“Chlo-money!” he yells from the doorway.
“I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me that,” she says through gritted teeth. “Now come here so we can get this over with.” Chad shrugs and sidles over to us. As he approaches, I notice his sneakers are on the wrong feet.
Chad stops in front of me and flicks up his Ray-Bans, allowing his hazel eyes to roam over me.
“Don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, offering me a meaty hand and a megawatt smile. “I’m Chad.”
“Don’t speak to her,” Chloe says. She snaps her fingers in front of his face to get his attention and then points to a chair, indicating that he should sit. Obediently, he does. Draping an arm over the back of his chair, he twists his body to face me. His eyes lock on the bagel in my hand, and his body starts trembling as he attempts to hold back laughter.
“I’m afraid to ask what’s funny,” Chloe says wearily.
He points to my bagel, his face flushed with glee. “She’s got… so much cream… in her hole.”
Chloe’s eyes squeeze shut as she presses a closed fist to her forehead. “Serious question, Chad: Are your parents related?” Chad stops laughing and his mouth sets in a hard line. His eyes glaze over as he considers it.
Chloe puffs out a sigh and straightens her shoulders, resigned. “Moving on,” she says, flicking open her laptop. “You know why I asked you to meet me here, right?”
Chad interlocks his hands behind his head, flexing the tendons in his enormous biceps. “Is this about the videos?”
“Of course it’s about the videos.” She turns the screen to face him, and I see she’s opened the browser to a page full of Chad photos. In most of them, he’s completely naked, save for a single red rose covering his genitals.
“We’ve talked about this. You’ll never get onBachelor in Paradiseif you don’t delete your OnlyFans account. You’ve already gotten a cease and desist letter from ABC.”
“But chicksdigit!” he says emphatically. “How can I deny my fans what they want?”
“No one wants this, Chad,” Chloe replies tersely. “Seriously. There’s a change.org petition floating around calling for you to get a vasectomy. It already has twelve thousand signatures.”
“What I hear you saying”—Chad smirks—“is that America is obsessed with my pork sword.”
“And that’s my cue.” I stand up, pushing in my chair. “Chad, it was a pleasure to meet you. Chloe… good luck.”
16
ICAN HEAR JAKE’Shusky voice through the walls of my apartment before I even slip the key into the door. My chest warms as I step through the entryway to see him perched on the sofa, head bent over his guitar, and my heart flutters the way it always does when I hear him sing. Thank goodness my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Tannenbaum, is over eighty and can barely hear, and the Ackermans, who live two doors down, have been in Philly with their grandkids for the past month. It’s a small miracle that no one else in the building seems to notice I’m harboring a celebrity.
“Hey!” His face brightens when he lifts his head up in greeting, and I’m struck by how natural it feels to see him in my home. He seems as much a part of the fabric here as the floral-print chairs. A vision of our future in this shared space flashes before me. Him on the sofa, brows knit in concentration as he works out lyrics to a new song. Me in the kitchen, surrounded by pots and pans, the air thick with spice as I work out a new recipe. The idea is so dreamy that I have to shake my head to dispel it before I can get lost any further. Jake is a rock star, and I am a chef; even if we were together in some alternative universe, we’d never have a future as two homebodies. Forgetting that is only going to lead to heartache.
“New song?” I ask as I hang up my jacket. Jake’s cheeks go rosy.“What can I say? I’ve been feeling inspired lately.” He nods toward the kitchen. “By the way, there was a package waiting for you in the lobby.” My smile fades as I follow his gaze. Sure enough, there’s a large brown box waiting for me on the counter. I knew it would arrive this week, but I didn’t expect it this soon.
Grabbing a pair of kitchen scissors, I slide the blade under the packing tape, popping the lid open. My stomach clenches as I inventory the familiar contents. It’s the same thing every year.
“Get anything interesting?”
Before I can answer, Jake strolls over and begins rummaging through the box. “Twizzlers, balloons, candles… Funfetti cake mix?” He lifts his head as understanding registers on his face. “Wait, is it your birthday?”
I nod. “On Friday. My dad sends me a care package every year after I turn down his offer to come to Florida and celebrate. This year, I told him I’m going out for a girls’ night.”
“Oh. With Ali and Chloe?”
“Yes. Well, no. I mean, I’m not really doing anything. I don’t like making a big deal out of my birthday.”
Jake’s brow wrinkles. “I don’t get it. It seems like your dad wants to spend time with you. Why are you avoiding him?”
“Because I’m mad at him, that’s why! He abandoned me to move down to Florida, and he’s never come back since. If he wanted to see me so badly, he could visit me here.” I scowl bitterly at the box, like it’s to blame for my father’s shortcomings.
Jake’s quiet for a moment before he shifts his attention back to the box. “Why Funfetti?” he asks softly.
I can feel the pressure rising in my chest. “Because that’s the type of cake my mom made me every year.” Heat burns the back of my eyes, and I blink rapidly before the tears can spill over. “I guess he thinks he’s keeping the tradition alive. But that’s the thing about birthday cakes. The whole point is that you’re not supposed to make them for yourself.”
