“Context,” I echo. “For what?”
She smiles.
“For the moment you tell the world you’re in love with her.”
The next day, the house feels wrong.
Or maybe I’m just seeing it clearly for the first time.
Crystal chandelier glittering over the foyer.
Marble floors polished to mirror shine.
An actual grand piano no one plays.
Oil portraits of dead ancestors on the walls, watching me with judgmental eyes.
The PR girl walks in with her camera guy and sound tech and just stops.
“Holy…” She catches herself. “Okay. This? This is a set.”
“This is my house,” I say.
“Exactly.”
Tristan and Xavier trail behind, carrying coffee and acting like they’ve just been granted behind-the-scenes access to a HBO drama.
“Duuuuude,” Tristan breathes. “Can we film in the library? Your library screams ‘I brooded here while contemplating my tragic feelings.’”
Xavier nods. “It does have gravitas.”
I roll my eyes. “You two are not helping my dignity.”
The PR girl (her name’s Lane, I remember suddenly) spins in a slow circle, taking everything in.
“All this,” she says finally, “and you’re still miserable.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She glances at me. “That’s your story, Leo. That’s the point. Let’s use it.”
We start in my room.
Not the carefully-cleaned version. The real one. Clothes on the chair. Sneakers on the floor. A shelf full of trophies and medals next to a desk covered in untouched textbooks.
Lane adjusts the camera on a tripod. Sound guy clips a mic to my shirt.
“Remember,” she says. “We’re not doing PR-speak. We’re not polishing you. We’re capturing you.”
I sit on the edge of my bed, palms pressed to my knees. My heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s in my throat.
“Just answer me like you would if this wasn’t being recorded,” she says.
“That’s impossible,” I say.
“Do your best.”
She hits record.
