But Jo put me at ease. I couldn’t help notice that faces lit up whenever she approached. She had good energy, and I genuinely liked her. Even though she probably had more friends than she needed, I hoped she liked me, too.
As we moved back toward the cubes, she gave me a quizzical look, and I realized I was smiling at her dreamily. “It was really nice to meet you. Thank you so much for showing me around. I’m just so happy to be here.”
Her smile matched mine. “Yeah, it’s a special place. The job I had before—” She shuddered. “You don’t even want to know.”
I knew more than a casual observer ought to. “It must have been a toxic environment.”
She grimaced with secret knowledge. “You can’t begin to imagine.”
That southern accent came and went like a subtle breeze, reminding me that she wasn’t who I’d always imagined her to be. “If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from originally? You have a slight accent. Georgia?”
“Yeah. Atlanta.” She exhaled. “Most people who ask me where I’m from are trying to figure out if I’m even American.”
“What? Why?”
She gave a little shake of her head in response, and I let it go. The answer came to me as an afterthought. It was common knowledge her father was Indian, but it had never occurred to me to ask about that. I just hadn’t read that she’d moved here from the south.
It would have been fun to divulge that information on the website. Fans loved gathering tidbits of hoarded knowledge. But I wouldn’t. I still hadn’t decided whether or not to mention to anyone besides Ash where I’d started to work. The demand for insider information would become unbearable if I let slip even this small detail. They’d want to know what she smelled like. People generally had no boundaries.
Jo paused by my desk. “And you? Where did you come here from?”
“A super small town outside Indianapolis you wouldn’t have heard of.”
“Oh, wow. This must be a big change for you then.”
“You have no idea.”
“No, I remember how overwhelming it is.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “Thankfully, one of my good friends had already settled here, so he gave me a place to stay and helped smooth the transition.”
And then, you moved in with a rock star. “Lucky for you. I still need to tackle my housing situation.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Actually, I’ve got a hotel somewhere in Brooklyn. It’s on—” I searched my mind for the street “—Flatbush Avenue?”
“Oh, yeah? That’s not far from where I live.”
That didn’t surprise me. I knew Adam Copeland lived in Brooklyn. Not because I’d stalked him, but because the people on my website sometimes did. I encouraged people not to pry into Adam’s personal life or pester him on his off hours although I understood how hard it would be to refrain from asking for a picture and an autograph if you saw him sitting in a coffee shop. I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d have the will power to practice what I preached, but I hoped I could honor his privacy just like I would want if I were in his position.
It was all academic. Sitting in my apartment in Indiana, I’d never had to make that decision.
Jo was about to change that.
She took a step away, but turned back, nose scrunched adorably. “Hey, Layla, maybe you could come over for dinner tonight.”
She was speaking English, but nothing she said was computing. “You want me to come to your house.”
“I know how hard it is to be alone in a new place. And honestly, I could really use the company.”
My eyes continued to blink, but my mouth couldn’t formulate an appropriate response. My brain was busy screaming, “Worlds collide!”
Part of me—the one that spent too much time creeping on these people—urged me to jump at Jo’s invitation and see what her life was really like.
Another part of me—the fan forum admin—balked at even considering this invasion of her privacy.
A third deeper, darker part of me—the one that hid online behind a fake persona—wanted to retreat to my empty hotel room and catch up on a day’s worth of fan forum chatter that was already piling up. I’d been cramping all day, thanks to a particularly painful period that was mercifully coming to an end, and the idea of burrowing under covers alone in my jammies with a hot cup of cocoa appealed to me a lot.
Online, people thought I was cool and connected. Online, I could delete my social gaffes.
