Page 165 of Lovers Like Us

She sobs into the crook of my neck. Wet tears soaking my shirt. “Please, please,please.I don’t want todie.”

My pulse thumps like a hollowed drum. It’s her and me, and I know I’m not enough. I need to put her in touch with health professionals—I’ve done this before. I can make sure she’s okay. I can do that atleast.

I turn my head. “Lydia,” I call out to my tour assistant. “If her parents aren’t here, get them on the phone.” Shehurries.

Farrow squats besideme.

“Britni,” I say, “there are people who can help if you’re feeling aloneor—”

“You’re theonly one,” she says through blistering tears. She clutches my collar again like I’m her literallifeline.

Farrow gently peels her fingers off my shirt andneck.

“I’m not the only one,” I assure her. “There are so many people out there who’ll help you, who care aboutyou—”

“Nonono,” she slurs, shaking herhead.

I could go into my fan line and ask a couple girls around her age if they’d want to come on stage. Sit with us for about five minutes. Keep Britni company with me. Cheer her up. Just talk and show her that people do care. Maybe she’d make a newfriend.

I did that at the San Diego FanCon for an upset preteen, but here, with Britni, I don’t know. She reminds me of Xander, and he’d flip the fuck out of if I brought strangers into hisbubble.

Britni clings onto my shoulders, and Farrow has trouble tearing her off without beingforceful.

“Jane cares about you,” I say strongly. “My cousinscare—”

“I only want you,” she cries into myneck.

My muscles tighten, and Lydia lowers a phone into my hand. Britni’s parents. While she’s crying against my chest, I talk to them, ask them who attended the FanCon with theirdaughter.

They have no clue. They didn’t even know she’d be here, and I’m not that surprised. I ask for consent to put her on the phone with healthcare professionals. They sayyes, of course.Great, I go through the motions, but I’m cradling a human in myhands.

And I’m just twenty-two.

I’m not a superhero. I don’t have the answers or the meaning of life, but I’m fucking trying. All I can do istry.

When they want to quit, I’m not going to fucking quit onthem.

It must be twenty or thirty minutes before Britni calms, speaks to her parents, and I have to leave her in the hands of ourstaff.

I’m on my feet, and the line coordinator, photographer, assistant, and my bodyguard all look at me for direction. I crack my neck, my muscles almost spasm they’re thattight.

I lock eyes with Farrow. He chews a piece of gum, and he gestures his head towards the backstage exit. To take abreak.

For just aminute.

I nod, and to Lydia, I say, “I won’t be long.” As I pass Farrow, we walk side-by-side, and he speaks into his mic, telling security that I’m on a shortbreak.

I slip through the quiet backstage, and I enter a dressingroom.

Gift boxes, scrapbooks, and sweets are stacked high on a table and couch. Makeup and hair products spread across avanity.

I open and close my fist. Drifting stiffly to a rack of clothes, back to the vanity. Farrow locks the door, but I don’t hold hisgaze.

I put my hands on my head, restless but rigid. If I could, I’d be in the water somewhere. Some place. Then I’d climb out and run and run and fuckingrun.

I grip the edge of the vanity. Hunched forward, and in the mirror, I catch sight of my reddened, burning eyes and my soaked green shirt from her tears. Fuck. I wrench the shirt off my head. My jaw aches. I ball a hand in afist.

I need to hitsomething.