Fifty Million Followers [BOYXBOY]

25.

No.

No.

Nononononono.

"Scott! Can you open the door? I've got Candice on the phone and I need a fag, oh, I mean cigarette...I guess I can't say that now, can I?...I mean...my balcony door broke and now I can't smoke on my balcony...shit...just open the door, yeah?"

I stare at the picture. It's not me. It doesn't look like me. No, it is me. It looks exactly like me. My jaw line, the sweep of my hair, my long fingers, the bridge of my nose. It is most definitely me.

I don't do things like this. I don't kiss boys at parties. Boys who wear fucking backward baseball caps who smirk at me like we have a secret. Because, we don't anymore, do we?

My hands ball into tight fists, but not before they catch more tweets, more instagrams, the photo set to every fucking filter there is, even the ones that cost like £4 each. I make millions and I still don't bloody buy those.

I'm everywhere. I'm trending. There are more tweets talking about me and Parker and my sexuality than there ever was about the Luke – Candice – Oliver love triangle, which has become old news. There's nothing about the other guys now, except within the context of me.

@purplenvgoals omg if he's slept with any of them i might die

@lukeisbae no fuckin way its parker x scott 4 lyfe

Instead of turning the notifications off like a normal person, I throw my phone across the room. It hits the wall but it doesn't smash. It's so deeply disappointing. I open the door to Demitri, whose hand is red from all the knocking. One hand is pressed to his ear where his phone is. He shoves it into my hand and heads straight for my balcony, fag almost lit.

"Hello?"

"Scott. Oh my GOD, Scott."

"It's not...it's not that big of a deal."

"It isn't?"

"Ok, it is. It fucking is. Christ on a bike, Candice."

Demitri leans on the sliding door panel, half in and half out, smoke curling around him and into the morning air. I put Candice on speaker phone.

"I mean, you were just smashed, right? We all do silly shit when we're gone. I can't say I've ever made out with a guy but...you're not actually gay, are you? So there's nothing to worry about." I look at him. "Oh."

"Yeah."

He nods, looks at his feet where my phone is, blinking and squealing and beeping like it's a full on living thing. He starts flicking through tweets, instagrams, Facebook messages. I'm trending on Facebook, he says. Who gives a shit about Facebook anymore?

I feel dizzy. I can see red, and I sit back on my bed, carefully, and put Candice on the bedside table. She's talking, about something, about what I can do, about what I can say to everyone. But what the Hell am I supposed to say? The messages aren't exactly supportive; they talk explicitly about my sex life, about me sleeping with other members of the band, about how I've lied to them.

It is not my responsibility to report everything about my life. This is supposed to be mine, it is not for them.

"So, is Parker also...?"

"Yes."

"And did he actually...you know, pop your..."

"Demi, fucking Hell." Candice's voice comes through the phone.