[ihop sucks at coffee their milk is sour and they doNT EVEN K N O W]

Before the plane lands, the articles are published and circulating like blood through a body. They're split on whether or not I'm insane or just troubled, but they all agree I'm past that phase in my life. I'm glad they don't comprehend that the phase is my life in a permanent phrase.

Brendon breathes a sigh of relief. He's reading over my shoulder and releases his iron grip on my bicep to bury his face in his hands as soon as the positive title from Daily Mail pops on the screen. He finally relaxes for the first time in hours.

"Our favorite movie star has his troubles, but we love him just as much. In fact," I continue even though I think the opening paragraph makes no sense, "it seems like he fits his upcoming role better than we ever could have imagined. Just an hour ago, Taylor Swift revealed in an exclusive interview that she's playing one of two lead characters in a new flick, Graveyard Blues, based off the best selling novel by Joshua Tyler. Can you guess who her costar is yet?"

Brendon looks up as soon as I finish reading that section, blatantly confused. "In an exclusive interview? I thought she wasn't supposed to tell anyone."

"Publicity. There is no point in hiding anymore, and the attention I have gathered should boost movie views significantly." It's a smart move on her part.

I keep reading aloud. "Following the leak of his hidden criminal records a few hours ago, Weekes was spotted at LAX on a flight to Michigan to begin filming. His childhood friend and official boyfriend for four years now was seen leading him to the plane while he pops a prescription pill for anxiety."

I scroll down to see the photos they attached. They showcase Brendon's pill perfectly. The caption analyses the type of medication it is, and they're right.

"They were later seen locked in a heated PDA session as they waited for passengers to board their flight, as close as ever. If anything, this lets every fan take a breath. Weekes's troubled past is truly the past, and he doesn't seem to be going anywhere but the big screen."

They added zoomed-in pictures of us in the window of the plane. They're blurry and low quality shots, but they get the point across. I look normal.

🔪

The location set for Graveyard Blues is different. It takes place in a remote hotel in the middle of nowhere, so that is where we stay. Our trailers are replaced with rooms, and the equipment is stored in its usual box outside.

The owners are ecstatic that we arrived. They were instructed to keep everything private and they had, so Taylor and I pose for photos with each of them, and the team gives them a large poster we signed to hang in the lobby.

I look dead in the pictures they print out from Polaroid cameras and tack to the walls immediately. They write it off as jet lag and lack of sleep over the last few days, so I play along with it. There's no point in not doing so.

Taylor is almost too excited. She's chatting with everyone and signing anything and everything for them, holding two kids in her arms, trading bracelets with a little girl. She's sitting on her knees to speak at the same level as the parade of children gathering around her legs for comforting hugs.

Brendon stands on the outskirts of the crowd with me. He's watching silently, but smiling all the same. He holds my hand loosely and fidgets with the plastic button on his suitcase handle in the other.

That's what he wants. He wants someone like Taylor, who's affectionate and bubbly, someone who loves attention and socializing as much as he does. He's fallen in love with the polar opposite.

I don't explicitly hate anybody in the room, but I could see myself doing it. I could see myself washing blood off my hands and down the drain, throwing away plastic coverings holding guts torn out of their proper spots. Tossing body bits into the fireplace in the lobby, burying the knife in the back underneath the large oak. They'd be sitting on the couch and I'd come from behind and end it in one slice so they didn't feel a thing, and I'd hide the body in plain sight, mourn and fake crippling fear for the police reports, express grief and terror on social media. Nobody would know. I wouldn't leave anything behind.

At that moment I decide I'm through with little animals. I have been for a while, but for Brendon's sake I stick to them. My criminal record is out, it's only a matter of time before people begin to realize it's all a performance. I should hang on to the urge and run with it. It would be so much more than simply worth it.

I can lie, I can hide. I can run, and I can finish the job. I'm far from inexperienced. It'll be so easy. If I do get caught, it'll be absolutely worth it to have felt warm blood drip down my hands and —

"Are you alright?" Brendon's concerned. Everyone is gathering their belongings and starting upstairs towards their respective rooms.

I nod. "Level four."

I watch his face pale. In an instant, he's dragging me up the stairs and fumbling for the key in his hand, and he doesn't stop running until he's shoving me into our room and struggling with the lock on the door.

In middle school, he created a scale to rank the severity of the violent and suppressed outbursts. They all usually fell between two and three and were resolved with either small to medium sized animals. Level one didn't count, because he was always at level one too. That one was 'I'm going to push you off a cliff and laugh' — harmless.

The first level four was in the eighth grade. He didn't understand how to handle it and neither did I, but that week, two kids were found dead in their beds. I had done such a good job, everyone on the case was unable to track the murders back to me. Nobody suspected a thing. Alarm system installation peaked after that from nobody to everybody.

Level five would be disastrous. I didn't know what that entailed, but I was told it would be horrible and newsworthy.

Brendon closes the blinds and locks the door, peering out the peephole to ensure we are alone. When he's sure, he turns around and all hell breaks loose. He's screaming at me and yelling, pacing around the room and tugging at his hair. His face grows red the louder he gets, and at some point he starts to unbutton his shirt because it's too hot for him to stand.

I don't listen. I sit there and I watch. That's what people do when they're angry. I haven't been able to observe too often, but now I definitely know how to act when I should be upset.

"... are you even listening to me?" He stands right in front of me, arms crossed.

"No."

Exasperated, he collapses back on the king sized bed. He doesn't move, and he doesn't look at me when I lay down next to him. He just stares at the ceiling.

"I don't know," he whispers, "I don't know why I love you. I really don't."

I know why, but I don't tell him. He's always been alone. I was his only genuine friend, and in a way I still am. I took him with me to fame and fortune instead of leaving him behind in the dust like everyone else had. He liked being able to flaunt someone like me to everyone that had told him he wasn't good enough, and in the process he convinced himself he loved me instead of the benefits that followed.

"I don't know either, but it sure is nice, isn't it?" I prop myself up on my elbow and he rolls over so he doesn't have to look at me. "Hey. I love you."

"Hey. No you don't. You don't have to act around me, okay? Quit it. Go find a squirrel or something to kill."

I reach for his arm but he flinches and rolls away. There's fear in his eyes as he stares at me like I've tried to kill him. In a sense, I have.

"Don't touch me," he hisses, "go read your script."

It's useless to convince him I'm okay for the time being, so I sit up and grab my copy of the script from the television stand. The writers have already highlighted my lines and actions for me.

Brendon sits across the room under a lamp. He's reading his own copy of the original book Graveyard Blues. I heard it was good, but I was never interested in reading it. It's supposedly the next Harry Potter, and I am supposed to be honored to play the part of one of two main characters. For the most part, our names match the story — Dallas Parsons and Taylor Winchester. It seems like a coincidence.

I get a text from Hayley. She wants to call us to chat. I wander over to Brendon and hand him the phone. He glares at me but dials her number anyways and pretends like he's afraid of what I can do.

"First things first," she's yelling into her end of the line, "I passed my English exam, so thanks for helping me study."

Brendon smiles. "I'm glad. I told you that you'd be able to do it."

"You're right, you're right. Anyways, I wanted to call for another reason. So, someone's pet rabbit went missing the other day and they live around you guys, and I'm pretty sure I watched someone bury a little bunny corpse the other day. They're looking for it pretty intensely."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "It was a genuine accident. It ran across the road at night and I was the one that hit it. If you see them, tell them. We can reimburse for the pet."

"Ah. I was worried for a minute. Alright. That was it, actually. Your hamster is doing good but he's an asshole. Send pictures of the set and everything because I really want to see it."

"We will—"

"And tell Taylor I love her and that she's doing fantastic."

"We will. See you later, Hayley."