Page 77 of Famous for a Living

“For one thing,” I say, “I don’t think I ever thought you’d be the kind of guy to wear . . . well, that.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” He frowns as he looks down.

“It’s a cable-knit sweater. Honestly, if I had to wager on it, I would’ve nailed you for a furs guy. A live-off-the-land, sweat-of-my-brow person. Instead here you are. Commercial clothing. And”—I squint at the contents of his steaming mug—“is that whipped cream? You are a whipped cream guy?”

“I enjoy it on occasion.”

He says it with such simplicity that it suddenly makes sense. No games about playing to stereotypes, just doing what he thinks is right and simple. Of course, then. Of course the whipped cream.

In my periphery Mina begins to make a little walking demonstration with her fingers, followed by pointing at the barstools. As though we must be confused on the exact process of walking and sitting.

Neither of us move.

“So. You joined Instagram.”

His face doesn’t move a muscle. “I don’t recall that.”

“ZaiahSmith1234567890. The worst username, for the record, I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m sure there are dozens of Zaiah Smiths out there. And just as a thought, whoever did make that username may have done so because every other number combination was taken.”

“And this fellow liked every one of my photos.” I break into a grin, seeing at last a shift in his expression. “Are you blushing?”

“It’s hot in here. There are too many people.”

I laugh. “Right. I forget your cap is at six.”

“Hey, guys. There are a couple chairs open over there.”

We both turn toward the barista, and I’m surprised to see several cups have gathered behind us. The barista is no more than twenty, but even I can see the little knowing smirk through the curls falling over his eyes. He slides a cup between us to the customer behind.

“Oh. Sorry, Zach.” Zaiah nods to the middle-aged woman who just picked up her cup and gently touches the small of my back as he guides us forward. “Sorry, Mrs. Givens. We just got caught up.”

“No problem at all, sweetie,” she replies, and of course, of course, she’s now giving a suggestive little wink.

Does this whole town know what’s going on with everybody over everything?

Mina at this point is throwing stranded-on-a-deserted-island-looking-at-a-passing-plane waves.

“We should go,” I say. “Mina’s going to break something.”

“Of course.” But we’re only a few steps toward the table when he pauses. “Don’t you have millions of followers? How is it possible you noticed?”

This time it’s my turn to flush. “I may have checked for your name a couple times.”

More like a couple times an hour the past two weeks.

So. Zaiah Smith looked through my account and liked a hundred pictures and posts, not because he wanted to be noticed but because he wanted to be supportive. Quietly supportive.

My steps slow to the point the couple we are inching past look up at us, clearly thinking we’re trying to listen in on their private conversation.

“So . . . um.” I clear my throat. I’m not sure I want to hear what he thought about my account. It’s intimidating. Like saying, “Hey, so you read my entire diary last night. What did you think about everything I’ve done or thought the past ten years? Are you still interested?” But the curiosity is killing me. I have to know.

I try to keep my tone as nonchalant as possible. “So what did you think of it all?”

He nods to the couple as if to say, “Mind your business and we’ll mind ours.”

“I understand the six suitcases now.”