Catalina and Diego never got over each other after high school, but years later they meet by chance, and multi-millionaire Diego sweeps her off of her feet.
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Diego and Catali...
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I'm going through the motions of each day. Wake up, play games.
Games that feel more stupid by the minute.
I'm not running in the morning because Cata's not with me. The lack of exercise, combined with the crappier-than-usual food I'm eating, makes me irritable. I also haven't slept well since Cata left.
Basically, I'm miserable. I've thought about going to Maine, but I don't want to be overbearing. Maybe other men would, but I want Cata to want to be with me. She was right; I should have told her about the photos from the beginning. Which is why I want to give her space to decide what she wants.
I'll wait for her forever. And it's not like I'm going anywhere. I have a show to do.
A game to play. Although lately playing video games seem boring and kind of stupid. Everything is, without Catalina.
I take my place on the sofa. A big part of me wants to be outside, away from the TV, out of sight from the camera. Being an internet celebrity's not all it's cracked up to be. In truth, it's kind of confining.
"Okay, losers, I'm on," I grumble into my headset as I pick up the joystick.
"You gonna be an asshole again today?" asks one of the fans.
"Fuck you," I respond, and everyone laughs.
We're about ten minutes into a raid on Call of Duty when I hear a banging on the door.
"Liam! Sawyer! Get the damned door, bros," I holler. I don't hear anyone in response.
Both of them are probably in their own bedrooms, outside of the main house. Or in the pool, because they bought a GoPro and wanted to film themselves underwater.
"Hold on," I say to the online crowd, which numbers in the tens of thousands at that moment. All those people, doing nothing but watching me talk shit and play video games. I pull off my headset and stand up, and that's when I hear the door break open.
"GET DOWN," a man yells.
"SHOW ME YOUR HANDS," screams another.
I can't move, I'm so scared. My eyes flit to the TV screen, where I can see myself in the bottom corner, wide-eyed. I then look to the door, and there's a man in full SWAT gear, holding an assault rifle.
"GET THE FUCK ON THE FLOOR AND SHOW ME YOUR HANDS," he hollers.
I do as I'm told, shaking. My breath comes in shallow pants. I'm dead. Right?
Fuck.
I've been swatted.
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