He might have frowned, but I wasn’t positive with all the blood rushing to my head. “Get down before you fall over the side of the bed and give yourself more brain damage than you already have.”
Rolling my eyes, I did as he said but only because it wouldn’t be the first time I’d fallen off a bunk bed. I climbed down way too quickly and went and sat on the edge of his mattress, way too interested. “You use social media?”
Kulti stared at me. “Yes.” Then he added, “I have a fake account.”
“No!” I laughed.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
“Can I see it?”
The German looked like he wanted to deny my request, but he finally nodded and, a minute later, handed me his tablet. The blue and white page had “Michel Reiner” at the top and some bogus, generic picture of a sunset as the profile picture. His number of friends? 25.
Twenty-freaking-five.
I looked at him over the top of the tablet and felt my heart break just a bit. “Do you know how many people like your fan page?”
He shrugged. I looked it up.
The Reiner Kulti Official Fan Page had one hundred and twenty-five million likes.
And “Michel Reiner” had twenty-five.
Something watery pooled in my throat as I handed him back his tablet. “I don’t get on there much, but you could add me as a friend if you wanted to,” I offered in a wobbly voice.
“What an honor,” the bratwurst said, but he said it with a small smile, so I knew he didn’t mean it like an asshole.
I still reached under the cover and pulled his leg hair. At least I hoped it was his leg hair.
Whatever it was, he let out a grunt-squeak noise of surprise as he jerked away, a big smile on his face that seemed to fit into skin that wasn’t accustomed to forming those types of facial expressions. “Do it again, Sal, and you’ll get it right back.”
I made sure he was watching when I crossed my eyes at his threat. “I don’t have hair on my legs, so good luck with that.” I eyed the small screen again. “Who else are you friends with on there?”
“Some old teammates, my mother, my manager, and publicist.” He tapped my name into the search and hit the “add” button once my page came up. “You.”
My phone beeped a second later, and I saw the alert of a pending friend request. I accepted it and set my phone back down on the dresser before taking the seat I’d left next to the German.
The German who was already busy browsing my profile.
“Nosey much?” I asked.
He grunted, clicking on my main album and scrolling down. They were mainly all pictures that friends or family members had posted and linked me to. Birthdays, games, get-togethers, more games… it was a timeline of the last eight years of my life through other people’s eyes. Kulti didn’t say anything as he looked through them, until he suddenly stopped scrolling.
“Who is this?” he asked.
He didn’t need to point at the picture for me to know who he was referring to, and honestly, I was a little surprised Adam still had pictures of us up. We hadn’t been together in five years, and he’d dated more than a few girls since then.
But there we were on the screen.
I was in my early twenties, him in his late twenties, and me on his lap with his arm around my waist. My ex-boyfriend of four years was blond, built like an Abercrombie model, really cute, and just as nice as he’d been attractive.
“That’s really old. It’s my ex-boyfriend,” I explained to the German.
The man who rarely used words didn’t change his tactic, but heslowly started looking through more pictures with dozens more of Adam and me popping up along the timeline. It made me feel a little sad that I hadn’t tried harder to work things out with him. We’d always gotten along really well, and he’d been the exact person I needed and wanted back then.
“How long were you together?” he asked once we’d scrolled three years further back.
“Four years. We met my second year in college.”
