I rush toward him, already smiling, already reaching?—
“Charlie! There’s my girl!”
The voice is wrong. The arms that wrap around me are wrong. Everything is wrong.
It’s not Taio.
It’s Grayson.
I go rigid in his embrace, my brain struggling to catch up with reality. Grayson. Of course it’s Grayson. He told me he was coming. I knew he was coming. I just…forgot. In the chaos of rehearsals and the new choreography and Taio’s notes and the phone call, I forgot that my fake boyfriend was flying in to play his part. Or maybe I didn’t care.
“Amazing show, babe.” Grayson pulls back just enough to plant a kiss on my cheek—firm and performative, the kind of kiss designed to be photographed. “You were great up there.”
I force my face into something resembling a smile. “Thanks. I didn’t know you were coming backstage.”
“Surprised you.” He grins, all white teeth and practiced charm. “Marcus got me in. Thought it would make for good optics.”
Optics. Right.
Over Grayson’s shoulder, black camera lenses glint like hungry eyes. Three, no, four photographers huddle in the wings, their equipment aimed at us like weapons. Each flash captures another millisecond of this performance we’re calling a reunion, preserving our manufactured intimacy for tomorrow’s headlines.
I am so tired of being watched.
But I know how this works. So I do what I’ve always done—I perform.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say, loud enough for the microphones to pick up. I slip my hand into Grayson’s, interlacing our fingers like we’ve done it a thousand times.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He squeezes my hand, and I wonder if he can feel how clammy my palm is, how much effort it’s taking to keep my smile in place. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I made dinner reservations.”
Dinner reservations?It’s well past ten and I am covered head to toe in body glitter.
We walk toward the exit together, hands clasped, picture-perfect couple. The backstage corridor stretches ahead of us, lined with production equipment and crew members who step aside to let us pass. Everyone’s watching. Everyone’s always watching.
I can see our images flickering on the jumbotron screens that flank the stage—the arena’s cameras tracking our exit, broadcasting it to the thousands of fans still in their seats, still buzzing from the show.
Grayson waves to the cameras with his free hand, that practiced celebrity wave—elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist—that I’venever quite mastered. He’s good at this. Better than me, honestly. He makes it look effortless.
“Smile, babe,” he murmurs through his teeth. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”
I adjust my expression, pushing more warmth into my eyes. “Sorry. Just exhausted.”
“Let’s get out of here. Your stuff is already in the car. We can go right home.”
The photographers follow us all the way to the parking structure, cameras clicking like hungry insects. I keep my chin up, my smile bright, my grip on Grayson’s hand steady.
But as we step out of the arena and into the waiting SUV, the door closing behind us with a soft thunk, all I can think about is the guy who isn’t here. For the first time, it bothers me.
I don’t want to go out to dinner tonight. I need sweatpants, and junk-filled charcuterie boards with warm, cheesy dip. I need my fort, to make the world small. I need my person.
Grayson’s in the seat beside me, taking up space like he owns it, legs spread wide enough that his knee presses against mine. “So,” he says, scrolling through his phone before even making eye contact. “What’s up?”
“Not much. What’s up with you?” I don’t have the energy to inject enthusiasm into my voice.
“Oh, just hanging out with my girlfriend.” He glances at me sideways, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Ready for dinner?”
No, Grayson. I’m not ready for you to orchestrate every detail of my life. Also, I’m still buzzing like I was recently electrocuted and I’d really like to go back home, grab a bag of gummy bears, and spend six hours trying to fall asleep.
“I’m not really hungry,” I tell him.
