Moving.
The kind of kiss that could never be considered a press-and-run.
Since I’ve never done this before, I just follow her lead until she pulls away, angles her face toward the camera, and giggles adorably.
And that’s when I realize my very first kiss was just broadcast all over the world to millions of viewers.
Which makes me wonder if this was staged too.
Did Tinsley even want to kiss me—or was it just part of the script she was given?
I sit there stupidly, unsure what to do.
I mean, what’s the correct response when your first kiss has been hijacked as a publicity stunt?
But it’s not like it matters. Just a few seconds later the director calls it a wrap, Ezer grabs Tinsley’s guitar, someone else unhooks my mike, and the crew begins dismantling the set as I make a mad dash upstairs to my room.
REALITY BITES
Once I’m in my room, I do something I should’ve done a long time ago: I watch the more recent episodes of my reality show. After everything that just happened, I need to know how I ended up diving straight off a metaphorical cliff without any warning.
I settle onto my bed with my laptop, and it doesn’t take long before I’m gaping in horror at the way the camera captures my changed expression whenever Tinsley enters a scene.
Not to mention how they edit the smallest, most insignificant moments to make them seem way bigger than they actually were.
Clearly Ezer’s had an agenda from the day he introduced me to Tinsley, and he’s been manipulating the footage ever since. He even added video clips of us goofing off in the recording studio when I was totally unaware of being filmed. Including shots of me trying to make her laugh and using any excuse to touch her arm, her shoulder, and one time—her knee. Making it seem like Tinsley and I have been a thing long before tonight.
Like we’ve been boyfriend and girlfriend all along.
Like the next logical step in our relationship would be for me to give her a someday ring.
And that’s when I get the full extent of just how bad this mess is.
Ezer’s been using me as a tool to make Tinsley famous.
I tell myself I shouldn’t care.
I’m so well-known there’s plenty to spare.
Still, I can’t help feeling betrayed by the way he played me—how he used my feelings for her to manipulate me into going along with his game.
But mostly I’m mad at myself for allowing it, for not paying closer attention, for choosing to believe in this fake version of my life just as much as the fans who obsessively watch it.
And the worst part of all: after watching the footage, I can’t help but realize that Tinsley isn’t really the person I thought she was.
I guess I fooled myself into believing that if I could get someone as perfect as Tinsley to like me, then maybe it would make me perfect too. But now I know I had it all wrong. Tinsley’s not even close to being perfect, and she only pretended to like me. A real friend would never use me like that. Tinsley’s only in it for what she can get.
I reach for my cell, desperately needing to talk to someone, but the truth is, there’s no one to call.
Despite all of my fortune and fame, turns out, I’m lonelier here than I ever was back in Greentree.
While the Greentree Dougall would understand, this Dougall is exactly what Ezer warned me about. He’s only my friend for the celebrity perks. Always there to party and be seen with me, he’s never around for the more normal, less flashy moments. Not to mention how he’s always making fun of my music, my image, my decision to sing with Tinsley. And even though in retrospect he might’ve been right about the duet, I’m sick of him always urging me to collect the cash while I can and not giving a flying flip about anything else.
I may have a manager; a chauffeur/bodyguard; a chef, a personal stylist; a hair and makeup team; and a crew of people to mow my lawn, clean my pool, and keep my house organized and pristine, but I don’t have anyone I can truly call a friend.
No one I can talk to about anything deeper than which party is worth going to and which girls make the hot list.
And as far as my family goes, well, I’m pretty sure I can’t trust them. Heck, we couldn’t even manage to have breakfast together. Not to mention how they clearly knew exactly what Ezer had planned and did nothing to protect me or, at the very least, warn me that I was about to be ambushed on live TV.
I mean, what kind of parents let their son get engaged, or promised, or somedayed, or whatever just happened to me, at almost thirteen?