CHAPTER TWENTY
REECE
Sir, I cant give out passenger flight information. Its against the law.
The ticket counter woman refuses to make eye contact, fingers clacking against the keyboard with the rhythm of someone both underpaid and over this conversation. Her blue uniform vest strains across her chest, the name tag Olina pinned at a defiant angle, as if daring anyone to challenge her authority.
Right, okay, sure, but what ifhypotheticallyyou accidentally let it slip? Maybe a sneeze that sounds like Gate 12 or a casual stretch that ends with you turning your monitor?
She doesnt dignify that with a response.
Can you just tell me if Camila Morales is on a plane to LA? Please?
As I said, sir, Olina says, slipping back into customer service monotone, we cannot disclose passenger information. Its a violation of privacy laws.
What if I bought a ticket? To every possible flight she could be on?
That would be both expensive and impractical, she states with robotic efficiency. Also, TSA would likely flag your behavior as suspicious.
Fuck. Shes right. Running through an airport screaming Cams name like some unhinged romcom hero would land me in handcuffs, no doubt. Not the reunion Im hoping for.
Next in line.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
I spin in a circle, scanning the terminal as if a tuxedo-wearing welcome agent is going to pop up with a sign that says: Camila is on Flight 1207. Go get her dumbass.
Nothing.
Not one heroic airline employee ready to break FAA regulations in the name of love.
I stare at the departure board, panic clawing up my throat. There are too many damn departures to Los Angeles. My brain is frantic, flipping through options. I could call every airline. Hack into the security cameras. Maybe bribe one of the bag handlers
OH MY GOD! Its really you!
The squeal hits my eardrums like an ice pick. I spin to find a teenage girl with braces, phone aimed at me. Youre Reece Dare! THE Reece Dare! She bounces on her toes, sparkly phone case catching the fluorescent lighting.
I force a smile. Hey there.
AND BLAZE TATE TOO! Her shriek reaches a pitch only dogs should be able to hear.
I glance at Blaze, whos wandered back from his snack-finding expedition with an armful of chips and candy. His blonde hair is hidden under a backwards cap that says, Beach Please , and hes wearing sunglasses indoors, which he proudly calls Incognito Mode . He notices the fans and hastily grins, bringing his full-on party boy energy.
Sup, DareSquad! he shouts.
Then, like shark bait in open water, one excited fan quickly attracts others. Within seconds, were surroundedteens, twenty-somethings, moms with their kids, an overly smiley dude with my face on his sweatshirt.
Cameras flash. Questions fly from all directions.
Can we get a selfie?
Will you sign my boarding pass?
Reece! I just donated to the Lahaina fund, man!
My aunt lost everything in the fires. Thank you for helping!
Youre actually a good person?! Im shook!
More people join the crowd. More phones. More questions.
I pause, taking in the faces of my followers. These arent just admirers asking for stunts or selfies. Theyre genuinely moved. I see it in their eyesa connection deeper than viral videos and merch.
I should be grateful. I am grateful. These fans are helping raise millions for Lahainas recovery. They saw what Cam saw. They believed in something real.
And all I can think isthis is Camilas moment. She should know that her work mattered. That she matters.
But right now, I dont have time.
Guys, I say, raising my hands, instantly commanding the crowd. I cant tell you how much it means to me that you supported Lahaina. Seriously. Every donation, every shareyou made a difference. And I will be matching those funds dollar for dollar. But I gotta find Cam ASAP. Have any of you seen her?
Everyone shakes their heads.
The teen girl with braces pipes up. Go live! Ask the whole DareSquad!
I was gonna think of that! Blaze says.
I pull out my phone, open the YouTube app, and hit the Go Live button.
The second the stream starts, the numbers climb. Ten thousand viewers. Fifty thousand. Four hundred thousandno sign of stopping.
DareSquad. I know this is a long shot, but I need you. My own face stares back at merumpled, desperate, the most unfiltered Ive ever been on camera. Im at the Maui airport, and I have to locate Camila. But I have no idea where she is. If anyone has any clue where she might beplease, drop it in the chat.
The comments flood in immediately:
HI REECE!
Bro doesnt deserve Cam.
Why are you guys fake dating when its obvious youre in love?
I hold my breath, eyes scanning the comments and looking for clues:
Try CPK like the video.
Ask security.
Call her maybe????
Bro check Instagram!
And then:
@DareDonut78 I caught her boarding her flight. She was crying :(
My heart stops. DareDonut78, you saw Cam? What flight was she on? Where was she headed?
I wait, each second stretching into eternity, until:
@DareDonut78 Her flight to LA left like 20 mins ago.
LA. Thats helpful. But it means shes gone.
@DareDonut78 She was talking to the gate agent about booking a red eye to New York after LA.
I exhale sharply. Shes not just leaving Hawaii; shes leaving me . Shes going home.
Are you absolutely sure it was New York? I ask, desperation bleeding into every syllable.
@DareDonut78 YES! 100% SURE! Delta. Gate 24. I heard the whole convo!
I wrap up the livestream with a hasty thank you, my mind racing. I spot her plane info on the departure boardif it took off twenty minutes ago, shell touch down at LAX by seven p.m. I might have a tiny window to catch her prior to her boarding for New York. Its slim, but its something.
I need a plane. And then it hits meI know a pilot.
I pull up my contacts, scrolling frantically until I find itCaptain Love. I hit Call , circling anxiously as it rings.
Cupids Cockpit, where love takes flight. Captain Mitchell speaking.
This is Reece Dare. I need to get to LA. Right now. Are you in Maui?
Sorry, I just got off the ground and Im heading back to Cali, he says.
A pause, then a proposition.
But theres no further charters on the schedule. I can turn around, Mr. Dare, but jet fuels expensive.
Hows a hundred grand sound?
Sold! Wow, love must be in the air.
How soon can we leave?
Ill be back, fueled, and ready to go in twenty minutes.
Relief floods me, making my knees weak. Ill be there. With a friend.
The more the merrier, he purrs. Ill be waiting at the private terminal.
Blaze! I shout. Were leaving.
Hes halfway through signing someones forehead with a Sharpie and stops. Like, right now?
Yes. Right fucking now.
Twenty minutes later, we bolt up the stairs to the private jet, skidding to a stop inside the cabin.
Oh, for fucks sake.
This. Fucking. Plane.
The honeymoon jet.
The one with no seats, the single, king-sized bed, and the fresh shower of rose petals resembling a goddamn Valentines explosion.
The romance tray is still there, in all its inappropriate glory, and why the fuck are there even more flavored condoms? Blaze takes one look, and his tiny brain is blown.
Dude. Duuuuude. Is this an orgy plane?
Before I can answer, the cockpit door swings open, revealing the pilot in all his creepy gloryCaptain Mitchell, aka Captain Love. His handlebar mustache has been freshly waxed, the ends curling like villainous whiskers.
Mr. Dare! Welcome back! And you brought a friend! How adventurous!
Were not together, I clarify immediately, throwing Blaze a warning glance.
Blaze, clueless as ever, flops onto the bed and defends our friendship. Hes joking. Me and this guy go deep. Like, weve been going at it since we were kids.
The pilot chuckles. No judgment. Love is love, lust is lust, and my plane has seen it all. He taps his nose knowingly. Theres lots of kinks on my plane, but none that stop her from flying. He whistles.
Can we just focus on getting to LA as fast as humanly possible?
Ah, the urgency of love! He clasps his hands together. Fear not, I can have you in Los Angeles in five hours flat. Weve got tailwinds on our side today.
Get us there before seven p.m., and youll be looking at another hundred grand.
He nods. One quickie coming right up! Buckle up, gentlemen. Well, there arent actually seatbelts, so better hold on to something firm. He winks again before closing the door.
The engines surge with a roar that vibrates through the floor, up my legs, settling in my chest alongside the knot of anxiety thats taken up permanent residence there. The plane lurches forward, beginning its taxi down the runway. Outside the small oval window, Mauis paradise whirs past us, palm trees and mountains giving way to the massive expanse of blue ocean.
This is the life, bro! Blaze gestures at the cabin. No TSA feeling up my junk! A bed instead of those fake chairs that lean, like, two little inches! No wonder you wanna get Cam back on your sex plane!
Its not my sex plane, I growl. The memory of Cam on this same bed a mere two weeks ago slams into meher guarded expression, the way shed held herself so carefully apart from me, how Id deliberately been an asshole and kept my distance.
Now Id give anything to close that distance.
I need more information. I need eyes on the ground. I need help.
My fingers find my phone and once again I press Go Live .
DareSquad. Quick update: were airborne. Should land at LAX around sevenish. I flip the camera to show Blaze, who immediately throws up devil horns and sticks out his tongue.
Im trying to find Cam before she boards her connection to New York. If anyones at LAX tonight and spots her, please let me know which terminal, which gate. Any details at all.
I squint at the scrolling text, searching for actual information among the digital screaming:
OMG I SHIP THIS SO HARD.
FIND HER KING!!!!!
IM CRYING THIS IS SO ROMANTIC.
My sister works for Delta, Ill text her!
Check American terminals first, more red-eyes .
IM LITERALLY AT LAX RIGHT NOW. Ill hang here and wait.
Blaze leans in, his face filling most of the screen. Lets spice up this long plane ride, bros and bro-ettes! He holds up a fistful of foil packets. Who dares me to try these flavored condoms?
He rips open a silver one with his teeth, pulling out a slippery latex circle. He pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Yo. Marshmallow. Like, I could actually snack on these.
This is so disturbing, I mutter. His chaos is somehow comforting in the eye of my emotional storm. And yeah, I end up laughing.
Another rip, another taste.
This one says fried pickles, but I dunno, dudes. He licks then immediately makes a face as if hes swallowed battery acid. Gross! Not pickles. More like piss. Wait, no! Thats cat piss!
Trust me, he knows the difference. I pulled that prank.
The comments are coming in so fast theyre a stream of screaming capital letters and cry-laughing emojis.
Oh, hell no. That is straight-up bacon. He spits it into his hand, shaking his head. Man, if I wore this and some chick started chewing on my dick, honestly, I wouldnt blame her.
As Blaze hijacks the livestream with his increasingly theatrical taste test, my minds back on the problem at hand. Finding Cam.
I wouldve said yes. Her last words play over and over in my headlike a cruel Spotify playlist I cant turn off. Wouldve. Past tense. As in, she would have before I accused her of using me, before I let Gordon fire her, before I failed to defend her against Astrids bullshit smear campaign.
I pull at the scrunchie on my wrist.
What if I cant find her at LAX?
What if shes already on a plane to New York when we land?
What if she sees me coming and deliberately goes the other way?
What if shes made up her mind that Im not worth the heartache?
Worsewhat if shes not just visiting New York, but moving there permanently? Panic floods in. Im gonna be sick. I cant follow her, not with my employees depending on me and a company in the middle of a major overhaul. Im so tied to Los Angeles I might as well be chained to the Hollywood sign.
But without her, none of it matters.
Im so fucking in love with her. Theres a Cam-shaped hole in my chest, and nothing else will ever fill it. Not fame, not money, not success.
Shes it for me. The one.
***
We land five minutes after her plane does.
For one glorious moment, I think I have a shot. That I can make it to her before she leaves for New York. And then the bitter truth bitch-slaps me in the face.
We are at the wrong fucking terminal.
Private jets dont land where commercial flights do. Cam is on the opposite side of LAX, probably the busiest, most aggressively chaotic airport in the world.
Dude. Blaze appears at my shoulder, his breath smelling like the banana condom hes currently chewing like bubblegum. What do we do? Get a car, like an Uber?
LAX sprawls out like an overgrown concrete monsterparking structures and terminals tangle together in a circular maze of roads choked with gridlocked traffic. Blinking red taillights stretch out in a sea of youre screwed as far as the eye can see.
We dont have time to wait for an Uber.
I stop thinking and do the only thing I can.
I run.
I take off, legs pumping, arms driving, every muscle firing in perfect coordination.
Blaze is shouting at me to slow down, sprinting like hell. As soon as he catches up, I toss him my phone. Go live!
OH, SHIT! he yells, hauling ass alongside me, phone in hand, and starts the livestream.
Yo, DareSquad. Check it! My bro, doing the Tom Cruise! Thats sick!
I barely hear him. My heart is slamming. My pulse is a goddamn drum solo. My feet pound the pavement.
Ive never run this hard in my life.
I have to get to her.
I have to tell her Im sorry.
Blaze is behind me, yelling updates from the chat like an auctioneer.
brO! Chat says shes heading to baggage claim. WAIT! A fancy driver had her name on a sign.
Driver? Did she cancel her trip to New York?
I push harder.
Faster.
I round the corner to the main loop of the airport. A massive concrete horseshoe that reeks of jet fuel and car exhaust. Horns blare. Brake lights flare crimson in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
The sidewalks arent any betterexhausted travelers wheeling oversized luggage, families herding children like cats, businesspeople barking into phones, and tourists stopping dead in their tracks to read signs.
I dodge a family of four, nearly taking out the dad pushing a stroller the size of a small refrigerator, and jump over a rogue backpack.
Blaze is struggling. Wheezing. brO He coughs. WAIT UP, IM DYING. CARDIO KILLING ME.
I turn, grab the phone from his sweaty hands, and keep running.
GO GET YOUR GIRL, brO!
I dont look back.
DareSquad, I pant into the livestream, my breath coming in sharp bursts. Where is she?
The chat whizzes past, a blur of words, as my shaking hand struggles to keep the phone steady enough to read:
SOMEONE GIVE THIS MAN A STUNT CONTRACT!
TOM CRUISE IS SWEATING!
WHO ELSE HEARS THE MISSION IMPOSSIBLE SOUNDTRACK PLAYING?
Are those turtles banging on his shirt?
SHE GOT INTO A BLACK SEDAN!
Shes already leaving the airport? Fuck!
My heart plummets into my stomach. Black sedans. Everywhere. Dozens of them.
Every muscle in my body begs for mercy. Every breath feels like inhaling fire. Every step sends shockwaves of pain up my spine.
But I dont stop.
I wont stop.
If Tom Cruise can run with a broken ankle, I can run through this pain. I cant lose her.
My body moves before my brain fully forms the plan. I launch myself into the traffic lane, narrowly avoiding a shuttle bus that lays on its horn, vibrating my skull. The drivers middle finger shoots up, and yeahfair. If I saw me doing this, Id flip me off twice.
CAM! I shout, my voice lost in the cacophony of airport noise. CAMILA!
I peek into one black sedan.
Not her.
I sprint to the next car, slamming my hands against the tinted glass. CAM?
An elderly woman screams.
Sorry!
My body moves on reflex, years of performing stunts taking over as I flip, jump, slide, and weave my way through the crowded pickup area. The phone still clutched in my hand, livestream still rolling.
My eyes dart from window to window, searching for her.
Cam, baby if youre watching this, please stop! My voice cracks with desperation. I know youre upset. You have every right to be. But pleasegive me five minutes. Thats all Im asking. Five minutes to explain!
A horn blares, and I whip around to see a Mustang bearing down on me faster than the surrounding traffic. No time to movemy body makes the split-second decision that would make a stunt coordinator proud. I dive across the hood, my palms slick with sweat as they connect with the warm metal.
Sorry! I slide off, rolling to absorb the impact.
What the hell, man? the driver yells, but Im already gone, parkour-ing my way into the next automotive challenge.
Phones are out. People are filming. A group of tourists are literally cheering.
A guy yells, YO, IS THIS A PRANK OR A MOVIE?
I leap onto a garbage can to get a better view.
And then
I spot her. Sitting in the back seat of a black sedan. Only two cars up.
CAM! I shout, reaching out.
I jump to the ground
And trip over a goddamn suitcase.
WHAM! I hit the pavement hard, my phone flying from my hand, skidding across the sidewalk.
Pain explodes in my knee, my hands scraping raw against the asphalt. Then survival instinct kicks in. I scramble to my feet, head whipping around frantically, searching for my phone.
Crap, youre Reece Dare! says a teenage boy, his eyes wide with recognition. He hands me the still-livestreaming device. Sorry, man.
I snatch it from his hand with a quick nod of thanks, spinning back toward the sedan, only to see it merging onto the exit ramp that leads away from LAX. The brake lights flash once then grow smaller as the car picks up speed, leaving the congested airport loop behind.
Stealing Cam away.
What can I do to help? the kid asks.
You got a car? I pant.
The kid blinks. Dude, Im in middle school.
Right . I scan our surroundings, desperate for anythinganythingthat could help me chase down that car. My eyes land on the kids luggagesleek, hard-shell, and by the shine of it, made of titanium. Oh, hell yes.
I grab it. Can I have this?
Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.
I rip it open, dump his stuff into his arms
Socks. A PlayStation controller. A box of Pop-Tarts.
Then I drop the open, empty suitcase on the pavement, hard-shell side down, slam my feet into it like its a snowboard, and crouch low.
A delivery truck is pulling away from the curb next to me. Do or die time.
I lunge forward, using my legs to propel the suitcase-sled, and grab on to the back of the truck with my free hand. The sudden acceleration nearly rips my arm from its socket as the suitcase catches against the pavement. But I hold on, white-knuckling the trucks metal edge as my impromptu transportation device begins to glide, picking up speed.
Im skitching. Behind a truck. On a suitcase. In the LAX arrivals lane.
Ive done plenty of skitching stunts for the channelhanging on to moving vehicles with bikes, skateboards, even a shopping cart once. But never with a piece of luggage. The metal shell skims over the asphalt, the wheels completely useless in this position but providing just enough structure for the shell not to crack under my weight.
The truck picks up speed, completely unaware that Im a goddamn lunatic surfing behind it. Wind roars past my ears, the rush of speed sending adrenaline surging through my veins like rocket fuel. Sparks fly as the hardshell scrapes against the street.
SKRRRRT! SKRRRRT!
I lift the phone, keeping one hand death-gripped to the truck while the other aims the camera at my face. The livestream is still broadcasting, comments flying in.
Kids, seriously. Dont ever do this. This is the dumbest stunt Ive ever pulled in my life. The suitcase wobbles underneath me, threatening to slip out from under my feet. But you do stupid things when youre in love.
The word hangs in the air like a confession. Love. Not like . Not lust . Love .
The chat is losing it:
SOMEONE STOP THIS MAN.
REECE, YOU ARE GOING TO DIE ON LIVE.
This is so stupidly romantic I dont know if I wanna cry or call 911.
Ahead, I catch sight of the black sedan, its brake lights flashing as traffic slows near the ramp onto the freeway. Im gaining on it. Beneath me, the suitcase is heating up fast against the pavement. A sharp, burning stench fills the air. Somethings about to give.
The sedan signals and starts to change lanes. Shit. Theyre veering off.
Its now or never.
I shove my phone into my mouth, freeing both hands. Summoning every ounce of strength from muscles already pushed beyond their limits
I push off the truck.
The suitcase wobbles beneath me as I shift my weight, navigating toward the sedan like an absolute psycho.
I reach out
My fingers graze the bumper
SCREECH! The car slams the brakes.
I fly forward, crash onto the trunk with a brutal thud, roll once, twice
SLAM! I hit the asphalt hard, like a bag of bricks.
For a moment, I lie there, the world tilting and spinning around me. Every part of my body registers a different complaint, from my scraped palms to my burning thighs to whats gotta be three broken ribs.
Then the car door flies open. Cam bolts out of the back seat.
Ay, Dios mo! Reece! Panic surges in her gaze as she scans my road-rashed body, sprawled across the asphalt. Are you okay? Did you just? A suitcase? What the hell?!
Words are hard right now. Breathing is harder. Moving? Off the table. She drops to her knees beside me, her hands hovering over my body as if shes afraid to touch me in case somethings broken.
I A groan escapes as I struggle to sit up. Lahaina Tom Cruise run got you.
Oh my God, hes brain damaged, she mutters, sliding a warm arm under my shoulders. How many fingers am I holding up? What year is it? Whos the president? Can you feel your extremities? All of them? Even Little Reece?
Despite the severe pain, her touch has my dick trying to raise its hand.
Around us, traffic has ground to a halt. Horns blare an angry symphony. Drivers shout colorful suggestions about where we can relocate ourselves. Pedestrians stop to film the spectacle.
Phone, I manage to wheeze, pointing weakly at my device, which skidded about ten feet away during my spectacular dismount.
Cam grabs it then freezes when her eyes land on the screen. Youre livestreaming this? Seriously? What, the seventy million views of me being publicly humiliated werent enough? Going for an even hundred?
I shake my head, wincing at the movement. Not why Im here, I rasp, reaching for the phone. DareSquad, I croak, execution: six out of ten. Landing: negative twelve. But I found her. Mission accomplished. Wish me luck. Signing off. I hit End , cutting the stream.
Youre bleeding, she says, her voice gentle as she brushes a thumb near a gash on my forehead. And Im pretty sure thats not where your elbow is supposed to bend. You need a hospital.
Not until you hear me out.
If its Ive always wanted to die in traffic, you can save it.
I take a breath so painful I might as well be inhaling broken glass. Im sorry, Cam. Im so fucking sorry I didnt trust you.
Reece
Let me finish. Please. I reach out, catching her fingers between mine. The contact is a defibrillator to my heart, sending a jolt through my system. I pulled the same bullshit I always doshut down, assume the worst, run for the hills. Because thats my go-to move when shit gets real.
She doesnt pull away, which I interpret as promising (or a lack of blood flow) .
Youre nothing like themAstrid, Gordon, all the users and takers. You see me. Not the brand or the bank account, but me. The real me. The one whos terrified of letting anyone close enough to know all my broken parts.
For once, she doesnt shoot back some sarcastic remark.
Cam, I saw the video.
And?
And it was fucking incredible, I say, voice rough. You took my channelmy shallow, look-at-me-jump-off-shit channeland did something real . Something good . And I dont just mean the money raised. I mean, you made people care . You made me care.
She glances down at our joined hands, then back up at me. I was going to ask you to promote my channel, she admits. That part was true. But all that other stuff, Astrid twisted
I know.
No, you dont. She shakes her head. Im not cut out for this. The scrutiny. The comments. The way people picked me apartits like being thrown into a woodchipper.
My chest constricts painfully, and not from the probable broken ribs. Cam
I was so naive, she continues. I thought I could just make my documentaries, and that would be it. But now I get ittheres no separating the content from the creator. Id be signing up for all of it. The hate, the obsession, the constant judgment.
A single tear trails down her cheek, and I softly wipe it away with my thumb. My hand cradles her face, and for a half second, she leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed.
Thats when I notice shes wearing my shirt. The ridiculous rhino one with the animals getting frisky. Memories flood in of that night in the tent when I couldnt hold back my feelings any longer.
Its a sign.
Im an idiot. Two yearstwo freaking yearswith this insanely brilliant, talented woman right in front of me. A heart the size of the fucking Pacific, and what did I do? Pushed her away because I was too scared to admit how much I wanted her.
No more.
Her lips part slightly, her breath catching.
I love you, Camila Morales. Not for what you can do for me or my channel or my fucking brand. I love you because you call me on my crap, you see through my walls, and you make the most obscene noises when I go down on you.
Reece
I love the way you mutter in Spanish when youre pissed. I love knowing when you wear those cargo pants, you mean business. I love that you care more about telling stories that matter than getting famous for it.
Another tear escapes, but this time she doesnt try to hide it.
I understand youre terrified of the influencer life, I continue. But you dont have to do any of it. Not the comments, not the meet-and-greets, not the merch, not the fucking TikTok dances. You can make your documentaries, and Ill build a fortress around you so thick that not even the thirstiest internet trolls can get through.
You cant protect me from the whole world.
Watch me try. The intensity in my voice surprises us both.
The ambulance pulls up alongside us, red and blue lights painting Cams face in alternating colors, like shes caught between two worlds.
How do I know you wont run again? she asks, voice barely above a whisper. The next time you get scared or somebody makes you doubt mewhy should I believe you wont shut me out?
I take her hand and place it over my heart, letting her feel the wild, erratic beat thats all for her.
Because for the first time in my life, I didnt run away from somethingI ran to someone. I flew across an ocean, jumped onto a moving vehicle, and turned myself into a human toboggan in order to reach you. I gesture at the chaos around us, the flashing lights, the stopped traffic, the gathering crowd. This isnt a stunt, Cam. This is me, terrified but showing up anyway. Because losing you would hurt worse than every fall, crash, and burn Ive ever taken on camera combined.
EMTs push through the crowd, medical bags in hand, expressions caught between concern and confusion as they take in the scene.
Sir, we need to check you out, a man says, kneeling beside me. Possible concussion, lacerations
One minute, I reply, not taking my eyes off Cam. Your video the Lahaina fundraiser, already hit two million. The DareSquad showed up in force. They listened to you .
She blinks in surprise. Really?
They saw what I seesomeone who actually cares about others, about causes worth fighting for. I clasp her hand again, pushing off the EMTs attempt to wrap a blood pressure cuff around my arm.
Mr. Dare, please, he says, your injuries
I fired Gordon. Im changing the whole company, the contentall of it. No more empty stunts or superficial bullshit.
Thats good, she says carefully. But thats not why I
I know, I say, cutting her off. Thats not why you should be with me. I dont want you to love me because Im finally doing the right thing. I want you to love me because well, just because.
A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. I do, you know.
Do what?
Love you. She says it simply, like stating a fact about the weather. Ive been fighting it because I thought it would compromise the life I wanted. But it turns out, loving you is what I want.
The EMT sighs loudly.
I want you to help shape whatever comes next, I say, ignoring the growing crowd. Not as my employee or my fake girlfriend, but as my partner. In everything.
Your partner? But then who would you argue with about being the boss?
There she is. My Cam.
Oh, Im definitely still the boss, I tell her, my lips curving into a smirk despite the pain radiating through my body. But Im willing to accept your frequent strongly voiced objections.
How generous of you. But shes smiling now, really smiling.
I reach up, ignoring the EMTs frustrated groan, and slide my hand behind her head, pulling her toward me until our foreheads touch.
Be my girlfriend, Morales. For real this time. No contracts, no cameras, no audience. Just you and me figuring it out together.
Hmm. She pulls slightly away to study my face. I suppose somebody has to keep you from killing yourself.
Is that a yes?
Yes, you reckless YouTube lunatic. She kisses me again, softer this time. I love you too much to let you face the internet alone.
In that case, I announce, loud enough for our audience to hear, I think Im ready for the hospital now.
The crowd erupts in cheers as the EMTs help me onto a stretcher. Cam never lets go of my hand, not when they load me into the ambulance, not when they hook me up to monitors, not even when they start cutting away my shirt.
Gift from Kai? she asks, eyeing the turtles with a smirk. Very on-brand. Nothing screams Im a mature adult in a serious relationship like fornicating reptiles.
Says the woman wearing rhinos going at it.
She looks down, realizing what she has on, and a flush creeps up her neck. Guess were good for each other.
Good? I draw her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. Nah, were fucking great together.
Oh my God, she says, pulling the hot pink scrunchie off my wrist. Did you literally fly across an ocean and almost get killed surfing on luggage only to fuck my tits?
Can you blame me? Theyre perfect fucking tits.
Her smilethat sunshine smile that broke through my wallsis the last thing I see before the pain meds kick in, sending me floating into blissful darkness.
But even then, I dont let go of her hand.
Because Im never letting her go again.