Page 94 of Not Safe for Work

“Wow,” Gabrielle says, taking the phone and scrolling through his feed while Lan looks over her shoulder. “What’s going on here? This is you?”

She taps on a video, and Rafe pops up, waxing about the characteristics of an ideal shortbread crust. While they watch in rapt attention, I watch Rafe, gauging his reaction. It’s heartbreaking to watch the way he shrinks into himself, but I reach out to grab his hand and give him a confident smile. He needs to understand how amazing this is and that everyone who’s made him feel bad about it is wrong. Their judgment says way more about them than it does about him.

Gabrielle and Lan are still clicking through photos and videos as they ooh and ahh. With every exclamation of delight, I notice Rafe’s tight shoulders drop from his ears.

“By the way, you haven’t followed me back yet,” I say in mock offense.

He pulls out his phone, taps at the screen, and finds my profile. His expression is thoughtful as he scrolls through the sporadic selfies, random food shots, and occasional vacation pics I share with all six of my rabid fans.

He looks up at me.

“Sorry, I get a lot of follows. I don’t even notice anymore,” he says sheepishly.

“Oh, look at you. One minute, you’re embarrassed, and the next, you’re giving me starlet attitude,” I tease.

He clicks the follow button and then leans over, stretching his arm across the back of the booth, and says softly, “I’ll follow you anywhere, Tris.”

I frown. What is that supposed to mean? He’s watching me with a reverent look, and it’s slowly dissolving the shell of the meager armor I’ve cloaked myself in. Something in my chest cracks, does a 180, and then slides back into place. I swallow because, suddenly, I can’t breathe.

I notice Lan and Gabrielle are watching us, their heads tilted with wistful expressions.

“Aw,” Lan says, pretending to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

“Stop it,” I say, snatching my phone from Gabrielle and then pointing to Rafe. “Let’s go. It’s time for dessert.”

It comes out harsher than I intend. Why did his comment rattle me so much?

He follows me to the buffet, and I watch as he circles it like Michelangelo assessing a raw hunk of marble. Rows of jewel-toned macarons sit nestled between glistening berries and slices of mango, peaches, and watermelon. Delicate stacks of mille-feuille are arranged alongside petit fours coated in pale pink, lilac, and mint-green icing. Crystal goblets are layered with cream and chocolate and fruit in mini parfaits. Cakes, so many cakes, are decorated with fine sugar cages and fondant orchids so lifelike they seem plucked straight from a garden.

Rafe pulls out his phone and turns on his livestream as he begins filming, describing everything in loving detail. His passion and his adoration for this are so obvious.

“Lime madeleines with grapefruit icing. Raspberry and rose eclairs. Brown sugar meringues with white chocolate mousse and lavender syrup,” he recites, rattling off the names from printed tent cards.

He’s mesmerizing to watch, his smile brighter than the sun. I’m sure every one of his followers must be head over heels in love with him. He looks away from the phone and over to me with a smile and something achingly tender in his expression.

I’ll follow you anywhere, Tris.

I descend into an abyss as I understand why those words affected me so much. They dig in, talons out, and scrape away the lie I’ve been telling myself for five years.

I have feelings for Rafe.

I’m not delusional. Of course, I always felt something, but it was something I manipulated into carefully skirting the edge of real emotion. It was overwrought and unrealistic, like a story you tell yourself to get through the day.

It was infatuation. It was obsession. It was fascination. It wasn’t real.

I refused to let it be anything else.

He’s returned to his work, snapping photos, angling his phone this way and that.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Rafe is my rival. Was. And now, he isn’t. Not even a little bit. Was he ever? No. I did this to myself by pushing him away the very first time we met. And despite all of that, he never actually left. He existed in my sphere, challenging me and giving me what I needed until I was ready to break down the walls I erected around myself.

“Will you take this for me?” he holds out a small white ramekin filled with a pink mini soufflé. I blink up at him, trying to pick up and arrange my thoughts.

“You okay?” he asks, his brown eyes brimming with concern.

I love those eyes. They’re rocky trails winding through forests. They’re warm spice cakes and mugs of tea sipped at sunrise. They’re autumn landscapes rendered in vivid technicolor. How could I ever think they were evil?

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I reach for the plate. “You’re not going to put me in the photo?”