“Does it though? Has he been kind to you?”
I think about all our late-night conversations. The way he remembered my exam schedule. How he made me feel better about Chad. “Yeah.”
“Has he been genuine?”
“I mean, he kept telling me he was Anthony Devine, and I thought it was a joke, so technically?—”
“Nick.”
“Yes. He’s been genuine.”
“So I don’t see what the problem is.”
“The problem is he’s famous!”
“Oh no,” Teddie says, their voice dripping with sarcasm. “The guy you’ve been messaging constantly and have a great connection with turns out to be a superstar. The universe is just so terrible sometimes.”
“I really like him,” I whisper.
“The fame thing isn’t real. He’s still just a person with real feelings.”
I stare at them. “You’ve been watchingNotting Hillagain, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, and I get that if things go wrong between you, you’ll have to stop listening to the radio or watching anything to do with music because he’ll still be everywhere, which would suck. But don’t you think it’s worth the risk?”
My mouth is dry.
Is he worth the risk?
He’s famous. He’s impossibly out of my league. Dating him would mean photographers and tabloids and a million people having opinions about us.
But then I think about how talking to him makes me feel more like myself than I do with people I’ve known for years.
“Yes, he’s worth the risk,” I say.
“Then what the fuck are you doing standing here?” Teddie checks their phone. “It’s already ten forty-five. Where are you supposed to meet?”
“A café on Houston.”
“Okay, if we lived in England, I’d totally be getting in my car along with our cast of quirky friends to race through the streets of London to a press conference. But instead, I think you’d better start running.”
I stare at them. “This is crazy.”
“Love is crazy.Now go!”
I take off running, pushing through the crowd still streaming out of the venue. Of course when I burst onto the street, there’s not a single available taxi. The Uber app shows a twenty-five-minute wait. The subway will take at least twenty minutes with the transfer.
Fuck it. I run.
I probably look insane—a sweaty guy in a band T-shirt sprinting through Manhattan like he’s being chased. By the time I reach the Bleecker’s Café, I’m ten minutes late and gasping for breath, my shirt soaked through with sweat. Attractive.
I peer through the window, and my heart stops.
He’s there. Anthony Devine is sitting in a corner booth, wearing a baseball cap and hoodie like that’s any kind of disguise when you’re one of the most famous faces on the planet. He’s staring at his phone, leg bouncing under the table.
He looks exactly like he does in photos, but also nothing like them. He looks…normal. Anxious. Human.
I push open the door.
