Chapter 8
EIGHT
Emerson
I’ve been waiting three long days for Twila’s response, and I’m on the verge of psychosis.
I went back to posting my regular reaction videos, and while there has been an uptick in views and engagement, people are flooding the comments section with questions about Margarita-Gate .
Yes. The mystery behind that video and who it was meant for has a BingBang-official name.
I need Twila to make a decision so I can post more content before interest completely dies out.
I figured I’d start with some Easter eggs––like the margarita––things people can speculate over but not be able to actually prove it’s her.
Then, when the truth is finally revealed, the hardcore internet sleuths would be able to look back and follow the breadcrumbs.
A necktie that matches a dress she wore in a previous video. Me, holding a flower that’s printed on the label of one of the beauty products Twila posts about. Stuff like that.
But I can’t do anything until she agrees.
“Has Twila given you an answer yet?” Mason asks as he walks into the kitchen where I’ve been staring at the wall for the last five minutes.
It’s like he can read my mind.
“Not yet,” I say on a sigh.
“Dude, just ask her if she’s leaning toward a yes or a no.”
I shake my head. I don’t want to push it. To push her . If she feels pressured, she might reject the idea completely just to be done with it. And I need her to say yes.
“Come out with us tonight,” Mason says, changing the subject. “You need to get out of your head for a while.”
“I don’t know,” I say, hedging.
I don’t want to go out, but even if I did, I’m not sure I should.
It doesn’t happen often, but people do recognize me when I’m out in public.
If someone were to take a picture or a video of me speaking to other women, no matter how innocent the conversation, my viewers would never believe I’ve got a solid crush on Twila.
And if…no, when she says yes, I don’t want there to be any roadblocks.
When I tell Mason as much, he just laughs. “I think you seriously overestimate your level of recognizability.”
“It happens more than you think,” I reply with a shrug. Hell, it happened at the club on Friday night, but Mason didn’t see it because he was on the dancefloor with Stone with a crowd of women around them. Then I add, “Who goes out clubbing on a Wednesday night, anyway?”
“Lots of people,” he says, then rolls his eyes. “Come with us. You can play wingman all night for the rest of us. Plus, if someone does hit on you and a viewer catches it, they’ll also see you brush her off. It’ll only solidify the idea that your heart is elsewhere.”
I still don’t like the idea, but I nod, anyway. I need to get out of the house and stop obsessing over Twila’s answer. Like Mom used to say, a watched pot never boils. It means time drags ass when you’re expecting something to happen.
“Fine, I’ll go.”
“Yes,” Mason says, holding up a fist for me to bump.
I give him what he wants then brush past him so I can go up to my room to get ready. I’m still not loving the idea, but it’s a necessary evil. If I don’t distract myself somehow, I’m going to go insane.
The club is bumping, the people are beautiful, and the drinks are strong.
But all I can do is stand in the corner and stare at my phone, willing Twila to message me back. This little outing did nothing to get my mind off her and our potential agreement, and I really don’t want to be here anymore.
“Hey, there. I’m Bianca.”
I lift my gaze from the screen to give the stranger a brisk nod, then look right back down as I refresh the BingBang app for the umpteenth time in the last hour. I vaguely hear a huff, but I ignore it as the screen refreshes and there’s still no response from Twila.
“Dude.”
I look up and actually focus when I recognize that voice. Ritchie is staring at me with an incredulous expression as he shakes his head.
“What?”
“That girl was smoking hot,” he says.
“What girl?” I ask, looking around to see who he’s talking about.
“The girl you just ignored when she tried to talk to you, E.”
I shrug and shake my head. Sure, I know a woman just introduced herself to me, and I was probably rude as fuck, but I told him and Stone what I told Mason in the kitchen earlier––I have zero interest in picking anyone up or even enjoying a little harmless flirting.
Even if not a single soul in this club knows who I am.
I’m hyper-fixated on this possible collaboration with Twila, and I won’t do anything to fuck it up. If she ever gets back to me and agrees to it, that is.
Sighing, I shove my phone into my pocket and clap Ritchie on the back. “I’m going to take off, man.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m just not feeling it. Tell the twins I said bye, and I’ll order a ride.”
“All right. Fine,” he grumps, and I laugh.
“I’ll see you in the morning…if you sleep at home, that is.”
He grins at the prospect of sleeping elsewhere, then holds up a fist for me to bump.
I knock mine against it, then jerk my chin up in a goodbye before walking away.
I zigzag through the maze of people––this place really is more crowded than I expected for a Wednesday night––and push through the door.
The midnight air is cool after the crush and heat of the club, and I pause to take a few deep breaths.
I order a car, then lean against the building to wait. About thirteen seconds pass before I open the BingBang app to see if Twila has messaged yet.
She hasn’t. Shocker.
I know this is a good idea, and I know it will give us both a boost. Hell, if she says no, I could just propose it to any of the other creators being tagged in Margarita-Gate , and surely, one of them would agree. It could be a hell of a lot easier than all this waiting and fretting over Twila.
But the mere thought of asking someone else just feels wrong. No. This started with her, and it needs to end with her, one way or another.
My phone chimes to alert me that my car is approaching, and I nearly jump out of my skin, thinking it’s Twila reaching out. Jesus. I really am hyper-fixated on her.
A car pulls up, and I greet the driver as he calls out my name. Climbing into the back, I shove my phone into my pocket and attempt to make small talk with the man. To think of something else .
Because, you know, a watched pot never boils.