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“I do not.”
I turn up my nose and hold up my hand for a fry. “Lame.”
“You want me to take candid photos of the girl I like without her knowledge?” He sets a bunch of fries in my hand. “That seems stalkerish.”
“Listen—cheese—” He holds up the little container for me to dip my fries in. “—it’s only stalking if it’s unwanted harassment.”
“And taking random photos of someone isn’t unwanted harassment?”
“Not if they’re cute photos.” I squeak after stuffing the fries in my mouth and wave my hand. Swallowing quick, I blurt, “How long have you been friends with her? Maybe you can just ask for a picture together? I have seen, like, three hundred posts you can send her that say how best friends have zero photos together. Wink wink, nudge nudge. You know?”
His mirth dries up, leaving blank eyes reminiscent of Oxford’s—when my little puppy isn’t judging me—behind.
“What does that look mean?” I ask.
Doliver’s face heats. “What? What look?”
I flick my finger at his expression. “The deer-in-headlights, caught-with-hand-in-cookie-jar look.”
He clears his throat. “Oh. That look. Well. It’s just. I never…said we were…friends.”
My mind clears. I stop walking, and so does Doliver after another step.
Glancing back at me, he sips his milk soup.
I take a breath. “I’m sorry. This golden goddess of a girl that you created a musical empire around isn’t even your friend? Could you explain that, please?”
His smile lops, incriminating. “I would prefer not to.”
“You don’t know this girl?”
“I know her.”
“Does she not know you? You said she likes your music? How do you know that? Are you already being stalkerish, Doliver?”
He shuffles his luggage around so he can pull out a handful of fries for himself, then he keeps his gaze planted firmly in the bag. “I possess the urge to say it’s complicated.”
“I will shank you with my house key right where you stand.”
His head bobs. “I shall resist the urge.” Puffing a breath, he looks out across the two-lane highway, at a stretch of little houses dotting the other side of the road. Winding driveways lead up the tree-spotted hill to provide those houses an illusion of privacy from the street. He says, “I know her. She has an idea of me. It’s difficult to explain to you in particular.”
To me in particular…? Oh. Oh. I take a physical and emotional step back, remember that this is the first real conversation we’ve ever had. I do this kind of thing, regularly. Whenever I meet someone I like, I lunge for them, smother them, and then I lose them. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I’m just trying to understand.”
“I’m in love with a girl who knows I exist but who doesn’t know the real me, and I’m too scared to show her, because the real me is nothing worthy of what she would have to give up in order to be with me.”
Celebrity relationships do come with some amount of baggage. Given how well Doliver has maintained invisibility, though, maybe being with him means giving up ever going outside unless it’s practically midnight in a sleepy country town. If he’s talking about the difference between his real character and the one he presents in his music, though…
“Awkward, goofy, love-sick guys are what every girl deserves. I wouldn’t care if you were inexperienced with women.” I hold out my hand for more fries, and he finagles things in order to deliver them. “Actually, I’d prefer inexperience to a guy who jumps from one girl to the next. I don’t want to feel like I have to live up to expectations set by dozens of other women.”
Doliver freezes halfway through getting me the cup of cheese. Voice almost distant, he asks, “What do you mean?”
Sighing deeply, I mumble, “Well, you’re probably going to think I’m stupid…”
“No. Never.”
“Appreciated. It was stupid though.” My jaw locks. “I moved out here for a guy who left me after a few months to be with someone else on the other side of the country. I don’t know how many girls he was fooling around with when I thought we were dating, and then I guess he decided I was too much for him when I showed up. Guys like that? Guys who think they’re entitled to every woman they come across? Horrible, fickle, narcissistic guys who…who just bed hop from one girl to the next without worrying about anyone’s feelings or how it will affect the person they might fall in love with someday, if they’re even capable of love…” My voice hushes, so quiet, as I hiss, “I can’t stand them.” Swiping a tear away with the back of my free hand, I manage to force down a tight swallow and look up at Doliver. “So. Yeah. If your girl is smart, she’ll love the off-camera, real you even…more.”
The prickle of bone-deep unease doesn’t come immediately. It seeps into my bloodstream, then it freezes like ice.
