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I had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown about the entire production, but Cian talked me through it. “It’s only high school. If he doesn’t know his lines, you’re still the sparkle and shine of this whole production. That’s what people will remember.”
His words sank in so sweetly that I stared at him for the longest time. Maybe a creepily long time, and then he leaned in and touched my hair, dyed red for the character of Anne. I leaned in, and our lips met in the middle. It was weird and awkward, with dry lips and noses bumping and nervous laughter. But then it was soft and sweet and felt insanely exciting.
Cian gave me nervous butterflies just by looking at me, which was a lot to deal with while living with the boy for a full senior year. At the same time, he made me feel like I could do anything.
I pull up Instagram just to check, and catch a DM notification. My accounts are set up to filter everyone but mutuals, but sometimes odd ones get through.
“Hi, Serenity. I don’t know if you remember me, but…”
I instantly rush to read the rest of the message.
“…it looks like I’ll be stopping by the class reunion. Are you going?”
Oh my god,I think. It’s from Cian. My fingers sink into Duchess’s mass of fur.
And then, I message him back.
Biting my lip, I type: “Hi, Cian! Of course, I remember you, silly! You were my pretend brother!”
I hit send, realizing that I haven’t replied to Ellen.
“Serenity?”
“Yes, Ellen. I think I’ll be going after all,” I tell her.
She nods and scribbles more reminders.
As for me, I go back to my DMs. Cian has seen my message but hasn’t responded yet.
I bite my lip and type: “I’ll be there if you will. You better not leave me in the lurch, kid.”
A delighted, nostalgic feeling hits me when he replies instantly: “I can’t wait to see you.”
I can almost hear his accent, and it takes me back.
And then I do something insanely stupid because although I am 99 percent sure that this is the real Cian—the photo looks exactly like him, plus ten years on his face and ten very nice pounds around his torso—and I shoot him my phone number.
“Call me,” I type.
My stomach tumbles as I wait for his reply.
I’ve never given my direct phone number to anyone at first contact. Everyone goes through Ellen until we both know they are who they say they are. Ellen arranges my coffee dates. That boy band lead singer called my people to ask me to go out for coffee that one time. That’s how it works.
Of course, I had thought it was only about coffee and getting to know each other. The famous singer’s people had told Ellen he spotted me at a movie premiere and thought I was “prettier in person than on screen.”
As weird as that compliment was, how could I say no to a date with that man? As it turned out, his publicists only wanted to see how well we photographed together.
The whole thing gave me the creeps, so I turned the singer down the next time his people called, and ever since then, Ellen’s phone and email have been blowing up with requests from different publicists who want to set me up with their clients. Because “playing hard to get” withthatguy somehow makes me a hotter commodity in the celebrity dating game.
I have one word for all of that: disgusting.
I don’t date around. I don’t try people on for size to see if we photograph well together. I’m selective with the people around me for a reason.
Let publicists influence who I date? I think fucking not.
Cian phones me, making me realize my phone hasn’t rung since two weeks ago when my dad called from Ohio.
I answer immediately.
