Time does something weird. Slows down, maybe. Or speeds up. Hard to tell when your entire understanding of reality is actively rearranging itself.
My fingers are shaking so hard I nearly drop my phone twice before I manage to open the message. And there it is, a video of what I just witnessed, but from the stage. Twenty thousand people screaming my name. My actual name. At Anthony Devine’s request.
Anthony Devine.
Who I’ve been sending memes to at three a.m. Who knows about my dying fig tree. Who I told about my ex giving me an STI.
That Anthony Devine.
Teddie’s head whips toward my screen, mouth hanging open in a way that would be funny if I weren’t currently having an out-of-body experience.
Yeah, okay, so the probability that the guy I’ve been corresponding with is actually Anthony Devine just increased slightly from, like, one to ninety-nine percent.
I want to put my head between my knees until my brain catches up with what is happening here.
Instead, I struggle to remain on my feet as Anthony starts to sing the words of my favorite song, “Genuine.” The one I drunk-cried to after Chad, the one that made me feel understood when nothing else did.
I’m fairly sure I actually shared that fact with him at one point in our messaging.
Oh my god.
Tired of loving people who only love the parts
That fit inside the space they’ve designed inside their hearts
I just want somebody who can read between the lines
Someone who can handle all of me, not just the shine
Give me something genuine
His voice fills the arena, raw and aching. I’ve listened to this song hundreds of times, but hearing him live, knowing what I know now, is something else entirely.
Anthony is AntD. That sensitive side that AntD showed me is the real Anthony Devine—not the version on magazine covers or in carefully edited interviews, but the one underneath. The one who’s afraid of being caught off guard. Who felt betrayed when someone he trusted sold his secrets.
He gave me all of that. Trusted me with the version of himself that nobody else gets to see.
And in return, I gave him?—
Oh my god, I’ve got to cope with the fact that I talked to Anthony Devine about my flexible-in-bed status and my thoughts on group sex and whether Baby Yoda could defeat regular Yoda in combat.
I think I’m going to die. Right here in Madison Square Garden, cause of death:terminal embarrassment mixed with complete disbelief.
“Nick,” Teddie hisses in my ear. “Is your internet boyfriend actually?—”
“I need to sit down,” I manage to say.
“We’re in general admission. There is no sitting down.”
They’re right. So I stand and watch Anthony Devine sing about wanting someone genuine, someone real, and my whole body responds like it’s tuned to his frequency. Goosebumps race up my arms. My eyes are burning. The bass reverberates through the floor, up through my feet, and settles somewhere behind my sternum, and I can’t tell anymore where the music ends and my heartbeat begins.
In an hour, I’m supposed to walk into a café and face him.
The question is: am I brave enough to actually show up?
CHAPTER NINE
NICK
