No one ever has to tell another person about their identity if they don’t want to. It’s a gift that she invited us in, a sign that we’re trustworthy and safe enough for her to tell us. I hesitate. I wonder if she plans on telling our dad, too.
Maybe my hesitation makes my thoughts obvious. “I don’t know if I’m going to tell him,” Emma says. Her voice lowers. My mom smooths down her curly hair. “The way he treats you, because you’re gay…I don’t think I want him to know, just for him to treat me badly, too.”
“You don’t have to tell him anything. Not if you don’t want to.”
Emma shrugs with a twinge of sadness. It hurts, knowing she’ll have to deal with the same thing that I did. A part of me hopes that if our dad ever found out, he would realize that he can’t lose Em, too, and he would finally start to change. But maybe that’s too optimistic.
I slide off the counter’s stool and walk over to Emma and hug her. I pull away and she rolls her eyes at me with a grin, but I don’t mind. “I love you, Em. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I love you, too.”
*
It’s only been a couple of weeks, but I’m getting comfortable in Decatur. On Christmas morning we exchange gifts, and Em and I help our mom cook the traditional dinner. Cousins and my mom’s friends come over, pinching my cheeks and ruffling my hair and saying how proud they are of me, the movie star. Dad even comes out of his office and sits on the couch the whole day, though he barely speaks.
After Christmas, I sleep in until ten in the morning and play games on the living room floor day after day. It’s like the more I rest, the more tired I become, as if my body still has months of sleep to catch up on. I have to remind myself that, in just a couple of weeks, publicity is going to ramp up for Write Anything, and I’m going to be thrown back into the fast pace of LA. Besides Dave’s “Project X” schedule, I’ve gotten a separate schedule for the red-carpet premiere, six different photoshoots, multiple TV and radio appearances, interviews in magazines, and of course the promo tour, which will have me traveling to ten different cities. I got confirmation that Logan won’t be on the tour. I’m going to be trained on how to handle questions, especially surrounding him.
I’ve been texting with Logan on and off, trying to ignore the increasing panic when he doesn’t text me back as often. It’s possible that the excitement for our relationship has begun to wane. I have to ask myself, seriously, if my excitement has started to fade, too. I miss him, but it’s easier to see how consumed I was by him—consumed with wanting to save him. I already know that I can’t save Gray. He has to help himself, ultimately. But I can be there to support him, can’t I? As long as supporting him doesn’t become my entire life, my reason for being, overtaking myself and even my dreams—then we could make this work.
*
I get a text from Julie when I’m lying in bed, playing Animal Crossing on my Switch. We’ve been texting even more than I have been with Logan, but her latest message confuses me when it pops up on my phone. I’m so sorry, Mattie.
I frown as I type a response. What’s wrong?
She doesn’t reply right away. In the silence, my heart starts to pump harder. Something bad has happened. I’m afraid it’s about Logan. I still don’t spend a lot of time looking at social media. My only posts have been the obligatory photos on Insta, quick snaps of me around set with Gray. The notifications are way more overwhelming than usual, and I squint as I begin to scroll. My eyes blur.
Matthew Cole is a piece of shit.
Who the fuck lies about something like this?
I thought you were better than this, Mattie.
There’s a mix of emotions—relief that it isn’t news that Logan was found hurt or dead, and fear of what the hell happened in the last hour. My phone buzzes. It’s Paola. I pick it up on the first ring.
“Hey!” I try to sound cheerful and not confused and scared. “What’s going on?”
“Hey, Matt,” she says slowly, carefully. “Have you been online today?”
“I just started to scroll through Twitter.”
“Don’t,” she says, quickly. “It’s not good.” She takes a breath. I close my eyes and, somehow, in that moment, I know what she’s going to say. “It leaked. I don’t know how. It somehow got out that your relationship with Logan isn’t real.”
She told me to stop, and I know that she’s right—I should stop—but I keep scrolling on my laptop.
I thought you were different than other celebrities.
This is so disappointing.
You’re just as bad as Logan Gray.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Julie. I think I know who leaked it
This is too much. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“Mattie?” Paola says. She sounds worried. “Are you there?”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yes. Yeah, I’m here.” My breaths are short, rapid—I force myself to take one long inhale and let it out slowly. “What now? What do I do?”
“I’ve tried to get in touch with Reynolds. He’s already discussing damage control with PR. The best thing might be for you and Logan to come out as a united force and say that this leak is just a rumor. You’re together, and you’re in love.”
I bite my lip. It’s true now, technically, that we are together—but that doesn’t change the fact that our relationship was first a lie. I don’t know if I want to continue telling it. Paola says she’s getting another call, and after we hang up, I scroll to contacts and try to call Logan. I’m sent to voicemail. I text him. Can we talk?
He doesn’t answer right away. Maybe he doesn’t plan on answering at all. I sit with my phone, staring at Julie’s text message. I start to type. Who do you think it was?
Bubbles appear and disappear. My phone starts to ring, and my heart jumps, thinking that it might be Logan, but when I look at the screen I see that it’s Julie.
When I answer, her voice is soft. “Are you okay, Mattie?”
“Just a little shellshocked, I think,” I say.
I’ve seen the way people treat celebrities. Humans so often decide as a collective to hate one person—decide that they have the right to treat another person horribly. I’ve never liked to see it, but I’ve also never been on the receiving end. Maybe I was too comfortable, thinking of myself as the golden boy of Hollywood, the Southern sweetheart that everyone loved. I didn’t accept the fact that people could decide to hate me just as easily, too. What’s worse is that I know I messed up, agreeing to lie about this relationship in the first place.
But I also know I don’t deserve to be treated this way—not by anyone. Even if I’ve made a mistake, I’m still a human being, and I still deserve compassion and respect.
“I feel awful,” Julie says. I can tell she’s been crying. Her voice sounds stuffed up. “I’d—God, I’ve been seeing Keith,” she tells me.
I’m confused by the sudden tangent, before things start to click into place.