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“You hate sympathy.” Then, as if she wants to ease my embarrassment, she says, “Last night a girl vomited on me.”
My eyes widen in horror. It’s so disgusting, I forget to be nervous. “Seriously?”
“Yep. In the VIP room. There was no blood involved. Just a girl who overindulged.”
She tips her head to the side and smiles. It’s a kind smile, clearly designed to put me at ease. I knew she was beloved, but I didn’t expect her to be nice.
“If anyone here deserves sympathy, it’s me,” she jokes.
I’m barely even embarrassed when I accidentally say, “I love you.”
She laughs and nudges Slater. “You finally found a girl who likes me.” Then she leans forward and says conspiratorially, “His last girlfriend hated me.”
We speak at the same time. “She’s not my?—”
“I’m not his?—”
“—girlfriend.” We finish together.
“Oh.” Amber seems confused. “You haven’t brought a girl to a show since Marie.”
There’s not an ounce of angst in her expression. No jealousy. Nothing. I don’t acknowledge my relief that she isn’t secretly pining for him, because regardless of their relationship, Slater is way out of my league.
He’s a celebrity.
I’m just a normal girl.
My eyes dart between them. Amber looks at Slater strangely. He looks away.
It’s a bit awkward. Like everything else since we came into this room.
I try to make things less weird. “Slater and I work together. I’m a huge fan of yours.” That sounds thoroughly innocent. I applaud myself for my quick thinking as I add, “Plus, I have a boyfriend.”
“You have a boyfriend?” Slater responds, looking at me as if I just announced I’m going to Mars.
His reaction is warranted, because I don’t, in fact, have a boyfriend. Am I making things weirder? Why did I think lying about having a boyfriend would make it less weird? “Ummm, yes?”
It sounds an awful lot like a question.
“Since when?” he asks, focusing on me as if I’ve been keeping secrets from him.
“I mean no. I…uh…date though. Sometimes.” Why am I still talking?
He exhales. “Good.”
Maybe I hit him harder than I thought? It’s the only reason I can come up with for why he’s acting like it matters to him whether or not I have a boyfriend. He could not have been clearer that we are not on a date.
Amber, clearly sensing that the conversation is veering off the tracks, bounces to her feet. Slater and I follow. The man in the suit re-enters the room and tosses Slater a shirt.
Slater pulls it over his head and laughter bubbles out of both me and Amber. The shirt is a size too small, and it has Amber’s image plastered in the middle. It’s a remarkable likeness. Her smile shines out of her heart-shaped face, and her hair spills everywhere. The whole image shimmers.
“You deserve a raise,” Amber says to the man.
He shrugs like it wasn’t intentional. “They sold out of the rest of the shirts.”
Slater looks down at himself. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I can’t imagine why this was the only one left.”
“Are you saying you don’t understand why someone would want a shirt with my face on it?” She’s still laughing. “I’ll have you know, my merchandise is very popular.”
