Who inspired the male character?
Who. Not what.Who.
This person clearly wants to see my downfall.
She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to answer.
I swallow.Kill me now.“I really wanted to write about an enigmatic athlete who...” Now that I’m about to say it out loud, I’m questioning whether this entire novel concept was a horrendous idea. “Falls in love with a screenwriter after he auditions for a movie.”
Yup. Horrific. A complete and utter nonanswer that everyone is going to see through.
But politicians answer questions without actually answering them all the time. Surely my nonprofessional self can get away with it.
I chew the inside of my cheek, waiting to see Maddie’s reaction. I don’t dare look at the comments. Then she gives me the most excited smile, enthusiastic nods, and a dramatic, “I love it!”
My gut feeling says not to believe her. She’s live. She wouldn’t tell me that she hates it.
I mean, she wouldn’t have agreed to do this if she didn’t like the book, right?Ugh.
Eight minutes.
Another comment pops up.
Is there stalking in it?
The question catches my eye, even though I’m trying to look at the screen. I don’t answer. Instead, I respond to whatever follow-up questions are thrown my way as I find myself fixating on my phone and the comments “LIHna” leaves.
Is that scene something you want to relate to, baby girl?
Your voice is my favorite sound. I wish I could hear it at night.
Which scene from your book would you like to recreate? Say the word, and I’ll be there.
One right after the other, the comments keep rolling in, and it’s getting increasingly harder to engage in any kind ofconversation with Maddie. Any response I give is filled with stutters and jumbled words.
They could be a random stranger, and this is all the biggest coincidence. Or it’s Jack coming back to torment me. In another universe—or hopefully by next year—it would be Leo who’s commenting. Calling me beautiful and wanting to find out everything there is to know.
Maybe... maybe nothing is wrong with telling myself it’s Leo saying all these things. I can pretend Jack doesn’t exist, and it’s Leo who wants to treat me like I’m someone who matters.
My skin burns at the deluded prospect, but I still attempt to respond to Maddie’s question about one of the scenes. As I give my not-great answer, I hope she can read the signals I’m telepathically sending her to end this live.
More comments keep coming.
You’re so beautiful. I can’t stop looking at you.
Crimson stains my cheeks when I imagine Leo whispering those words in my ear as he grips my flesh, thrusting into me with the same desperate yearning I feel.
So that’s the color you turn when you get all hot and bothered.
What has you blushing?
It couldn’t be me, could it?
Even though his comments are drowning beneath a sea of other messages, I still spot each and every one before they’re lost among the masses. I read the words inhisvoice, and I think I lose the ability to breathe properly. Maddie seems wholly ignorant of those—his—messages.
The muscles in my lower stomach tighten, and I can’t help reading the comments as if he’s right beside me, teasing me,tauntingme, like we’re hunting each other.
My phone vibrates with a text from Leo, and my heart skips a beat, mistaking everything that’s happening for a sign that my thoughts were on the right track.
