33. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
“I’m proud of you,” Carmen says, laid out on my sofa while flipping through video thumbnails on the TV.
“For what, risking jail time?”
Measuring a quarter inch from the fabric raw edge, I mark the first fold in the skirt's hem she asked me to shorten. I gave her the PG-13 rundown of my vehicular escapade with Graham, and I still can’t believe I let him blow me outdoors.
“You threw caution to the wind and lived in the moment. To hell with your fear.”
“Oh, the fear was present, like a voyeur in the back seat.” Pressing the edge in place, I measure another two inches for the second fold.
“Admit you had fun getting your stick shifted in a car,” she says.
“Maybe.”
I won’t deny the moment was as exciting as it was terrifying, though I’ll never regret receiving orgasms from Graham.
And so what if I’ve replayed the scene many times and thought of other daring endeavors I’m willing to attempt.
Like hobbies and interests, fantasies develop and change as we get older.
Riding Graham in the backseat of his SUV, even if it’s parked in the garage, sounds pretty exhilarating to me.
“So, what’s next?” she asks. “Are we packing boxes and calling the movers?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Graham and I need to have big discussions, but I’m waiting until he’s back in California for good.”
Carmen groans. “That’s weeks away.”
“What do you want me to do? He can’t handle any more distractions. The man has no pause button. Once an idea gets in his head, he runs with it. If I even hinted at the thought of moving in with him again, I’d wake up tomorrow in a different bed.”
She doesn’t respond. I’m talking to myself at this point because her sole focus is the TV. After half an hour of hearing the click of the remote, I’m ready to scream at her to pick something to watch. She never can decide which rabbit hole to wander down.
I stick a pin in the floral fabric and pause, second-guessing the thread color I’ve chosen. Fuchsia would pop and complement the flowers, but black would be more subtle.
Carmen clucks her tongue. “Her face has been everywhere lately. Does she have a new movie coming out?”
“Who?”
“Phoebe Lewis.”
The name sounds familiar. I look over my shoulder and frown at the image of a pretty blonde. She’s curvy, with one of those sweet, girl-next-door faces. “Isn’t that Graham’s co-star from his last movie?”
“Yep,” Carmen says, popping the P.
She selects the video of an interview uploaded minutes ago. By thirty seconds in, we’re standing directly in front of the TV, the skirt alterations long forgotten.
“What game is she playing?” Carmen’s fury matches mine.
“I don’t know, but she’ll lose.”
I’m seething on Graham’s behalf. For someone to go on a popular show and imply she once had a relationship with him is a bold move. And a foolish one after the recent debacle with Tatum in San Antonio. Worse, Phoebe’s lies make Graham look bad, like he’s unfaithful.
Not even two weeks ago, Tatum’s man caught the brunt of her fans’ vitriol.
Graham flying to the rescue took the focus off Jake, and the media spun a different story, one of lovers reunited.
If Phoebe Lewis lets people make their own assumptions about her history with Graham, she might as well kiss her reputation and career goodbye.
I plop down on the couch and scroll social media. One particular comment section jerks my stomach all the way to my throat. I must’ve choked on said stomach because Carmen drops next to me and reads over my shoulder.
“Shit,” she whispers.
The Makenzie fandom has wasted no time tearing Phoebe apart online. The body shaming is notably rampant. This is what awaits me and Graham, but for us, the hate will take a darker turn.
Springing to my feet, I pace the length of the apartment and squeeze the side of my neck, nails digging into my skin.
The recent events are reminders that, no matter how long we hide, nothing will change.
He’ll always be in the headlines, and I’ll be on the edge of a nervous breakdown until we’re exposed.
Then what? The online free-for-all will cause me to lose my fucking mind.
“Miguel.” The warning in Carmen’s tone reaches my ears before she steps in my path. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
“Look at what people are saying about her. If I let this go on, we’ll get crucified in the comments. Graham may get off easy, but you know who won’t? Me!” I slap my chest for emphasis. “I don’t want that life.”
Her face crumples with pity because she knows I’m right. “But you want him. You can’t have one without the other.”
If fate was so determined to match me with a celebrity, why did it have to be someone tied to the biggest pop star on the planet?
Tatum’s fans will eat me alive. Their initial outrage will feed the trolls of society, and the conversation will change.
I’ll become a target. They’ll pick me apart, piece by piece, and deem me unworthy.
When Carmen grabs my arms, her stern face is too close to mine for comfort. “Tell him, Miguel.”
“I’m scared,” I whisper, dropping my forehead to her shoulder. “Everything’s been happening so fast, Carmen, like last time. I can’t resist him because I love him too much, but this…” I gesture at the TV.
She hugs me like I might disappear if she lets go. “If you truly believe you can’t survive in his world, that’s fine. Go break the heart of the best man you’ll ever meet. But you have to tell him the truth. Graham deserves to know the problem lies with you, not him.”
I bite my lip to counter the sting in my eyes.
A full confession means I could lose Graham forever.
What if he realizes everything my first boyfriend thought about me was true?
That I’m too much to deal with and not worth the trouble.
All the therapy in the world couldn’t bring me back to a functioning level if Graham ended up hating me for wasting years of his life.
I look at the paused video and the image of Phoebe Lewis smiling.
Does she already regret her decision? Because right now, people despise her.
The irony is I’m not one of them. After the choice she made tonight, she’s likely to spend days, weeks, even months despising herself. And that’s no way to live.