“Double wedding!”
Erin laughed. “Double wedding” was a thing we said whenever Rupert X. and Rupert K. did anything that linked them together. We liked to think they were each other’s closest friends in the boy band, and if me and Erin, who were best friends, loved two boys who were also best friends, it meant a double wedding was very possibly in our future. It was a dumb joke, but it made it us laugh, so we continued to tell it.
“How do you know they’re sharing a room?” I asked. But when we walked into the bedroom the question answered itself. Two beds: one of them had a pair of pillows with the letters RX monogrammed in the corners of the silk pillowcases. Obviously, that was Rupert X.’s bed. Whenever an interviewer asked him about his skin care regimen, he would always bring up the importance of sleeping on silk pillows, which, he liked to point out, was not only good for the skin, but for the hair as well. And Rupert X.’s hair definitely added to his overall allure. His golden pompadour could rival a rooster’s. The other bed just looked like a standard hotel bed, but on the nightstand was an inhaler. Only one of the boys in the band needed an inhaler. My boy.
Erin walked up to it and tossed it into the air, catching it a second later. “What do you say: perfect souvenir?”
“I can’t take that,” I said. “Rupert K. needs that.”
Really, he had no business being a singer with his asthma. It was common knowledge that he escaped backstage at least once every show to take a hit off his inhaler. It was usually after one of the more upbeat numbers, where he was jumping around a lot and losing more breath than he was taking in. But that was just another reason why I loved him: He lived to perform even though it could kill him. How could you not admire his commitment? There were always at least a few fan signs at concerts that said things like, RUPERT K! LET ME GIVE YOU MOUTH TO MOUTH or RUPERT K. I CAN’T BREATHE WHEN I’M AROUND YOU or I’LL TAKE A HIT OFF YOUR INHALER ANY DAY.
Girls would fight to the death to take a hit off this thing, to be able to hold in their hands an object that Rupert K. regularly put into his mouth. And there it was, on the palm of Erin’s hand. Beckoning me.
“At least hold it for a minute,” Erin said, handing it to me. “Take a hit if you want, I won’t tell anyone.”
Don’t worry, I didn’t take a hit off Rupert K.’s inhaler. I wasn’t that sick.
I only pressed the mouthpiece against my lips.
Erin had already wandered off to Rupert X.’s side of the room, and I was grateful that she allowed me this one moment to have this middleman—a thing that both Rupert K.’s lips and mine had touched. In a way—if you squinted—it was like we’d just kissed.
Obviously, I’ve thought about what it would be like to kiss Rupert Kirke. Okay, yes, it’s a little embarrassing to admit, but every Rupert K. fangirl fantasizes about the same thing, and I’m certainly not above it all. I actually have a whole little scenario of how it would go down. We’d be in this dangerous situation, or maybe just an adventurous one—I haven’t decided yet—but then when we were finally alone and we’d had a moment to catch our breaths, he’d look at me as if he was seeing me for the first time. He’d put the palm of his hand on my cheek and gently caress it with his thumb. His own cheeks would turn super red, the way they do when he’s shy or out of breath, only this time he’d be shy and out of breath for the best reason. He’d lean in really slowly and I’d know that he wanted to kiss me but he’d make me wait for it a little bit. He’d fish for the kiss (because fishing for the kiss is always the most adorably romantic way to go, natch), and then finally his lips would be on mine. They’d be soft. They’d be perfect.
That’s what I imagine a perfect kiss would be. I haven’t had a perfect kiss yet. (You need to have at least actually been kissed to have a perfect kiss.)
“Are you done making out with his inhaler?”
I quickly put the inhaler down, but Erin wasn’t even looking at me. Her back was to me as she sat on the edge of Rupert X.’s bed, looking through something I couldn’t see.
“I wasn’t making out with it.”
“Right.”
I walked around Rupert K.’s bed before sitting on it. When I did, I did it as carefully as possible, not wanting to put too much weight on it and disturb it somehow. But then I thought, screw it, and just full-on lay down and stretched out. It wasn’t warm like I’d hoped, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still good.
Holy shit, I was lying on Rupert K.’s bed.
Yes, on the one hand we’d kidnapped someone, which was bad, I know, but on the other hand, it had facilitated the fact that I was now lying where Rupert K. slept, which was oh so swoon. And the swoon, at least at that very moment, totally outweighed the bad.
I was in Rupert K.’s bed.
I was in Rupert K.’s bed.