Heidi Tretheway - Tyler & Stella

We pile into a stretch limo, picking up Dave and Kristina, then Jayce and Shelly. Gavin pours champagne and I glance at Tyler and decline the glass. I’d like a couple pre-function shots in my system, but I just told Tyler I’ve stopped drinking.

It makes me do stupid shit.

I was fine with stupid when my life was a blur of shows, late nights and anonymous bad boys, but Tyler’s goodness makes me want to be good, too.

“So what’s your manager’s game plan?” Kristina asks, her ice-blue gown glowing under the car’s violet interior lights. “Are you going in first or are we arm candy?”

Dave checks his phone before answering and frowns. “I still haven’t heard back from Chief. Let’s have the band go in first. We’ll do the press rail and you ladies can take the direct route. Meet you inside.”

Kristina nods, as much the girls’ team captain as Dave is Tattoo Thief’s. She’s done this for months, but Beryl, Shelly and I are newbies. Shelly giggles and snuggles closer to Jayce, whose hand rides high on her thigh.

The car slows and the girls hang back, letting Tattoo Thief exit first in a barrage of flashing lights. On the other side of the tinted glass, dozens of photographers swarm Emma Stone, one of the stars of The Amazing Spider-Man 2. She poses with her date, who towers over her the way Tyler would tower over me.

I’m glad I’m not going out in that. I’d probably trip in my heels and do a faceplant on the red carpet.

The guys straighten their jackets, waving at the crowd outside of our car. Girls shriek I love you at Tattoo Thief. It reminds me that there are thousands, maybe even tens of thousands, of women who would happily shove me aside for a shot at Tyler.

I expect the band to follow Emma down the red carpet but a stocky guy with a skinny beard catches Dave by the elbow and whispers in his ear. Dave turns back to the band and nods his head to the car where we’re waiting behind a closed door.

Oh, shit.

Beryl sees the panic in my eyes when Dave opens the car door and offers a hand to Kristina. Jayce is next, and Shelly shimmies out of the car, her breasts barely contained in a strapless, sequined fuchsia cocktail dress that screams look at me.

Beryl squeezes my hand, aware this is the last thing I want. “Just smile, look at Tyler and don’t answer any questions,” she says. “Pretend you don’t even hear them.”

“Tyler! Tyler, give us a smile over here!” Tyler turns to the photographers calling his name, smiling at them with his body cemented to my side.

He stands tall and proud, grinning like he just won the lottery. I can almost forget the flashing and the screaming and how this could look to my editor. Almost. Why did I agree to come with him?

He wraps my hand under his elbow and bends to my ear. I catch his words floating just above the roar of the crowd as girls scream his name. “The best thing about being here right now is being with you.”

I draw strength from his touch. I replay Beryl’s instructions in my head, smiling like crazy as my eyes bounce between the red carpet ahead of me and Tyler’s handsome profile.

He really is gorgeous. His light olive skin glows with health and I have a fleeting thought about his diabetes. He looks so strong and vital; it’s shocking to think that every day he’s locked in a complicated dance that demands constant attention to his blood sugar.

“Tyler! Who’s this? Where’s Kim Archer?”

My head swivels to Tyler and my face betrays surprise. He squeezes my arm and keeps smiling, though it no longer reaches his eyes. I smile back at him, all teeth and no twinkle.

Something’s very wrong.

“When did you and Kim break up? Is this your new girlfriend?” More shouts from the photographers and I hear a clanging in my head as I start to piece together their shouts into a narrative.

“Where’s your baby?”

“How do you feel about being a father?”

“What does Kim Archer think about your new girlfriend?”

Tyler’s stride is plodding, the joy I saw in his eyes when I first exited the limo replaced by terror. He smiles and waves at the crowd as if nothing’s wrong, but I feel the invisible arrows hit his body with each question.

“Did you know about the baby?”

“Were you there at the birth or were you on tour?”

“Why aren’t you taking responsibility for your child?”

That last one stings and a gate drops down on Tyler’s face, a stony expression to get us across the last few yards of the red carpet. But before we can escape, the man with the skinny beard, whom I now recognize as Tattoo Thief’s manager, anchors Tyler’s other arm.

“You’ve got to talk to them, Tyler,” the manager hisses over the noise of the crowd. “Kim Archer cashed in her threat and went to the media. The story just hit the wire and Twitter. Time for damage control.”

My smile is plastic and my cheeks ache. I make a move to release his arm and let him talk to the press alone, but Tyler clamps down on my hand.

“I need you with me, Stella. Just remember: Facts are real. Stories aren’t always true.” Tyler’s voice rasps and I remember these words. They’re the same words he spoke the first night I went to his loft to see his practice space.

The manager gives me a once-over and a word of warning. “What you say and do right now will affect Tyler immensely.”

I swallow and force my grin wider to show Tyler I’ve got his back. We face the throng of reporters.

With each new question, the assault gets more pointed and more personal.

“What’s your relationship with Kim Archer now? Does she know about your new girlfriend?” A blonde in a Grecian-draped navy gown pushes a microphone under Tyler’s mouth and his jaw tenses as he measures his next words carefully. A black-clad cameraman hovers over the blonde’s shoulder.

“Relationships are more complicated that a soundbite, wouldn’t you agree?” He smiles and the reporter’s back arches slightly. She’s responding to his physical presence the way any woman would. With a swoon.

“So you’re still together with Kim? Or are you with…” the reporter looks at me and pushes the microphone closer to his mouth, willing him to fill in my name.

“I’m really excited to see the Spider-Man premiere tonight. Working on its soundtrack was inspiring. Did you ask Emma Stone about the scene that features our song?” Tyler grins again, letting the non sequitur sink in.

He just said no comment without saying that on camera. It’s a technique I learned in journalism school, and I admire his savvy. Tape of him saying “no comment” or looking flustered would be played again and again with the reporter’s voiceover describing an alleged torrid affair. That would be damaging, but what Tyler’s giving right now is harmless.

Facts are real. Stories aren’t always true.

The reporter’s questions have my brain swirling and I’m seething. It’s not quite jealousy—more the empty feeling of being left out of this part of his life. I suspect this is the secret he hasn’t shared with Dave or Gavin yet.

Seeing she’ll make no headway with Tyler, the reporter turns to me. “Have you seen Tyler’s baby?” It’s a point-blank question with only a yes or no response, and I cover my hesitation with a small cough.

“I’ve seen more than you would imagine,” I tell her and lift my eyebrows. She leans in toward me, her eyes coaxing me for a girlfriend-to-girlfriend spill. But this act is bullshit, and I’ve been playing her side of the game long enough to know better.

“I’ve seen Tyler be an amazing friend. His talent speaks for itself, but what people don’t see is a guy who’s willing to go out of his way to help others.” I take a half-step back from the microphone, my smile bright and my body language signaling this interview’s end.

Tyler pivots us and walks to the next reporter, whom I recognize from Entertainment Weekly. Now we’re in lock step, smiling and playing off each other as if this press chat is just a barrel of laughs. This is important—if a paparazzo captures just one cranky look on his ten-frames-per-second digital camera, that’s the shot we’ll see online later tonight.

Tyler answers questions with the minimum amount of information and I glean more about the baby and the fact that Kim Archer is a real part of his past. He won’t say anything more than she’s “an engaging person” and he “wishes her the best” but I feel the strain as his arm tenses through his suit.

I want to ask him about everything right this minute. I want to know who Kim was to him, what she looks like, and if her three-month-old baby girl is, indeed, his.

Could it be true? A year ago, Tattoo Thief’s fame exploded. The band’s first album, Feast, was in heavy rotation on pop, rock and alternative radio. I don’t expect that Tyler’s lived like a monk in the past, but I’m not sure I’m ready to face the real consequences if a fling created something more.

A person. A baby. My stomach clenches at the memory of my pregnancy and I’m not ready to ask him for the truth. Facts are real, but stories aren’t always the truth? Tyler’s statement feels more like a riddle with each moment.

Tattoo Thief’s manager finally rescues us, pulling us away from our last interview and into the relative safety of the theater lobby where press are banned. I look around desperately for Beryl but see no one I recognize.

Tyler tips up my chin and looks carefully at my face. He’s no longer performing for the cameras and his eyes are tight and frightened. “You get through that OK?”