Chapter Thirteen

Chase

Jimmy and Tate could try to rattle me all they liked. I was done pretending and I was done trying to hide it. And they could tease me all night, I didn't care.

Hell, I probably deserved it.

For years I'd sprouted my anti-boyfriend rhetoric. For years I'd laughed at them and told them they were a special kind of stupid for wanting to get tied down to one person.

We were in college, for fuck's sake.

We were supposed to be sowing wild oats and playing the field and whatever godawful clichés my parents would use. We were young and it was our rite of passage to rack up a body count.

It was our duty to service anyone willing. And repeats were fine, as long as they understood that dating was not on the table.

No responsibilities, no obligation, no blame.

I'd been the preacher of this mantra for years.

And what was I now?

Whipped, according to Jimmy .

Who thought it was the funniest thing in the history of ever.

And I didn't even care.

All I could do was smile and agree because yes, I was.

And it was as pathetic and tragic as I'd always said it would be.

And it was also completely wonderful.

"He's a goner," Tate said, clinking his beer to mine. "RIP to the manwhore."

"Well," I amended, "I'm still a whore. It's just now with one person. And lemme tell you, he's fucking good at it."

Jimmy laughed. "I thought you were supposed to be acting."

"We are."

"So sex is part of the job?" Jimmy's eyes almost fell out of his head. "Hell, how do I sign up for that?"

I shook my head. "No, not like that. We are acting, but then in private, there are perks to having to be so handsy in public, right?"

"So it's not acting in private?" Tate tried to clarify. "So what are you, exactly? To each other."

"Boyfriends."

"In public," Jimmy nodded. "Yeah, we get that. But in private? I mean, what happens when the filming stops? What are you then?"

I . . . I didn't know.

I threw my bar coaster at him. "Don't ask me difficult questions, dickwad. It's your turn to hit the bar."

He'd laughed and slid off his stool and headed toward the bar. He got chatting with some guys there, and Tate gave me a nudge. "I think it's good," he said. "I'm happy for you."

"I'm happy for me too."

"Maybe just ask Amos what happens when the filming stops."

I sighed and drained my bottle. Asking Amos that was not a conversation I wanted to have. I just wanted to enjoy the now, to enjoy being with him, being boyfriends, without reality crushing it.

And I'd tried to enjoy my night with the guys, drinking and talking shit. But after that conversation about Amos, my mind kept going back to him.

About what we were.

Because we weren't just acting. Well, I wasn't. And we weren't just college kids. We were almost out of college, as grown-ass adults in the real world, and maybe—just fucking maybe—Amos was someone I could see myself being with.

In the real world.

I wouldn't mind annoying him every day as live-in boyfriends as we went off to LA to chase our dreams on the silver screen.

Like I wasn't getting way ahead of myself on that front.

Just like how I did honestly try to go home when I left the bar but somehow found myself knocking on Amos's door.

He was so fucking cute, the way he tried not to smile.

He was also really fucking hot, the way he fisted my hair as he came down my throat. And the way he returned the favor, of course. Then the way he let me snuggle in and sleep, all wrapped around him, and with a few beers under my belt, I slept like a log.

For some reason, I was awake before Amos, and by the time he got out of the shower, I was dressed and ready.

He stopped when he saw me. "That's my shirt. Again."

"Correct."

"When am I getting the other one back that you stole?"

"I didn't steal it. I borrowed it. And you can get both shirts back after you spend the night at my place."

"That's blackmail. And coercion. And bribery."

I grinned at him. "I know. But it works. Come on, I'm starving." I shoved his bag at him and went to the door. "Why are you so grumpy today?"

"Because you snored all night, that's why. And you hog the bed. And you're clingy. It's like sleeping with an octopus."

I laughed as I pulled the door open... and there was Daniel, camera rolling. "Thought I'd find you here," he said. "Who sleeps like an octopus?"

Amos brushed past me. "He does. With magnetic tentacles that strangle me all night."

I slung my arm around him as we began our way down the stairs. "And you love every minute."

Amos leveled a glare at me that told me in no uncertain terms that he did, in fact, not love every minute. "I'm sorry, babe. I'll make it up to you. What do you want for breakfast? "

"To be left alone."

"Well, sure. I can do that. If being alone includes me."

He sighed. "You're insufferable."

"Some people would call me cute or charming."

"They don't know you like I do."

"No, they do not. No one knows me like you do."

I wasn't sure why I said that, but once the words were out, I realized it was the truth.

Amos glanced my way and sighed, and as I held the door for him into the dining hall, he rolled his eyes. But he also kinda smiled, so I was taking it as a win.

He went to the table where the others were, and I went in search of coffee and those muffins he liked, and once I'd secured the goods, I slid into the seat beside him.

He was now watching something on his phone while everyone watched him. And then I realized what he was actually watching.

Me, being filmed at the bar last night.

Jimmy calling me "totally fucking whipped" as I, clearly drunk and all smiles, flipped him the bird before walking out. Jimmy roared laughing, then looked right at the camera and said, "That idiot is so in love and doesn't even know it."

To a view count of twenty thousand people and rising.

Amos hit Stop and turned his phone upside down on the table. His cheeks were pink, the tips of his ears too.

I was still trying to process what Jimmy had said...

I was going to kill him.

"Well, he's off my Christmas card list," I said, putting a cup of coffee in front of Amos. "Clearly he's full of shit. And he was drunk, and I hope he's so hung over he pukes for two days. "

Amos's eyes met mine.

"What?" I said, putting his muffin in front of him. "He called me an idiot."

Like that was what we all took from what Jimmy had said.

Well, it's what I was taking from it while trying to pretend everyone at the table wasn't staring at me and that I wasn't embarrassed and dying inside.

"I got you blueberry," I mumbled. "I got chocolate if you want to swap."

"Okay, cut," Daniel said as he lowered his camera.

I groaned. "I'm sorry. And for what it's worth, you can show the police that video if they ask what reason I could possibly have had for killing Jimmy with my bare hands."

Deirdre came up to us, oblivious to the awkwardness. "Okay, guys, we'll meet in the rehearsal hall after lunch. One o'clock. Don't be late."

She gathered up the camera folks and they left, and there was silence at the table. "So," Jess said, looking right at me. "That was great for ratings."

I groaned and looked at everyone around the table. "If anyone else would like to embarrass themselves live on camera instead of me, that'd be great. I mean, I can't keep carrying the ratings like this. It's supposed to be a team effort. Someone else needs to pick up the slack. Come on, guys. Be fair."

They laughed but I couldn't ignore the way they looked between me and Amos. And the way he picked at his muffin and wouldn't look at me.

Goddammit.

So I shut my mouth for the next ten minutes and managed to choke down half my breakfast, but really I just wanted to leave. I pushed my plate away and stood up. "Gotta go grab my stuff," I said to no one in particular and left.

I didn't look to see if Amos followed me, because I was pretty sure he wasn't following me, and I couldn't deal with turning around and finding out.

Or worse, to find Daniel following me and not Amos.

I couldn't deal with the cameras right now.

I all but jogged back to the house, ran up the steps, and through the front door, and found my least favorite best friend in the kitchen. He didn't look particularly healthy. "Oh good," I said. "Just the person I wanted to see."

Jimmy squinted at me. "Can we not yell? My head hurts."

"A head like yours should hurt."

"Now, I might be hungover and not thinking too clearly right now, but I'm picking up some negative vibes."

I inhaled deeply and tried counting on the exhale. I knew, rationally, it wasn't his fault. I had admitted to him that I had feelings for Amos, and just last night I was resigned to giving into those feelings. Maybe that was the beer doing the feeling for me, but still...

And Jimmy hadn't signed up to be filmed. I had. Not him, not Tate.

I growled and ran my hands through my hair. "Fucking hell."

"What's up?" Tate asked as he walked in. At least he was showered, and he was clearly faring better than Jimmy.

"Last night in the bar," I said, "someone was filming us, and Jimmy here decided to announce to the world that I'm in love with Amos. Twenty-something thousand people and climbing have watched it, and considering it's eight in the morning and not everyone is even out of bed yet, that's a pretty good view count."

Jimmy stood there with a stupid look on his face as if he was trying to remember... "Oh. Shit. I'm sorry. When did I say that?"

I sighed and shook my head. I wasn't mad at him. I was mad at me.

Tate had his phone out. "First thing that came up," he said, showing us the screen.

I didn't need to see it again.

Tate watched it through, then scrolled some comments. "People love it. Saying Jimmy's spitting facts. ‘Drunk facts are honest facts.' That kinda stuff."

"It's not facts," I said, lying through my teeth.

"Well, it kinda is," Tate mumbled. "And if Amos has seen this, then now he knows, so is that a bad thing?"

I wasn't sure if Tate was stupid or incredibly smart.

Not that it mattered.

"It's bullshit and a very bad thing, because now Amos won't even look at me."

Tate stared at me, and when I looked at Jimmy, he was staring at me too. "Shit, man, I'm sorry."

I wanted to pull my hair out or punch something or scream. Or all three. I had a pent-up ball of rage inside me that I needed to let out, and there was only one way that I could do that.

"Fuck everything today. I'm hitting the pool."

Tate checked the time. "What about class?"

"I'm not going to class," I said, heading up to my room. " And I'm not taking my phone. If anyone asks where I am, tell them you don't know."

Not that anyone would ask.

This. This shit feeling was why I'd stayed single all these years. Why no-dating, no-caring, had worked so well for me.

I grabbed my swim bag and jogged to the aquatic center, keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone.

I hit the pool, ignoring everyone else there, and started doing laps.

One after another, just following that black line for miles, up and back. Regulated breathing, unhurried strokes, measured and even, peaceful, mind-clearing.

I don't know how many laps I did. I had no idea of the time, but my legs and arms ached and I was out of breath, so I could safely guess it was way more than usual.

Good.

I felt marginally better.

Until I looked over at the bleachers, where I'd dumped my bag, and found Amos sitting there, watching me. Waiting.

Fuck.

No time like the present to have your heart broken.

I pulled my sorry ass out of the water, my arms barely having the strength to manage it. Still puffing, I walked over to him. He tossed me my towel.

"I told Jimmy and Tate not to tell anyone where I was," I said, patting my face.

"I never asked them," he replied. "When you weren't in class or at your house or in my room, there was only one other place you'd be. "

"Sorry for being so predictable."

Was I really that predictable?

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Not really."

His eyes met mine, and you know what that fucker did? He smirked.

He fucking smirked.

"Get dressed," he said, standing up. "Deirdre wants to see us."

Deirdre?

"Well, I don't want to see her."

He threw my shirt at me. Well, it was technically his shirt, but today it was mine. "Put that on and put your emotional support tiddies away."

What the hell?

Was he just going to pretend this morning hadn't happened?

I wasn't sure if I was relieved or annoyed.

I put my wrinkled hand to my pec and squeezed. "If there was ever a day I needed these babies, it's today."

"Don't squeeze your moobs and say the word babies," he said. "Gross."

"They're not moobs."

"Okay."

I pulled my shirt on. "Stop calling them moobs. They're pectorals."

"Or tiddies."

"Correct."

I threw my now-wet towel at his stupid head, then proceeded to pull down my swimming trunks, right there for everyone to see. I was all out of fucks today .

"Jesus," he hissed at me, rushing in and holding the towel out to shield anyone from seeing. "Was being caught on camera once in the last twelve hours not enough for you?"

I pulled on my dry shorts. "Apparently not."

"Are you just gonna freeball it today?"

"All day."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm changing your name to Petulant Hollywood."

I made a point of readjusting my junk while holding his gaze. "Better than generic Hollywood."

His nostrils flared. "You are insufferable."

"So you keep saying, Mister James Dean, rebel without a clue."

His gaze turned to steel and he dropped my towel. "Have you been told to fuck off today?"

"Not yet."

"Might wanna brace yourself."

"Boys," the swim coach yelled at us.

We both turned to him, then back to each other and I realized then that we'd been inching closer.

"Get a room," someone from the swim team yelled.

I turned to the group of them, not knowing who said it. "Suck a dick."

"Mr. Soria," the coach chided me.

I was about to tell him to go suck a dick too but decided not being expelled was probably for the best. I snatched up my shit and trudged out, and before I could decide which way to go, Amos grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the rehearsal hall .

"I don't want to see Deirdre today," I said. "Or anyone, for that matter. Including you."

"Well, too fucking bad," Amos muttered.

He was stronger than he looked, and that annoyed me too.

"How are you this strong when you don't work out?"

"Because I have to carry all your bullshit," he said, pushing through the doors and dragging me to Deirdre's desk.

"Ah, here you are. I was wondering where?—"

"I don't want to be here. I was busy swimming laps," I said, gesturing to my still-wet hair. "And now I'm tired and need a nap."

She stared at me.

I wasn't sorry. In fact, I'd meant every word.

Especially the part about the nap.

I palmed my forehead. "Sorry. Did you need me for something?"

"Yes," she began. She put her iPad down on the desk and I knew this was serious. "You both know you're the public favorite. That's no secret. The most likes, the most hashtags and reposts. And it's one hundred percent because of your on-screen chemistry. You've put in the effort to appear as an actual couple, going above and beyond, really."

She had no idea just how above and beyond we actually went.

"And Chase," she continued, "the scene with your friends in the bar last night was amazing. Having your friend drop the L-word was a stroke of genius."

I held my breath, squeaking on the exhale.

Oh boy .

There it was, right in front of our faces all over again.

So, so bad.

"So I was thinking for ratings, we could do a public breakup and reconciliation for the finale."

I stared at her.

God, that was worse.

Amos stared at her. "A third-act breakup scene? Really? That's so cliché."

I agreed. "Yeah. I'm not a fan."

"The viewers would eat that up," Deirdre added.

"Uh, no. They'd see it for what it is," Amos said. "Fabricated drama for the sake of ratings is poor form, and quite frankly, it's lazy."

"It's what all reality TV shows do. All the made-up and scripted fights and arguments." Deirdre smiled at both of us. "I think it could be good."

Amos shook his head. "Then have one of the other couples do it. Just for once, can we have a positive gay relationship on-screen?—"

I put my hand up. "Bisexual. Not gay."

He gave me a nod. "Sorry, queer representation?—"

"Thank you."

He sighed. "Can we not have a positive queer relationship on-screen without the contrite bullshit. Just happy people with solid communication skills in a healthy relationship. Just once. Make the heterosexuals dysfunctional for a change."

"Yes!" I crowed. "What he said."

Deirdre seemed to consider it. "Well, what can you two as a couple bring to the finale that fans will love?"

The look Amos gave her was the one where he couldn't believe he had to say shit out loud. I knew that look well.

"We give them a healthy relationship. Where we're happy, with solid communication skills." He looked at me. "Isn't that right, Chase? Where you don't run off and try drowning yourself in the pool."

I shot him a what-the-hell look. "I did not try to drown myself. I do laps. That's what I do." Oh, good lord. "Is that what the whole solid communication shit is about? Me?"

"I don't know if you could even act it out," he snarled. "I don't think you're that good of an actor."

I glowered at him. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Uh, okay boys," Deirdre tried, her eyes wide. "That's not what I?—"

"You know what?" I said to her. "I had it right in the beginning. Don't date, don't get involved, and sure as hell don't ever fall in love. Not even for an acting role, because this sucks!" I suddenly realized, I knew in my heart, that I'd crossed a line. And more importantly, that I was done. "You know what's worse for ratings than not having your most popular couple in some pitiful third-act breakup? Not having them in it at all. Because I quit."

I stormed out, slamming the door open on my way out, even more pissed off than I was before.

Honestly, fuck this. Fuck that and fuck him.

Fuck him in particular.

I heard Deirdre call out to me, but I kept walking. She could fail me for all I cared. I walked back to my house, trudged up to my room, threw myself onto my bed, and buried my face into my pillow.

Then I screamed into it .

I cocooned myself up in my covers and wallowed like a sad burrito until I fell asleep.

I woke up when someone sat on my bed. I peeked at who it was, hoping with all hope that it was Amos.

It wasn't.

It was Jimmy.

I groaned and covered my face with my comforter, rolling back over to the wall. "You're not him."

"Nope. I'm not. Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"You okay?"

"I'll be fine. Just need to be dramatic first."

He snorted.

"This is your fault," I mumbled. "You told everyone I'm in love with him."

"Chase," he said.

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"But nothing. I'm going back to the old me. To the me that doesn't do repeats. That doesn't date. That doesn't feel things."

"Uh, Chase?—"

"Feeling things is awful," I added. "Why would anyone do this willingly?"

Two very strong hands grabbed my burrito cocoon and sat me upright. "Dude," Jimmy said sternly.

I peeked out of my blankets to see Jimmy sitting there, a worried look on his face.

And Amos standing behind him.