TWENTY-FIVE
Finn
“You ready?”
I hold a hand out to Maeve so she can decide whether to take it before we step out of the car and into public. After the interview with Karli, Maeve and I felt normal—joking, laughing, talking—and I want to hold on to every moment of this.
Maeve takes my hand and grins. “We’re at Fashion Week. With Prada . Holy fuck.”
Seeing her light up and smile wide makes me feel warm and light. I want to kiss her. Instead, I squeeze her hand, and lead her out of the car when the driver opens the door. When we step out of the car, the lights are blinding and people are screaming.
“Maeve! Finn! We love the show!”
The shouts are endless, and we should rush past all of the fans like all the other celebs do, but instead, Maeve stops. She turns com pletely around, so instead of heading inside, she’s facing the fans that are pressing against the barricade. She waves, big and exaggerated, and shouts back to them. “Thank you all for listening! We love you! So fucking much!” She looks up at me. “Do we have to go in?”
I glance at the Prada security guard, who’s already glaring at us. “Who cares? Do whatever you want!”
“Film this!” she yells to Chris, and he pushes past the guard and around the barrier. Maeve turns to the fans and drops my hand to grab her phone from her purse. She holds it up to her mouth like a microphone and the crowd quiets, straining to hear her next words. “It is time, for a little thing I like to call …” I bang my hands on the metal of the barricade in a drumroll, seeing where she’s going with this. “Questions of the Week! Rapid-fire Fashion Week edition.” Maeve sticks her phone toward a random girl. “Go!”
“Ahhhhh. My boyfriend wants a threesome. With another guy. What do I do?”
Maeve holds the mic up to me. “If you’re into it, do it,” I say, my words tumbling over each other as I try to rush them out. “Any reservations, don’t.”
Maeve takes the mic back. “And make sure it’s not in your own bed, and it’s not someone you’ll ever see again. And if you drive them home, they sit in the backseat. Next!”
A girl shoots her hand up in the air, and Maeve thrusts the mic toward her. “My best friend is skipping my birthday to go camping with a guy she’s been on, like, five dates with.”
“Ladies, your friends are who will be there through every relationship. They’re your soulmates, and your partners are guests, at least until you have kids.”
She offers me the mic, and I chime in. “I hope he knows that he’s getting further from the friendship seal of approval with every s’more.”
“Next!” Maeve is exuberant, shoving the mic deeper into the crowd. The security guard starts moving toward her, and I step in between them.
“Who should pay on the first date?”
Maeve is talking before the question is fully out of the girl’s mouth. “Men! Always. When women are making the same amount on the dollar, and there’s no pink tax, and men are doing an equal amount of domestic duties, we’ll reevaluate.”
The security guard is about an inch away from grabbing Maeve’s cell phone. “One more?” I say to Maeve.
“One more!” Maeve yells.
“Are you together?” someone screams.
“And that’s a wrap! See you Sunday for the next episode of Tell Me How You Really Feel !” I grab Maeve’s hand and we run inside, breathless and laughing. The security guard slams the door behind us in a huff, and through the window we watch as he tries to corral the fans who were pressing so hard against the barrier that it moved incrementally closer to us.
“How did they know we were here?” Maeve asks, her eyes shining with adrenaline. She’s a natural at this, the mix of entertainment and advice. I really think it’s her calling.
I shrug. “No idea. But you definitely just made their day.”
“Good,” Maeve says with satisfaction. “In New York we got to see fans of the show all the time, and really interact with them. I kind of miss it.”
In the two years we spent doing the show before the Streamify hiatus, we interacted with fans in a way that no other celebrities do. It horrified my parents and got us into the tabloids and trending social media posts more times than I could count. Because we engaged . When we went out, we’d take shots with fans; at Yankees games we’d join them in the bleeder seats; if we ran into a group of fans on the street, we’d answer their questions, do TikToks with them, join them for lunch. We’re lucky we never got murdered, to be completely honest, but it really was fun. And although we gave sex-and-relationships advice centered on finding the one, the crux of the show was really about how to be a good partner, friend, and person, so most of our fans are genuinely super cool.
“We should do a live event. I bet Streamify would be all over it.”
Maeve raises an eyebrow. “Streamify would vet the people and suck the fun out. It would be like a Bachelor taping, where everyone is a superfan. I want to meet the fans that would never show up to something like that, that we just happen to see out. The ones who just stare at first because they don’t want to be cringe and walk up to us.”
“Then I guess we better start going places.” The reason we haven’t seen anyone is because neither of us has been going much of anywhere since the LA move. We used to do everything together, and in each other’s absence we’ve both been wearing a hole in our respective couches.
“Guess so,” Maeve says, and bumps her shoulder into me. And it feels pretty damn good. I feel a surge of hope that maybe, in a few weeks, I won’t feel the same emptiness I have the past few months, because Maeve and I will be good again.
Both of our outfits are completely over the top. We’re in full denim, Maeve in a bralette-type top and flared jeans, and me in denim cutoffs and a jacket with no shirt. I don’t know if we look good, or completely ridiculous. But at least the clothes are comfortable, even if Maeve’s giant heels look like death traps. She said she would wear anything if she got the bag she wanted, which to my untrained eye looks exactly like her other bags, although this one is Prada.
Now that we’re in the atrium, we’re with all the other guests, and suddenly I see him. Paul Myers. A jolt of anxiety goes through me, and I instinctively try to turn Maeve around, but she’s already seen him. And even worse, he’s seen us too and is heading straight for us.
Maeve looks at me, her eyes wide with horror. “What is he going to do? Kill us and live stream it?”
“I’m sure that’s his wet dream. I don’t know. Why can’t he just avoid us like a normal person?” I wish we weren’t wearing denim anymore, because I think every pore of my body is now sweating.
But when Paul Myers finally gets to us, he just grins and offers his hand. I shake it reluctantly, and I catch Maeve’s hand going to her purse to touch the hand sanitizer I already know is in there. He goes to offer Maeve his hand, but withdraws it as she pretends to fumble with her bag and drink.
“Nice to finally meet,” he says brightly. And it’s jarring, because his tone of voice, even the pitch of his voice, is … it’s different than his on-air voice.
“You hate us,” Maeve says flatly with a sweet—albeit fake—smile. “If you’re here to say something awful, just get it over with.”
“Baby, it’s just show business.”
“Don’t call her ‘baby,’” I growl. I put my arm around Maeve protectively and she leans in just the slightest bit. She sounded so cool and collected when she just spoke, but with my arm around her I can feel that she’s trembling slightly.
Paul Myers laughs. “Relax. You of all people should know that this is just work. Thanks for helping me get the ratings the past few years.”
“You mean you don’t actually hate us?” Maeve asks softly.
“No. We probably aren’t even as far off in our actual beliefs as you think. My Paul Myers Show persona? Sure, he hates you. But it’s acting. Get over it. You’re doing the same thing when you make up all those stories about your dates.”
Maeve and I have never made anything up. What we do is nothing like what he does. We teach fans about healthy sex and relationships—he spreads hate, bigotry, and violence. “You know we’ve been getting death threats from your fans for years, right?”
Paul rolls his eyes. “Grow up. Same here. I just wanted to introduce myself and let you two know—no hard feelings. Your whole bit is great, really. My daughter is your biggest fan.”
Maeve and I just stand there in silence. She’s still trembling slightly, and without another word Paul Myers turns and walks away. “What the fuck …” Maeve whispers. “Did that really just happen? He’s … pretending to hate us? Whipping his fans into a hateful frenzy over us for ratings? But secretly likes the show?”
My brain feels stuck, like it can’t compute what just happened. “I can’t believe he’d tell his fans to send us all those horrible messages just for fun. For money, really, since it’s all for ratings.”
“I don’t know that it’s for the money,” Maeve muses. She drains her drink. “Maybe it’s for the fame. The ego boost from the fans that he doesn’t seem to agree with or respect. He’s using them like sheep to build his throne.”
I take a deep breath. My heart is pounding, even though he didn’t attack us in any way my body is still prepared for some sort of altercation. “I don’t even know what to say right now. Want to get another drink? Repress this and deal with it later?”
“One thousand percent,” Maeve agrees.
After mingling for a while longer we get shepherded to the hall with the runway, and make our way to seats with our name cards. We’ve tried to refocus on the fun and pretend Paul Myers isn’t here and we didn’t just have the conversation. The alcohol definitely helps. Maeve squeals when she realizes that we’re in the front row, albeit off to the side and it’s enough to make me feel excited for something I already know I find boring.
A model walks down the catwalk wearing what looks like a deconstructed umbrella, and while other people around us nod astutely, Maeve’s whispers are hot in my ear. “We call this weather insurance. Because when you have an umbrella, it never rains.” Next, a woman dressed in a hot pink leather trench with felt flowers and forest animals on it walks down. “Beanie baby explosion. They have pink guts.” I swallow a laugh and try to pass it off as a cough. A man in a coat with fuzzy balls as sleeves walks down. “This is giving. I always wanted to be a cheerleader but instead worked at JP .”
This time I can’t hold it back. People down the aisle from us shoot disapproving looks, and now I turn to Maeve. “They’re going to take back the bag if we keep being a nuisance.”
She mimes zipping her lips. It takes roughly three outfits for her to start up again.
The model walks out in only a thong, and a designer runs out and starts spraying on her dress. “The emperor’s new clothes,” Maeve breathes into my ear.
I can’t stifle my snort of a laugh in time, and it cuts through the silence just when they cut the music, so the only sound is the spray of paint. And my stifled snort. A security guard makes a beeline for us, leaning down to whisper as soon as the music is back on. “If you don’t stop, you will be asked to leave.”
Maeve and I nod solemnly. So sorry! she mouths, her eyes wide and angelic, as though she wasn’t the one instigating all this. After he turns to leave, Maeve shifts incrementally, so that her knee is almost touching mine. I think if I wasn’t wearing so much denim I could feel her body heat. After a moment, I let my knee inch closer, until they’re touching, barely. And she doesn’t pull away.
We don’t look at each other for the rest of the show. But our knees stay pressed together.
Chris joins us for the after-party to film, and the evening passes in a blur of good but tiny food, models, laughter, and expensive clothes. By the time we get back to the hotel, my arm is supporting practically all of Maeve’s weight as she hobbles in her heels. I help Maeve into her room, then go to open my door, since I need to move all the stuff we stashed in Maeve’s during the interview back there. But the connecting door flashes red.
“Try the outer one,” Maeve suggests. She takes off a heel and moans in relief. “Next episode: ‘Post-heel Orgasms, a New Frontier.’”
“Gold!” I shout back as I head into the hallway, leaving the deadbolt holding Maeve’s door open just in case, so she won’t have to get up and let me back in. I try the key on my outer door, but nothing happens. I walk back into Maeve’s room and dial the front desk. “Hello! Our key isn’t working on the second room, five twelve?”
“I’m terribly sorry about that, Mr. Sutton. Let me check on that.” I hear the computer typing. “That room is assigned to another guest for the evening. Your team removed the equipment after the recording session and left a note here saying all gear is in your colleague Chris Landry’s room.”
“I see.” I hesitate. I don’t want Maeve thinking I orchestrated this. “Are any other rooms available for this evening?”
“I’m afraid we’re fully booked sir. Again, I apologize for the mistake. Would you like me to inquire at any other hotels for you?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to push any boundaries with Maeve. But it’s already two in the morning. I mute the phone for a moment. “Maeve, they gave our room away and the hotel’s booked. Can I sleep on the floor? Or should I let them book a different hotel?”
Maeve sticks her head out of the bathroom, already in the hotel robe. “What? It’s the middle of the night; don’t book somewhere else. We’ll figure it out.”
I unmute the phone. “No need. Have a good night.
“I can sleep on the couch or floor,” I say quickly once I’ve hung up. “Sorry, they must have thought the second room was just for recording.”
Maeve steps out of the bathroom, her face washed clean. “These couches are barely comfortable enough to sit on. They’re ornamental. You can sleep in the bed if you make a pillow wall.”
“A pillow wall?”
“Yes,” Maeve says primly. “It’s a big bed. Plenty of room for a barricade. I don’t want your sweaty legs near me while I’m getting my beauty sleep.”
We’ve shared a bed more nights than I’ve slept on her floor on the air mattress. But I start grabbing pillows from the various chairs. “On it.”
The next ten minutes, while we take turns using the bathroom and changing, feel charged. We’ve had a great two days. I don’t want this to turn things in the wrong direction. Maeve typically sleeps in some version of a giant T-shirt, but tonight she’s wearing a silk pajama set. It’s almost lingerie-esque, and I try not to look at it for too long.
“The Prada stylist left it for me,” she says awkwardly.
“It’s nice,” I choke out. I put on a full Tell Me How You Really Feel sweat suit so that I’m as covered as possible. I almost ask if I should stay above the sheets, but when Maeve slides into the bed, I follow suit. The wall of pillows looms between us.
“Should I turn the light off?” she says finally. Her voice sounds tense.
“Sure.”
We lie there in the dark, and I can tell from her breathing that she’s not falling asleep. Not even close. And after a while longer, through the pillows, I hear her open her mouth and inhale, as though she’s about to speak. I want to move one, so I can see her face, but I leave them, and instead just turn my head to look at the lace embroidery that I know Maeve is on the other side of. “I only hated you out of self-preservation,” she says softly.
Her words hang there. Only when I’m sure she won’t add anything do I speak. “I won’t give you reason to again.” I don’t know how much to say. This moment is too fragile to risk. Instead of trying to add more, to push when we’re still on the cusp of breaking, I reach my hand up and let it rest on a pillow between us.
Maeve takes it and interlaces her fingers with mine. I’m asleep before I can enjoy feeling her there with me.