I made no snide remark about how they referred to me—inadvertently or not—as a product and not a person. Zipping my lips at that was hard, but I didn’t want to risk them changing their mind about this event. If I can help Drew and his store, I have to so I can make up for being an ass over the course of seven years.
It helps, too, that the media is reinterested in Drew’s involvement in my life since that photographed sniff outside Lucille’s business. I take this as a small chance to overwrite some of the long-standing hurt that hovered over him during my ascent to fame. I hope this will show the world what Drew made for himself in the face of it all.
Inside, rows of the requested matching folding chairs are set up around the tables, stopping at the start of the stacks. A small makeshift stage sits in front of the right-side window display. There’s awired microphone on a stand, its cord snaking into a nearby amplifier, which is currently cranking out music.
The air is sweet with the smell of homemade cookies. I spy Jolene from book club arranging her baked goods—which also happens to be the name of my fanbase, Nolan’s Baked Goods (BGs for short)—to perfection. Upon closer inspection, they’re sprinkled and iced to match the colors of the book cover. Now that I think about it, they closely resemble the colors of the old Doop logo, too: peacock-blue and gold.
“Nolan, nice to see you,” Jolene says, offering me a cookie on a plate with a napkin, which I accept.
Jessalynn, on the other hand, purses their lips, shakes their head, and looks around for something stiff to drink. Too bad for them, this is a sober event.
“Wow, Drew did an amazing job. This place looks incredible,” I say after taking a bite of the cookie, which is the right ratio of chewy-to-crumbly.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but he upped the budget when he onboarded you as the interviewer,” Jolene says, glancing over her shoulders. I don’t spot a red beard anywhere in the bunch. “That’s why he went a little overboard with everything, but it looks like it was worth it from this turnout.”
When I glance out the window, I notice fans holding poster boards up to the window reading “NOLAN BAKER, HAVE MY BABIES” and “ROAST ME, NOLAN BAKER.” Both make me laugh, so I wave at them and they scream back.
Despite the excited throng here for me, I’m here for Drew, even if I haven’t seen him for most of the week. Sure, a text or two here and a stolen lunch there, but Drew was consumed with getting this event squared away, and I’m in the throes of major tech for the special, which—worrisomely—tapes four days from today. Even if our hearts want to be together, our situations have partitioned us.
Instead of loving on Drew and finding those last couple crystals to test, I spend my days in camera-blocking rehearsals as people in headsets run around checking lighting fixtures and setting up microphones through various areas of the audience, each meant to pick up laugh tracks.
The budget and production value is unmatched. I vacillate between being awed at what I’ve garnered and disgusted by how it came to pass. My anxiety swings like a pendulum from (a) getting out of here before the special tapes so I don’t have to go through with something so false and permanent to (b) losing Drew, once again, before we even have a chance to properly begin.
Could losing seven years but gaining confidence and love be a worthwhile trade?
“Drew seems really taken by you,” Jolene adds with a coy smirk.
Even though that gap in my memory persists—all that time I flew over thanks to the crystals—hindsight remains strong. I was so afraid of crushing Drew the lovebug that I became a self-fulfilling prophesy. I courted him as my date to CeeCee’s wedding, and then I didn’t watch where I was stepping.Splat.
Now, what if staying is my best option?
If Drew was able to be honest with me at the playground and have sex with me in this very shop, then he must be asking himself the same question. Right?
Jolene checks her silver watch. “Oh! Drew roped the entire book club into assisting, so I think it’s time we take our posts and start letting people in. You can find Drew in the back office. Looking forward to it. Break a leg.”
Jessalynn hooks me by the arm before I can break toward the back room. “You told me this was strictly professional.”
“I lied,” I say, with one question still overtaking my mind.
“You can’t lie to me,” they tut. “You pay me to manage you.”
“I could stop paying you. Would you prefer that?” I ask, warning laced into my voice.
They narrow their eyes. “I have a contract.”
“And I’m certain I have very powerful lawyers who can loophole my way out of it,” I say, unwilling to take their bullying any further. I’m certain their new personality was a by-product of mine, but I’m committing to being better. I’m in love. Again. Against all odds. In a timeline I traveled to via freaking crystals. “Nothing matters. Time is meaningless. If you’re afraid me finding someone I care about and turning toward kinder comedy is going to tank the career you had a hand in building, maybe neither of us deserved this to begin with.”
“You realize that someone is the person you used to publicly bash during your sets,” Jessalynn says through gritted teeth. “I don’t know what magic you pulled out of your ass to get that kind of forgiveness, but I can see it for what it is.”
“Which is?”
“Someone using you for your platform.” They point to the fans.
I shake my head. “Using the fans wasmyidea.”
“Who even are you right now?” they ask, features contorted into an unnatural scowl.
“I could ask you the same question,” I say, voice low so none of the incoming patrons hear me. “You used to be my friend, and I refuse to let you become the villain of my story. So get on board or politely bow out.”
