Jessica just created a dream version of me and, unbelievably, a part of me wants to live up to it.
The second the studio doors close behind us, I’m a goddamn grenade.
My pulse is a roar in my ears.
Jessica walks a few steps ahead, humming innocently.
We make it to the empty parking lot behind the building, and I finally let it out.
“Don’t do that again.”
She stops and turns to me.
“Do what again?” Her eyes are wide and confused.
“That.” I stalk toward her, voice low, lethal.
She blinks. “Be specific, Captain.”
“The story,” I spit. “The picnic. The sandcastle. All of it.”
“That’s what you’re angry about?” Her brows lift, insulted.
“No one who knows me will believe that shit. Not my team, not the fans, not anyone. They’ll call it out the second the article drops.”
“Oh my God,” she mutters. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You should’ve let me answer,” I snap. “From now on, I’ll handle questions like that.”
“From now on,” she fires back. “Maybe you should learn how not to sound like a hostage.”
“Well, sorry I can’t lie through my fucking teeth like you.”
“You know what?” she says, stepping closer, voice rising. “You think I don’t know you’d never do that? That you’d never walk in the rain with a girl? Or wait outside her building? Or bring too much food because you care? Or build sandcastles at sunset because you wanted to make her laugh? You don’t have it in you. None of it.”
Silence slams between us.
My anger spikes through me.
“I think,” I say, stepping closer, “that you talk too much when you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Her face falls, and it makes me want to punch myself. Fuck, I hate seeing her like that. I’m crumbling. I didn’t want to say that. I don’t want that flicker of sadness in her eyes.
Jessica’s voice drops to something trembling and furious. “I’m sorry I don’t have the emotionally constipated script you prefer.”
Inside, I want to grab her face and tell her she deserves the damn sandcastle.
Inside, I want to tell her I pictured it and... I didn’t hate it. I shouldn’t want to reach out and wipe the hurt off her face.
Instead, I do the thing I always do.
I get mean. I throw up the last shield I have left: my words.
“Well,” I drawl, “next time you make up fantasies, try ones that don’t make me sound like a pathetic idiot.”
Her brows furrow and her face falls, and that’s the exact moment I stop being angry at her and start being angry at myself.
She scoffs, furious and hurt.
