Page 18 of Double Standard

The attention makes me squirm—hits me with a desire to step out of my skin and replace my soul with the cardboard cutout version that shows up on red carpets and interviews. The manufactured “me” that everyone’s words and expectations slide right off of, that doesn’t have a soft spot, tender and exposed, beneath her ribs.

My walls want to go up, but Levi’s stare holds them down. Heseesme, and he’s begging to be let in.

“It’s...” I stall, then move us into the next empty aisle. This isn’t a conversation I want replayed on TikTok later. “My relationship with food is a work in progress. The camera adds ten pounds, stylists want me to lose twenty. Hollywood rewards smallness, you know?” I scan his form. “Well, for women. And when I look in the mirror, it’s like my lens is warped. I’m better now than I used to be—I try to eat when I’m hungry, think of food as fuel, all that—but when something big comes around...”

“Big likeAthena’s War?” he asks, and I can’t believe we’re talking about this in the spice aisle of a Tennessee Publix. Levi has this way of shepherding me between playfully silly and starkly vulnerable with a level of assuredness that makes me feel safe. It’s as freeing as it is unnerving. It’s something no one else has ever been able to do—or, perhaps, something I’ve never let anyone else do. What that means, I’m not sure I’m ready to interrogate.

“Yes, likeAthena’s War.”

We turn toward the row of cashiers, and there we are, in a photo climbing into Edwin’s car in the top-right corner ofCelebs Weeklymagazine, “Who Is Levi Stephens?” printed underneath. The tabloid is one of many on the shelf, each with a feature of us somewhere on the cover. We’re not the biggest story—we’re buried well under “Jack Felgate, Sexiest Man Alive”—but we’re there.

Levi drops his arm from around me to weave his fingers through mine. “If it helps, I have my own hang-ups. I was the scrawny kid growing up. Too tall, knock-kneed, with more ribs than abs. I was a bottomless pit for years, and my mom always joked I had a hollow leg—where else was all the food going?”

I chance a look at his face, and his eyes are soft. Reminiscing. I wonder what it must be like to think of your childhood, your family, with any measure of fondness. He doesn’t know what a gift it is.

He points to the endcap as we approach the registers. “Seeing these photos, plus the social media commentstalking about how ripped I am... it’s hard to reconcile. In my head, I’m still a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet, trying to be taken seriously and working my ass off to bulk up. I don’t think I see myself clearly either.”

He grips my hand, pulls me with him to a self-checkout station, and doesn’t let go as he scans our items.

Did someone take our picture through the large glass windows at the front of the store? I’m not sure. But if the goal was to make it look like our connection is deepening, we definitely nailed it.

XIII

Levi

This rental apartment where I’m staying can’t be what Ana is used to. It’s a one-bedroom in a complex close to set that’s filled with other members of the cast and crew who weren’t afforded the star treatment. I’m keenly aware of its size as Ana pokes around the kitchen, looking for a baking sheet.

She opens a cabinet and unearths a silicone brush. “I’m impressed by the number of kitchen tools in this place. Have you been cooking a lot?”

“Not once since we got here.” I lean against the smooth granite counter and watch her squat to pull out the drawer under the oven. The movement makes her low-slung jeans pull tight across her hips and ass. I should look away, but I can’t seem to find the will. Ana may have trouble appreciating her body, but I don’t. Soft curves leading to the cut of her waist, the dip of her shirt revealing her collarbone. Wavy blonde hair falls behind her shoulders, and I’d like to brush it away to expose the spot just behind her ear. To kiss her there and watch her shiver.

“Got it!” Ana holds the sheet pan above her head, victorious.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d find one.” I have to work hard to pull my thoughts back to the pizza.

“Start slicing the mozzarella, and I’ll stretch the dough.” She points a finger at me and then to the ball of cheese on the counter, and I can’t help but smile. I told her the day we met that “blonde and demanding” wasn’t my type, but I’ll be damned if that hasn’t changed. That she knows what she wants and is willing to ask for it—it’s working for me in a way I didn’t expect.

I circle the counter, heading toward a knife block on the other side, but there’s no way to squeeze by her without pressing either my ass or crotch to her body.

I consider my options and take a step toward her, placing one hand on the counter. Cold from the stone surface seeps into my palm. “Sorry, I’m just gonna squeeze past you,” I whisper, tipping my mouth to her ear before bringing my other arm to her other side, effectively caging her in from behind. “Not a lot of room here.”

It may be my imagination—or some unacknowledged hope—but I swear she leans back a touch, settling her back against my chest, relaxing into this posture that was meant to be momentary.

My heart rate spikes, and I forget myself. “I’ve never used fresh dough. Show me?” I completely abandon my purpose for stepping behind her and cling to a reason to stay here.

Her ass grazes the tops of my thighs as she turns her face to look up at me, and I hold my breath as she narrows her eyes. Sussing me out, like she still can’t decide if there’s something untrustworthy beneath my words. I nod toward the dough.

“It wants to retain its shape.” She leans forward, palming the sticky ball on the sheet in front of her. “You stretch it, and it pulls back, resisting. It takes a lot of patience and persistence to get it where you want it. For it to expand. To where it’ll stay.” Ana looks at me then, and the wariness from a moment before is gone. Instead, there’s something seeking, something pressing in her eyes that makes me wonder if she’s not just talking about pizza crust. Like she might want to take a new shape too, if only someone would hold her when she wants to shrink back.

“Like this?” I place my hand over hers, and suddenly we’re cosplayingGhost. It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t. It feels good to be close to her. It feels right to have her in my space. It feels natural to touch her, even when there are no cameras around to catch it. Based on how her breathing’s picked up, I think the feeling’s mutual. What this means in the grand scheme of our ruse—or outside of it—I’m not sure.

“Yes, just like that.” She nods before bringing her hand, and mine with it, back to the center of the tray.

“Do you want me to take over while you cut the cheese?” A giggle bursts out of her at my unintentional potty humor—my mouth moving faster than my brainagain—and her body heaves against mine like this need to let go of herself was lingering just below the surface. The bright, shrill pitch of her laugh catches like a hook in my chest, pulling my own laughter from somewhere deep in me with enough force to ruffle her hair. She struggles to catch her breath. Temptation wins, and I bring my mouth to her throat, to that spot just behind her jaw, below her ear.

“You,” I whisper, before dotting a kiss there, “might be,” I press another, “the most intriguing person,” and another, “I’ve ever met.”

Ana pushes the tray away before turning in my arms to face me. I lift her to sit on the counter, her legs dangling between mine.