Carlos flops down on the couch. “I’m going to do you one better. I’m going to make us famous.”
Un-huh.
“How do you plan on doing that?” I sit down next to him.
“How many followers do you have on ClikClak?”
I pull out my phone and check. “Um, eighty.”
Carlos’s mouth falls open. “Excuse me? Did you mean eightthousand?”
I laugh. “No, I mean eighty. Eight-zero. I don’t post any videos, and I recently made my profile private. I’m not even sure how I got the eighty to begin with. Why? What does ClikClak have to do with your plan?”
“I want us to be content creators. Do you know how much money content creators make? We could be famous and rolling in it.”
“Famous for what? What am I supposed to create?” I understand what Carlos would do there. He wants to be a makeup artist. From the precision with which he can do an eyeliner wing, I would say he’s got the skills. Me on the other hand ...
“You know, do your thing.”
“My thing? I don’t have a thing. I’m like the world’s most thing-less person.”
Carlos throws up his arms in exasperation. “Han, when you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?”
The answer is swift. “I wanted to be the next Lesley Visser.”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“Lesley Visser was the first female NFL analyst on TV. She’s the only sportscaster in history who has worked on a Final Four, the NBA finals, the World Series, the Triple Crown, Monday Night Football, the Olympics, the World Figure Skating Championships, the US Open, and the Super Bowl. And she’s a woman.” I rattle her stats off as easily as Bobby Flay rattles off his recipe for shrimp and roasted garlic tamale. “Did you know that, to this day, she’s the only woman to preside over the presentation of the Super Bowl trophy? That was in 1992 when Washington defeated the Buffalo Bills 37–24.”
“And that’s your thing. Boring sports statistics.”
I huff. “They’re not boring.”
“To a lot of people, they are, but I bet there are a lot of people on ClikClak who would eat that shit up.”
I shrug. “If you say so. But what does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s a back door, but—”
I raise my hand up and get off the couch. “Stop right there. Don’t ever—ever—refer to me and the back door again. Got it?”
This time I actually throw my coffee cup before I storm out of the room. Lucky for me, it’s empty, so I don’t stain the living room rug. Also that it lands with a soft thud on the arm chair. Damn, I’m still on the edge from last night. Some rational part of me knows it’s not Carlos’s fault, but I don’t care. Those words hurt too much, instantly bringing me back to the worst time in my life. There’s no way he could possibly know. But still ...
It’s like the universe is definitely sending me a sign, if I believed in those things, and they’re all pointing athim.
I collapse onto my bed, burying my face into my pillows. It was a long time ago. I should be over it. I should be over him. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. Just a bunch of stupid mistakes and stupid coincidences that created the perfect storm to totally tank all my hopes and dreams.
Not to mention almost kill me.
No big whoop.
Suddenly, the boxes at the back of my mental closet are in the front of my mind. They’re threatening to spill open.
“Okay, seriously, what was that? You stormed out like a diva having a meltdown. And there’s only room for one diva in this apartment, and we both agreed that would be me.”
I groan and roll over, trying to remember that this has absolutely nothing to do with Carlos. I take a big breath and let it out slowly. “I would never dream of taking your title. You hit a nerve, that’s all.”
Carlos folds his arms over his chest and cocks an eyebrow high in a way that makes me totally jealous. I wish I had that kind of control over my appendages—if eyebrows are considered appendages.
