Wish You Were Here

Chapter 6

In the days following the signings in LA, your social media following jumps up across all platforms. You know statistically a big chunk is just people discovering your books after the launch, but a fraction of the attention is coming from the people interested in who you were photographed hugging at the signing. A stan account comments, "So this is his girlfriend :(" on one of your Instagram posts, as though you aren't going to see it. It is funny if you don't take it personally, but you wish you could hand over your public social media to someone else. You have to settle for changing your notification settings and not replying to comments. It's easier to forget if you don't look.

People you know are messaging you asking about the picture, too. People you went to school with who haven't said a thing about your writing career, who suddenly want to touch base when you are seen cuddling up to a hot movie star. You can ignore most of it, but your friends from home know something is up. They FaceTime you at weird hours of the night, as though they're trying to catch you in bed with him. "It's just a picture," he had told you, but really it's anything but that. All of a sudden, no one trusts you anymore. You aren't even sure you trust yourself.

Even your mom mentions it when you speak to her on the phone, telling you a family friend has shown her the photo. "Is he nice?" she asks you. "He's a little old for you, isn't he?"

"Oh my God, Mom!" you yell, mortified. "It's nothing. Jesus Christ. Don't ever ask me a question like that again."

You meet with your publicist to go over the events of the book launch, and she runs you through your responsibilities for social media promo over the next few weeks. As you say your goodbyes, she says, "Hey, I never got your receipt for the taxi to the airport. Can you send it through to me?"

You know why she's asking. She knows you hadn't taken a taxi from your hotel to the airport. You know she knows that much without even looking for evidence, but this morning someone sent you a screenshot of a post on a shady gossip forum about spotting him dropping you off. Luckily for you, no one seems to believe it's even a real sighting. Except your publicist, evidently.

"It's at home," you tell her. "I'll email it to you later."

"I tried knocking on your door on Sunday morning to see if you wanted to have breakfast with me, but you must have slept through the sound."

You do your best to hold a poker face, even though you and her both know you weren't in the hotel room on Sunday morning. "Must have."

The only time you feel relaxed is when you get to speak to your actor friend over the phone. "It'll all blow over," he reassures you. "Just log out of the apps."

"Easy for you to say," you tell him. You don't remember what you used to do with all your spare time before Twitter was invented. Perhaps it's for the best that you go cold turkey on your crippling social media addiction.

"Oh hey," he says, "I got my flight changed that weekend I'm in New York. I land on the Friday afternoon. Are you free that night?"

"You want to see me the same day you get back?" you ask him, surprised.

"Of course I do," he says. "I should be in the hotel by 5 o'clock. Do you want to come for dinner? I'll text you my room number as soon as I get the key."

"I thought you would have wanted to see your friends first?"

"No," he says, "just you."

A few days before he's due to arrive, you're hanging out with your friends, at your best friend's apartment. You assume your usual positions on various bits of furniture, flopping yourself on the bed with your feet hanging off so your shoes don't dirty her comforter. Your engaged friend tries to make plans for the weekend, but you won't be attending. "I can't," you tell them. "I'm busy."