taste | e.d

seventeen

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•••

He tells me a lot of stories as we eat, most of them consisting of the times he had crazy experiences with fans.

"It was good, the majority of the time. We leaked our flight info because we liked the mobs. Seeing how many people stood there waiting for us at every airport... It was breathtaking. Our security guard always got mad because in the end he'd have to be the one to haul us out of there so we wouldn't get hurt. Once I lost my slide in Argentina. Knocked a revolving door off its hinges." He nods, almost proudly, at the incredulous look I give him. "I got it back, though. The slide." He chews through a bite of pancakes. "I think I still have it."

I had my small share of fame once, but not the good kind. It was the kind that was designed to make viewers feel pity over you, the kind of disaster they televise to make others light up with a spark of emotion. To make others feel helpless yet gracious, because that unfortunate event has not happened to them.

People would invade my personal space. Ask me stupid questions. They'd bring the terror back, fresh and heavy. My aunt had lived with me for a while before I decided to leave, and she helped ward them off, but they kept coming back. Ludicrous headliners were put on newspapers, with fake information and exaggerated details.

Some kind people found out about the tragedy and helped me and donated money to contribute in the funeral costs. There was enough money left over to get me to California.

I tell Ethan this, leaving him with a sour expression. "Yeah. Not always good."

I rest my chin in my hand and stare at him momentarily. "Have you ever thought about–"

"Going back? No," he says sharply. "Never. Not without Grayson."

"Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, gumdrop, it's fine. I just really can't do it without him."

Fucking gumdrop.

"What are we?" I blurt out. I'm asking too many questions.

He gazes into my eyes. "What do you mean?"

"What are we? Like... what's our label?" You sound so desperate.

"I hate labels more than I hate anchovies. I can't stand anchovies."

I bite my tongue.

"I mean, I can give you a label, if you want one so badly." He sets his fork down.

"I–"

"You're mine. That's your label. You see those hickeys all over your neck?" When I reach up to touch my throat, Ethan smirks. "I left some on your back, too. On your chest. I've never done that before, Kendall Rose. I've never marked a girl the way I marked you."