Grener and now she’s calling me her old baggage.
I never even fucking dated the woman, and somehow the narrative has become this entrenched?
“I’m just happy that she’s happy. Do you have any other questions, maybe about Yard Line?”
As soon as we hang up the call, Emily shakes her head.
“Never fucking working with them again,” Emily tells me. “If we wanted to bring in legal, we could. That’s a breach of our contract agreement, for sure. I’m so sorry, Logan.”
I exhale, shifting on the cool leather seat. “They’re not usually so aggressive. I mean, hosts press me a little bit, sometimes, but that was over the line.”
We drive through the city to Chase’s art studio, which is tucked away on a cramped street right between a laundromat and a lamp shop. The door is so small and unmarked that we almost miss it when we pull over to the side of the road.
I check my phone before we head in.
And I see that already, I have an alert from my publicist asking what the hell happened on the radio show.
There’s a link to an article called Logan Stone Flails on the Radio, Demanding A Change of Subject about Caitlyn Grener.
I show it to Emily.
“I didn’t demand anything,” I protest. “God, I hate that they can spin anything to make the public believe whatever they want.”
Emily sighs. “I can take care of it. Try to put it out of your mind, okay?”
But I can’t put it out of my mind.
I walk out onto the street and the rain has turned into a slow drizzle. I make my way to the unmarked door and punch in the code Chase gave me on the tiny keypad, shoving it open.
Inside, the rain patters quietly along the windows.
There are multiple rooms, which I assume are all rented by various other artists. All of them are artist studios, and some of the doors are left open, revealing what different people are working on. There’s a room full of beautiful ceramic pots. Another one with paintings of cityscapes. There’s one with copper sculptures, and one with inexplicable paper mobiles all hanging from the ceiling.
At the end of the hall, there’s a dark, narrow staircase, and I hear someone coming down.
“Hey,” Chase says as he appears, and I feel something spark in my chest as I see him smile at me.
He looks incredible.
He put on a black long-sleeve and nice-looking slacks with a belt, and he’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses that I’ve never seen on him before. There’s a camera slung over one of his shoulders, and as he pushes his hair back, I’ve never seen him so clearly in his element before.
“Wow,” I say softly.
“The upstairs hallway has some projects in it right now,” he says, reaching out to grab my hand. “Here. My studio is at the end of the second floor. Careful, because there are some glass sculptures at the top of the landing. None of the other people are in right now.”
He leads me up the stairs and I dimly register that there’s no real reason he needs to be holding my hand, but I’m happy that he does.
The second floor is just as narrow as the first, but there are skylights and taller ceilings, which make it seem much more airy. Gentle rain falls now along all of the glass, and I feel like I’m in some sort of quiet, magic dome.
His studio is at the end of the hall.
We walk through the door and it’s like I’m transported into a different place.
“I feel like I just walked inside your mind,” I tell him.
He smiles. “It’s a clusterfuck. But it’s my clusterfuck. I know where everything is, even if it doesn’t look like it.”
The space is a riot of color.
Every surface and wall has some of Chase’s projects on it, all of which seem to be more neon than the last. His art is also more impressive in person than in the pictures. Every painting is thick with texture, and some of them almost have a 3D quality to them, with paint rising from the surface like geologic landscapes.