43

VERN WAS RIGHT—AFTER A FEW DAYS, THE ISSUE DIED DOWN ONLINE. Frisson Cola found a sponsor to take over its obligations (MAXJ Soundsystems), so Royce is officially 100 percent back in the competition.

And then it's the day of my flight to New York. The qualifying participants from Asia would land a day before the preliminary round, which made up 25 percent of the judges', scores for all the finalists. I suspect they set this up to mitigate the jet lag for the contestants flying in for this. It is, after all, almost a full day of travel in a plane, with a connection in Japan.

I wander the departure hall of KLIA, my heart flip-flopping between the excitement of finally seeing Royce again and a deep unease at seeing Vern.

I see Vern first, just as I'm about to join the queue to clear security, wearing dark jeans and a hoodie and rolling a small, battered navy-blue suitcase and a camo backpack.

He stops when he clocks me, and a smile brightens his face, throwing me off guard. "Agnes," he says, like we hadn't spent the last week and half not-talking.

Seeing him again is like a punch in the gut. Once I'd really cared for Vern. I thought we were chums. The long nights texting and chatting, of online watch parties, of comedy together, and the undercurrent of some kind of tension I could feel building between us, not exactly platonic in the physicality of its pull—it all comes crashing around us, and I can't breathe from a combination of pain and sadness. It is a loss, a loss of any friend you hold dear. As though someone has burnt a hole out of the fabric of your soul.

He takes a step in my direction, and I bring my palms up. "I don't want to talk to you," I say.

"Agnes." Vern's brow furrows. "I didn't mean for it to spin out of control. And as I said, the Taslims would get through this unscathed, which they did."

"You didn't know that."

"I did. And I was right."

He reaches out as if to hold me and I step back quickly.

"Enough," I say.

I turn away before he spins new half-truths to bring me back into his sticky web. I brisk-walk to the gate and look around for Royce, who'd texted me a few hours ago to tell me he'd be on the same flight as me—only in business class with Jit, who was back in rotation now that the PR crisis was over.

Since Nina Bell had assessed the PR situation and found it sufficiently low risk, Royce's cell phone has been restored to him literally on the day of our flight, although she did make him sit through another lecture about what he was and wasn't allowed to do or say on the matter. ("Saying and posting nothing is best!" Royce told me one night after he stole Jit's phone again, imitating Nina's stern voice. "Lay low online until the storm passes and the controversy is over. At least in your case you did nothing wrong, so it should blow over quickly. Don't screw up in New York, though!" Her exact words, apparently.)

Anyways, here I am, in the queue, waiting for Royce to turn up and wondering if he might feel differently about me when he sees me again today.

I'm just an ordinary girl crushing on an extraordinary person, and what's more I've really hurt him in this process. He shouldn't be into me at all.

Yet here he is, smiling like I'm a ten when he sees me.

Also, here's Jit.

"Hi," I say, smiling at Royce (and Jit).

"Hello, LilFlashes," he says, using my online gamer handle. Such a metaverse stalker.

Jit announces, "I've been tasked to frisk anyone not on the Taslim's approved list before they can approach Royce, for safety reasons, but I'll give you a pass."

"You might want to rethink that since I have already tried murdering his reputation," I joke with Jit.

"Do you want to get frisked, at least by me?" Royce teases me, and all the bones in my body turn to liquid.

"Stop trying to get an upper hand in this competition," I growl.

"I'm right here, within hearing and visual distance," Jit says, just the tiniest sigh escaping him.

"We should really focus," I say, our eyes never leaving each other.

"Then I'll need to keep my distance," Royce says.

"Only for three more days, one of which you'll spend very comfortably on your flight snoring on a flatbed next to Jit," I say.

"Dreaming of you, naturally," Royce says, and I can see Jit's eyes clawing the ceiling.

"I won't be, because my seat will be so uncomfortable."

"Do try to get some rest"—Royce's fingers graze my cheek—"because I will end you onstage."

"In your dreams, Taslim," I say, hackles rising.

"That's exactly where I was talking about," he says, his voice husky. Jit's eyes twitch, because he is that good at giving poker face, but it's enough to tell me that at this moment, he is regretting all his life choices.

The announcement comes for first-class and business to board, and Royce gives me a wink; then Jit practically marches him to the gate, while I fight to marshal all Royce-related thoughts as much as I can.

Royce was joking, but I wasn't. I do want to win. More than anything. It's the only way I can salvage anything out of the trouble I've caused my parents.