“I know, I know. But we’re supposed to be selling it, right? And I’ve been thinking—” He pauses, and I hear ice clinking in a glass. Of course he’s drinking. “Maybe I haven’t been pulling my weight. Like, I hear about your tour drama through TMZ instead of from you directly. That’s not very boyfriend-ly of me.”
“Boyfriend-ly.”
“It’s a word. I’m making it a word.” He barrels on before I can respond. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know I’m planning tocome out to your Tampa show. Make an appearance. Show some support. Do the whole loving boyfriend routine, really sell the thing.”
My blood runs cold. “You’re coming to Tampa?”
“My publicist thinks it’ll be good optics. Ever since that bodyguard thing, we haven’t been photographed together. People think we broke up and are keeping it a secret. Let me set the record straight at your concert.” He makes a squeaky sound like he’s pushing debris through his teeth.
“Grayson, it’s not necessary?—”
“It’s already in motion.” His voice takes on a slightly harder edge beneath the casual veneer.
I close my eyes, feeling a headache forming behind my temples.
“Unless there’s some reason you don’t want me there?” he asks. “You’re not still messing with the help, are you?”
“The help? As inTaio, my friend?”
“Oh come on, Charlie. I know we stay out of each other’s business and stuff, but I know what you were doing on that balcony.”
“I’m not sure if you’re accusing me of something, but I don’t say a word about the parade of women I know you keep lined up at your door.”
He laughs, which is such a bizarre response to that. “But I’m way more subtle. You haven’t had to clean up any of my scandals, have you?”
“Wow, Grayson. Classy. I can really feel theboyfriend-lysupport bleeding through the speakerphone.”
“All right, all right,” he singsongs. “I didn’t call to fight. I just called to let you know I’m here. If you need anything. We should be better friends, Charlie. What do you think?”
If Grayson Hemsley is my friend, then I have to stop calling Taio that. They are opposites. They should be kept on different hemispheres. They aren’t even the same species.
“Okay, well, thank you, Grayson. That’s really thoughtful. Always helps to have more friendly faces in the crowd.”
“I mean, I’ll be in VIP, right? I’m not going to watch your concert from the nosebleeds.”
Prince Charmless, everybody.
“Yeah, of course. I’ll let Marcus know. He’ll arrange everything you need.”
“Cool.” His tone shifts, warming into something that almost sounds genuine, and I wonder if he’s this good an actor or if there’s actually a real person underneath all that Hollywood polish. “And hey, I really am glad the tour’s going better. I know the last few weeks have been rough. It’ll be nice to actually see you in person. Maybe grab dinner after the show?”
“Um, maybe. Yeah. If there’s time.”
We exchange a few more pleasantries—surface-level conversation about his latest project, some industry gossip about a director I’ve never worked with, speculation about awards season that I barely register. I make appropriate sounds at appropriate intervals while my brain spins out in twelve different directions.
Finally, mercifully, he says he has to go. Off to whatever LA after-party awaits him, whatever beautiful people are waiting to laugh at his jokes and validate his existence.
I let the phone drop onto my chest and stare at the ceiling some more.
Grayson Hemsley is coming to Tampa.
This is fine. Completely fine. I’ll just juggle my fake boyfriend and the man I’m falling for in the same space while performing a completely revamped show that we’re building from scratch inless than a week. No problem. Totally manageable. Not at all a recipe for catastrophic public humiliation.
I unlock my phone and do something I’ve done approximately forty times today: I open Instagram and navigate to Taio’s profile.
It’s exactly as barren as it was the last time I checked. No profile picture—just the default gray silhouette. No posts. No stories. Zero followers, zero following. The account exists solely as a placeholder, proof of identity without any actual content.
He could disappear tomorrow and there’d be no digital trace of him. No archive of selfies, no carefully curated highlights, no evidence that he ever existed in the public eye at all.
