“It feels different when other people are observing it, you mean?”
He meets my eyes. “Yes. That. Exactly that.”
I nod. “That’s how I felt when I first started getting seen onYard Line. I was doing theater and tiny plays no one knew about for years and years, and I got used to that. I really was just acting because I loved doing it. And then suddenly everyone knew me from one big role, and…”
“And it felt fucking weird?”
“Very weird.”
Chase shakes his head. “I don’t know why it should even matter. So what if some rich dudes want my photos on their walls? That’s what I’ve always wanted. But I don’t feel like I deserve it. Their money, or the fact that they actually enjoy my work.”
“Well, that’s bullshit. You deserve it.”
He nods, looking down at the bar top. “Yeah. I fucking do deserve it. What the hell is wrong with my mind tonight?”
I laugh, and he finally cracks a smile too, looking up at me.
“Damn right.”
“God, I really am fucking crazy.”
I shake my head. “No. You’re just feeling what it’s like to be perceived for your talents. And I know it makes you question everything, but I can tell you with full certainty, youaretalented, and everyone can tell.”
He looks up at me with something blooming behind his eyes. “You are too nice to me.”
“I’m not nice enough.”
I reach out and squeeze his forearm.
“Excuse me, Mr. Stone?” someone asks from behind me, and I drop my touch from Chase as I turn to look.
“Hello,” I say, seeing a formal photographer behind us.
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m the event photographer,” he says, shaking my hand. “Could I take a few photos of you and Mr. Cameron? I’m also a fan ofYard Line, I must admit.”
“You are so much more polite than paparazzi. Of course, go ahead.”
The photographer snaps a few shots of us smiling in our seats. We’re not touching in the photos, and I’m sure we don’t even look like we’re close. At an event like this, people get their photos taken with all sorts of people, who are friends, fans, and strangers.
But something tingles inside me knowing it’s the first time I’ve been publicly photographed with Chase.
After the photographer gets his shots, more artists come over to talk to Chase about his work. Over the next half an hour, a few more fans of mine come up to me, too, asking for selfies and autographs, but there’s no wild mob or gathering storm of attention.
I feel calm here, actually.
The event starts to wind down, and the food trays are cleaned up as the bar closes down for the evening.
Chase finds his way back to where I’m sitting at the bar, and he still seems dazed, like he can’t quite believe what happened.
“Thank you for coming,” he tells me again. He has the same removed look in his eyes that he had when I first came over for the photoshoot, looking all professional. “I’m going to be heading out soon.”
“Do you have a long trip home?”
“Not too bad. Depends if the subway has any delays,” Chase says. “Getting here was a bitch, though. I had all of my framed photos in a rolling suitcase. At least the suitcase will be empty now, going back.”
“Grab the suitcase. My driver can give you a ride home.”
“It’s okay, Logan. You don’t have to do that.”
