“I don’t,” I said. “Remember my Miles Crowe media blackout?”
He shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “I never thought the one person in America who knows almost nothing about me would be the girl who shot me to fame, but...it’s kind of nice.”
“So you got big?”
“Yeah. I mean, I couldn’t sell out football stadiums even at my peak, but I sold out a few basketball arenas. Multi-platinum records. Merch. Endorsements. I got all of that.”
“But it’s not what you wanted?”
He stood and walked across the path to the grass to watch me from other side. “It was, for a couple of years. But by twenty, most of the friends I’d grown up with were halfway through college, and I was four years into a career I hadn’t planned on. The thing was, I loved making myownmusic, not the songs the record company kept making me put out. But they’d already decided I was a teen idol, and they wanted me to stay strictly commercial.”
“And you blamed my video for that?”
“I know how I sound. Ungrateful. Spoiled. But the truth is, the record company packaged me and sent me out as a product, and once I started figuring out who I was beyond that image...they weren’t interested.” He picked up a rock and tossed it out toward the river. “I didn’t handle it well. Started getting anxiety about going on stage to do the songs they chose for me. Threw tantrums. Trashed hotel rooms. It was not awesome.”
“You got shoved into your own box too.” I sympathized with that more than most people.
“Not as bad as the box you were shoved in, but yes.”
“Any box sucks if you want to get out of it and you can’t.”
“I did, eventually. I only had to give up any hope of more fame.” He shot me a wry smile.
“Yeah, you’ll have to rest on the millions you banked already.”
“Hard knock life.”
“Do they sell sympathy cards for that? ‘Sorry you don’t get to be a pop star anymore. Hope your millions are a comfort’? Maybe I can start a card line as a side gig.”
“Real talk, I think the market is going to be small.”
“Dream crusher.”
He cocked his head and studied me. “You’re being really chill about this.”
I stood and crossed the path to stand in front of him. “I’ve had about twelve years to get over this, and I only wished you dead for the first eight.”
He winced. “I deserve that.”
“Yes. But you’ve done your time, so don’t sweat it.” I held out my hand for a shake. “Let’s call a truce.”
He stared at my hand then spread his arms. “I’m kind of a hugger, if you’re cool with it.”
I smiled and accepted the hug, marveling at how weird life was. This was how I’d dreamed it would go for all those months I’d been obsessed with young Miles Crowe, and the reality was that had it happened back then, I might have exploded into bits, overcome with excitement.
But now, stepping into his arms was...
Nice.
No, notnice. Nice was a hug from a friend or a cousin.
This was not that.
His body heat spread to me through the thin cotton of his shirt, and the steady thump of his heart beat beneath my ear.
He tightened his arms, and his heartbeat sped up. Could he feel mine doing the same thing? I kept my head tucked against his chest. What would happen if I tilted my chin up?
He would kiss me.
