I Have Lost My Way(37)

* * *



— — —

Nathaniel knows what it means to lose everything. It really means losing yourself. It is the worst thing that can happen. He would do anything to keep this from happening to another person.

“What can I do?” he asks.



* * *



— — —

“What can we do?” Harun corrects. He doesn’t know what it means to lose everything, but he suspects he’s dangerously close to finding out.



* * *



— — —

Their enthusiasm—their righteous anger—is infectious. It makes Freya want to do something she has never been able to do: speak for herself.

Only that would mean facing Hayden alone. Bad things happen when she’s alone with him.

But maybe she doesn’t have to be alone.

“Will you guys come with me?” she asks in a small voice. “To confront him?”

She’s only just met them. They don’t know what she intends to do. She doesn’t know what she intends to do. She’s flying blind. They must see it.

But they don’t hesitate. “Yes,” they reply.



* * *



— — —

When they arrive at Hayden’s SoHo offices, Freya feels like puking.

“I feel like puking,” she says.

“Feel free to do it on my shoes,” Nathaniel offers.

This is funny, but she doesn’t laugh, because she really does feel like puking, and it’s better not to tempt fate.

They ride the elevator up to Hayden’s office. Freya’s knees begin to buckle as she realizes she’s about to face Hayden with no idea of what to say. During media training, she’d been taught to draw up three talking points before every interview, and no matter what the interviewer asked, to respond with her talking points. It was when people diverged that they ran into trouble, said things they couldn’t take back.

But here she is, in the elevator up to Hayden’s office, and she hasn’t even figured out what she should say. Which is an amateur move; you don’t take on Hayden Booth with no strategic planning, a lesson Freya should’ve learned.

She’s going to faint.

The elevator door opens. Freya has a sudden body memory of the first time she and Sabrina came here, how when the doors had opened, they’d reached for each other’s hand. She can still feel Sabrina’s grip—is certain that if she looks down, the half moons of her sister’s nails will be there.

She looks. They aren’t.

This was a dumb idea. There’s nothing she can do or say that will change anything. But then Nathaniel puts his hand on the small of her back and Harun makes an after-you gesture, holding the elevator door open, and she is whisked into Hayden’s lobby, and before she can change her mind, the elevator door closes behind her.

The lobby is full of enormous framed photos of Hayden, that crooked grin of his as he mugs for the camera with, well, everyone who matters in the world of pop music. Seeing them, Harun gasps. Which is precisely the point.

One of Hayden’s interchangeable assistants—intimidatingly beautiful, headset attached like a cyborg—looks up from the desk. “Freya,” the assistant says coolly. “We were expecting you earlier.”

“I wasn’t available earlier,” Freya says, attempting to recreate the Freya of the narrative, the one who’s tough as nails, as ruthless as the man who discovered her (just ask Sabrina). The Freya who is not intimidated by an assistant. “Is Hayden in?”

“He’s not available,” the assistant says.

“Is he here?”

“No.”

“Is he gone for the day?” It’s after five, but Hayden often stayed late at the office.

“No, but it’ll be a while.”

What else is new?

“We’ll wait,” Harun announces.

Freya wants to tell Harun they could be here for hours. Hayden enjoys making people wait almost as much as he hates waiting.

But Harun’s already sat down on the leather couch. Nathaniel has sat down next to him. They’ve left a square between them for her. Freya sits and stares at Hayden’s office door. Gunmetal gray with a bright, shiny knob. He could be in there. He could be punishing her or fucking with her or being Hayden. The first time, he’d made them wait two hours. The assistants had offered no explanation, no apology, not even water.

“Would you like some water?” the assistant asks, and Freya feels momentarily better that if nothing else, she is now (still) a person who is offered water upon arrival.

Only the stupid assistant isn’t even asking her. She’s asking Nathaniel.

“Sure,” Nathaniel says.

“Still or sparkling?”

The assistant is fawning, like Nathaniel is someone almost-famous, and Freya understands it’s because he’s good-looking enough to be someone famous, and those kinds of looks—in New York City, anyhow—are a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“Huh?” Nathaniel says.

“Bubbles or no bubbles?” the assistant says.

“Uhh, bubbles, I guess.”

“Two shakes,” the assistant replies without asking if Freya or Harun want water, let alone still or sparkling.