[anyways I broke my toe so fun fun]

Hayley finds an odd sense of comfort in Brendon. She holds some comfort in me, but not nearly as much and I understand why. She's texting both of us in a group chat frantically while she's in class, reviewing the directions we left with her for our single low-maintenance pet.

Brendon had bought a hamster a month ago. He said it would make the house look more normal, but I watch it fling its shit out of the cage on a daily basis. It makes me look sane in comparison, not the other way around.

I don't have an irrational fear of airplanes like he does. It bugs him, because he doesn't understand why I don't fear death or plunging to earth at high speeds. I have to fake it each flight for his sake, and he knows it.

He's texting Hayley back with shaking hands. He's tapping his foot against the seat in front of him, and every now and then he adjusts the bands around his wrists that are intended to prevent extreme bouts of motion sickness. They don't work very well, but I don't bring it to his attention.

"Remember that one comedy show we watched on Netflix," he puts his phone down to look at me, "when the guy went to the doctors for a Xanax prescription because he had anxiety or something, and his friend told him to say he gets a little nervous on airplanes?"

I vaguely recall it. The story ended crudely. "Yes."

"Maybe I should invest in a Xanax prescription."

"You're perfectly healthy. You don't go on plane rides often. I don't see a need for them." Maybe I should look into getting Hayley some Xanax. She always seems to be on edge.

Cameras flash from behind. It's an inescapable pain, but it could be worse. I could be photographed for appearing in the century's most gruesome murder spree. I don't mind it, but Brendon does. It makes him incredibly uncomfortable.

He reaches into his carry-on backpack and pulls out two pairs of pitch black sunglasses, one for each of us. He turns around and sneers at the paparazzi before settling back into his original position and resting his head on my shoulder. He doesn't need to pretend as much, because he does love me, but he tends to play it up whenever people are watching us through a lens. I don't understand why, but I don't argue it.

More shutters go off as I press my lips to his hair and wrap my arm around his shoulder. It's a common sign of affection. Plenty of photos of my performance in various forms of the action have circled around the internet. They look normal. It's weird to see them through my eyes.

"I love when the plane gets delayed for three hours." He mutters lowly with a pained smile.

Usually, we would just wait it out and deal with the media buzzing around, but I'm exhausted. I want to get to my seat, and I want to sleep and watch the ground fly by. I grab his hand and tug him to his feet, and in the other I swing my bag over my shoulder and take his as well. "We'll catch another flight. Let's go."

They follow parallel and start hollering the closer we get to the reception desk, asking about movie deals, or why Taylor was spotted leaving my house the other day. I could easily lie and destroy her life, but I won't.

Louder and louder, they test my patience by asking about my destination, how I'm doing, if I've gotten a contract, if the false rumors are truly false. It's irritating, but tolerable. It could be worse.

Brendon grip tightens as one of the interviewers hollers above the others. "Dallon! Do you have any comments on your criminal record surfacing?"

Everyone else joins in and I buy a new set of tickets as fast as humanly possible. The receptionist is too nice, and she invites us to stay in their break room until our flight boards in an hour, and promises to let us on last and in private. Before I can say anything, Brendon accepts the invitation, and we find ourselves in their break room five minutes later.

It's small and on the verge of being considered to be cramped. The countertop holds an old coffee maker, a jar of sweeteners and stir sticks, and a bucket of cups and lids. Their fridge is covered in funky magnets keeping photos from office parties glued to the surface. It's too personal and friendly for my taste.

He pulled his little laptop out of his backpack before we'd even reached the door. He's scrolling through the top news and gossip pages, and sure enough my criminal record is plastered everywhere.

We'd done a good job at hiding it. Nobody had found it throughout my entire career. I knew it would be uncovered eventually, but I didn't think it to be so soon. It doesn't matter, but in a sense it does.

"Shit," he leans in closer to the screen and squints at it, "they've got everything. Didn't miss a single felony we didn't take care of."

Most of them are harmless, like shoplifting or loitering, cheating on state issues tests and trying to hotwire cars. There's a few that stretch to intense fistfights and insulting cops on duty, so really I could be able to disguise that as being in a tough spot emotionally.

Then there's the report of the time I stabbed a classmate with a pair of safety scissors in middle school, the three occasions I was caught dumping mutilated animal carcasses into a garbage bin, and the one time I was arrested for keying someone's motorcycle for no reason in particular. Those are just the best of the worst — they get worse, but they aren't listed because I was never blamed, and because we hacked into the reports and deleted the worst ones. I have a knack for spinning elaborate lies, and the occasional digital destruction.

"I was a troubled kid. It might be best to state that before any wild accusations can be published and get spread."

"But that means you're confirming the fact that you've done this. Do you really want people to know you admit to snapping a high school football player's arm in two at a home game when you were a sophomore? Don't you think that's suspicious at all?!"

I shrugged. I didn't see why people would be upset that I was honest.

"We're not doing that. Trust me."

My phone buzzes. It's Hayley. She sent a link to an article by Daily Mail, one from People, and another from Buzzfeed, all of them about my criminal record. She's surprised at the fact they made a special Snapchat story to discuss it, but I've expected it by now.

I ask her for specific photos, and she sends at least a dozen. There are filters asking for opinions on the matter, multiple stories dedicated to it, subscribed channels creating videos about it, fans posting threads about it on Twitter. It's a mess. The worst part is that I am unable to deny it all, because it's the truth.

Brendon's mumbling to himself, trying to formulate a plan. It crosses my mind for a moment that he should just leave me; expose my psychopathic tendencies, dig up all the animal graves in the yard for the police, confess everything I've done in a sob story to Ellen Degeneres, and move on in remote Iceland. It would be easier for the both of us, but he's in love with me, and he refuses. Emotions are pointless and prohibiting factors of carrying out the most logical option.

He's digging in his bag feverishly and he pulls out a little orange pill bottle. "Take one of these," he shakes one out into my hand, "and make sure they all see you taking it. Complain about it, pretend to choke on it, whatever. It's a pill, so just keep it under your tongue until you can spit it out."

"I don't want your anxiety medication. It's disgusting and I don't have anxiety. Therefore, it is useless. Besides, you have to have a regulated schedule for about a week in order for them to start taking effect. I don't want to be awake at two in the morning trying to calm you down. I need sleep."

He sighs deeply and doesn't speak for a minute, and I start to connect the dots. If I have a pill for anxiety, then it implies I have mental health issues, which I do, but it begins to provide an excuse for my erratic behavior without confirming or denying anything. Brendon assumes an anxiety pill will do the trick, but I know it won't. I don't tell him that, because before I can, he tells me to keep my comments to myself for the time being.

"I know you probably think it's a shitty idea, but it's all we've got right now. We'll pay for WiFi to check the news during the flight, and then we can see if it went over well or not. We will continue on from there." He grabs his backpack and swings it over his shoulder. Then he snatches my free hand quickly and drags me out of the room behind him.

I should look distressed. Distressed, anxious, afraid, and upset that the criminal record leaked. I rub my eyes and scratch my nose so hard it turns red, and I summon the faux tears. The bags under my eyes are ever present, but they stand out and look worse than usual.

Brendon glances back before we return to the hoard of paparazzi to tousle my hair and send it in different directions, like I've been pacing nervously in a panicked state. I look the part, but I have to act the part.

Cameras start to flash again the exact second Brendon takes a step into view, and it's not limited to just the professional ones. Everybody remotely interested in the growing story starts hollering for me to look at them, so I throw a few glances in each direction I see the lights blink, but stare down at my shoes for the most part. It's smart to throw them a bone every once in a while, or so I've been told.

The shutters go off quicker once I pop the pill, phones start ringing, interviewers start speculating. I can hear the theories typed into posts at the speed of light. By the time we're on the plane, they're crowded around the windows, taking photos of the plane and zooming in on our seats.

Brendon slides the window cover down and passes me a napkin. I spit out the pill. "Good performance." He sighs and relaxes for the first genuine time today.

"I'm a good actor." I tell him.

He doesn't agree, but he doesn't disagree. He doesn't respond or move for a minute or two.

"You can't do anything in Michigan."

I turn to see him staring out the window. He refuses to look at me. "I know."

"No, I need you to understand. You can't do anything. If you so much as look at roadkill or stare at somebody weird, we're through, and the yard is spitting up animal corpses, and you're in a mental hospital for being a threat to society. From now until you finish filming, you're acting. Act normal."

He's afraid. I grab his hand but he tenses. He doesn't believe I'll be able to hold the mask for so long.

Affection is a foreign concept, it always has been and it always will, but it's a common craving in normal people. I don't care about it, but he does.

It's all an act as I lean out of my seat to kiss him, and I lift the window block so the cameras can capture it. It takes him a second, but he quickly gives in and reciprocates.

Then he's smiling and bouncing his hands along my sleeve and running his fingers down my cheek and to my jawline. I can't tell if he's faking it or not, but the longer he stays, it becomes obvious he isn't pretending like I am.

I wonder if he's fallen in love with me or my act.