A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Chameleon13. Thank you for all of your support and help! <3

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Shortly after Sophie and Richard walked the red carpet together for the first time, the internet came to life with an excited buzz. Were they talking again? Were they dating? Since when? Everyone seemed to want to know. Reporters asked, of course, but the two actors just smiled coyly and looked at each other with what could’ve passed for love in their eyes.

At the next event that the golden couple was spotted at, Richard took it upon himself to plant a kiss on Sophie’s forehead, right in front of the gaggle of photographers that had been watching and waiting for them to arrive. To his credit, the stunt caused three social media sites to crash as frantic fans shared the photos with their friends. The whole charade made me want to scream but what could I do? In a fit of frustration, I thought about leaking the truth to someone but I knew there was only one person I’d really hurt by doing that - maybe two, if Michael couldn’t talk his way out of it. 

To add salt to the wound, in the weeks that followed the infamous forehead kiss, Sophie’s face seemed to show up on every celebrity news segment, blog, billboard, and tabloid cover in America; Michael's plan had worked perfectly. Between the paparazzi that camped out in front of her spin class and the fans that uploaded pictures of her jogging around Beverly Hills, I couldn’t turn on my computer without coming face-to-face with the same girl that I couldn’t stop thinking about. The frenzy for Sophie reached such a feverish pitch that it became harder and harder to believe that she was the same person who’d spent Christmas with my family.

Truthfully, it wasn’t until she’d started ignoring my text messages that I'd even realized just how much I really liked her. Now, every time Sophie’s smile flashed across my television screen, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that, had I figured it out sooner, maybe the conversation at my apartment would have gone differently--not maybe, definitely. It definitely would've gone differently.

As far as I could tell, the only good thing about the situation was that I could deal with my unhappiness in private but Sophie… Sophie didn't seem to be handling her regained fame, or the stress that came with it, very well. She’d always been slim, there was no doubt about that, but it seemed like she grew thinner with each passing day. In photos, her face looked drawn, eyes rimmed with shadowy bags, and her shoulder blades looked like they were sharp enough to cut through diamonds. Michael’s phone rang every time Sophie went to a photo shoot and there was always an annoyed photographer on the other end of the line complaining that Sophie was drowning in the sample size clothing that had been brought for her to wear. Between her haggard appearance and frequent late nights out at clubs, it didn’t take long before the gossip rags began speculating that she was using drugs again.  

Unfortunately for Sophie, the support that came along with being linked to Richard brought just as many critics. Soon after the rumors began, the same reporters who’d cutely nicknamed the pair “Richie” began wondering what kind of influence Sophie really was on the seemingly cleancut actor. Paparazzi began hounding her on walks, in parking lots, and on the red carpet. The questions they shouted at her became increasingly cruel but, somehow, she kept holding Richard’s hand in public and smiling.

I wondered how long she could last before she cracked.

“What's going on with her?” Michael demanded, storming into my office late one afternoon.

I’d been bouncing a rubber band ball along the length of my desk when he slapped yet another tabloid article about Sophie down in front of me. He stood with his hands on his hips and I could almost see smoke curling out from his ears. I glanced at the picture. According to the bolded caption, Sophie had fallen asleep barefoot inside a VIP club in Palm Beach before being carried out by two bouncers. I turned the magazine over. The image had brought a wave of stinging bile to the back of my throat.

“Dunno,” I said, bringing my rubber band creation to a halt.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I mean, I don’t know.” I rested my chin on my fist, avoiding Michael’s accusing stare. “We don’t talk anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Dunno,” I said again, hoping that he would leave it at that. “We just don’t. And, anyway, weren’t you complaining not too long ago that Sophie had gotten boring? At least no one can say that anymore.”

“There’s a pretty thick line between boring and this, don’t you think?” Michael studied me from beneath raised eyebrows. “What happened between you two?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

“Something happened.”

“We had a fight.”

“What about?”

“Nothing.” Michael gave me a withering look. I cleared my throat and added, “Nothing important.”

“It must be pretty important if you two aren’t talking.”

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. The more Michael probed, the angrier I felt with myself. “I screwed up, okay?”

“Does your screw up have anything to do with why you’ve been moping around for the past two weeks?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, I am worried about it because you’re my friend and you look worse than when your dog died. What’s going on?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I snapped, rolling up the tabloid and pushing it away. “Just drop it.”

Michael looked taken aback but he nodded all the same. “Yeah, sure.” He paused and then added, “But if you two decide to start talking again, tell her to eat a sandwich. She looks like hell.”

“Will do.”

“And tell her to rein in the clubbing. I can only run damage control for so long before the producers start calling for a cast change.”

“They wouldn’t do that, would they?” I asked, surprised. “The shoot starts in, like, fifteen days.”

“They could always postpone it.”

“That would cost a fortune.”

“But slightly less than a fully-produced movie that flops when it hits the theaters. I'm sure they'd rather wait and lose some money than go ahead and lose tons.”

He had a point. “What have you been telling everyone?”

“The usual PR spiel, that she’s stressed because of her schedule and she picked up a stomach bug while traveling. Thought it at least explained the sudden weight loss.”

I scoffed. “Sounds like bull.”

“I mean, it is, look at her.” Michael unfurled the magazine and tapped the picture of her sprawled out unconscious on the club’s purple loveseat. Her eyes were shut and I was sure I could make out a line of drool on her chin. “She’s an absolute train wreck, Parker.”

“I know.”

“Then tell her to get a grip.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve already told you that she’s not talking to me.”

“What’d you do? Tell her that her roots were showing?”

I sighed. Maybe telling Michael the truth wasn’t a bad idea. At the very least, he’d give me an honest opinion - maybe even some advice as to what I should do next. “Sophie told me that she, uh, that she likes me.”

Michael blinked, the words clearly not having sunk in. “Say what?”

“She told me she likes me,” I repeated.

I couldn’t tell if the expression on Michael’s face was one of shock or glee. “No way.”

“I’m serious.”

“And?”

“I told her I didn’t want a girlfriend.”

Michael stared at me like I’d sprouted two extra heads, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. When he found his voice again, he said, “Are you kidding me?”

“No, man, I’m serious.”

“You’re definitely screwing with me.”

“I’m not,” I promised.

“Sophie actually likes you.” Michael shook his head, obviously struggling to believe what he was saying. "And you turned her down?"

I nodded and Michael glanced over his shoulder, staring out into the hallway as someone walked by. Once the sound of footsteps had faded and he was sure the coast was clear, Michael snatched up my rubber band ball and pelted it at me. I grunted as it bounced off my chest and rolled under a filing cabinet where I knew it would come to rest in cobweb infested darkness. I felt a twitch of sadness that I'd never see my handmade source of entertainment again and I rubbed the spot where I’d been hit, wincing when I found that it already felt tender to touch.

“What the hell, Michael?”

“What the hell is right. What the hell did I come in here for the other day, huh? To ask you if something was going on between you two, remember?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “And nothing’s going on. It’s not a big deal.”

“Dude, shut up. You’re miserable, she’s miserable, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid.”

“I told you, I only want what’s best for her, alright? She doesn’t need me.”

“She doesn’t need Richard either!” Michael exclaimed, pacing the short length of the room. “There were other ways to link them together, that’s why I asked you to be honest with me. This was just the easiest option.”

I thought about that for a moment while my heart shattered into painful shards. “What about HR?” I asked finally, annoyed by the implication of his words. “Do you think they’d be happy if they thought Sophie and I were seeing each other?”

“You’re an intern, Parker, not the firm’s director. I can’t date clients because I'm directly responsible for getting them jobs but you--you bring them coffee. Okay? There’s a big difference there. Obviously you wouldn't want to flaunt it in front of people in the office but you’d have more trouble if you started dating Melanie, believe me.”

“So it would’ve been fine?”

“Well,” Michael hesitated, scrunching up his face in contemplation. “I mean, it’s sort of a grey area seeing as it doesn't exactly happen very often but I could’ve at least helped you try to get around any issues that came up, if you’d asked. It's not like anyone would've ever needed to know and I certainly wouldn't have ratted you out.”

I gingerly rubbed the bruise that was forming beneath my shirt and sighed. “Great.”

“God, what a mess.” Michael rolled up his shirt sleeves with crisp, neat folds before glancing at his watch. “I need to go make some calls. Try to get in touch with Sophie and sort out whatever screwed up drama you two have going on, okay? I don’t have time to play matchmaker for you morons.”

I didn’t say anything and he turned to leave. “By the way,” he said, pointing at the wall. “Your clock’s ten minutes fast. Don’t try to leave early.”

I rubbed my temples furiously once he was gone, trying to make sense of the conversation and everything that had gone wrong in the past few weeks. If everything that Michael said was true, then that meant I’d ruined my chance with Sophie for really no reason at all. The thought of that alone made me want to crawl into a hole and die. I reached into my back pocket for my phone, suddenly overcome with a mixture of regret and a burning desire to talk to Sophie. I knew there was probably no point in texting her but I had to try anyway.

I stared at the illuminated screen, racking my brain. The blinking cursor line in the empty message box seemed like it was mocking me and, for once, the constant rush of thoughts that usually raced around my head turned to white noise. What great timing. What could I say? Type, delete, type, delete, and repeat. Nothing sounded right. I turned my phone off and on, willing some brilliant apology to appear when the device flickered back to life.

Nothing did.

I groaned aloud. Obviously I wasn’t going to come up with anything more than the standard, Hey, how are you, and while that certainly didn’t seem like the winning line, at that point there was really nothing to lose by pushing SEND. I watched the text join dozens of other unanswered messages and my stomach twisted painfully while I waited, hoping that Sophie would respond.

Forty minutes later, I was sure I had the start of an ulcer forming but not a single incoming text. I blasted country music on my drive home, trying to drown out my regret with the sounds of sad, southern crooners. It didn't work; by the time I'd reached my apartment's carport, I felt worse than ever. 

It was almost insane how badly I wanted to hear from Sophie and I checked my phone obsessively while I ate dinner and again before I went to sleep. Nothing. I woke up the next morning with a nervous lump in my throat, hoping that maybe - just maybe - she’d decided to respond, but, to my sinking dismay, she hadn't.

Big surprise.

No texts at lunchtime and nothing when I got home from work. Nothing as I forced myself to edit my script and nothing when I gave up on that and turned on my TV. I must have fallen asleep during the crime drama marathon that I’d been watching because I jolted awake at the sound of an incoming text message. I fumbled for my phone, crossing my fingers… But no, it was just a message from Scott.

Yo, dude, where’ve you been?

I sighed and tossed the phone to the side without replying. I knew that I’d been a pretty terrible friend to Scott since getting back from Massachusetts -- hell, I’d spent more time with Michael than my best friend in the past month. Even though he would never say anything, I knew that had to piss off Scott more than he let on. I also knew that he didn’t understand why I couldn’t hang out at the frat house on Wednesday nights, drinking until 2 A.M., or why I felt awkward about going to the house’s parties on the weekends. I may have technically still been a student but for all intents and purposes, I’d become a stranger to the people I’d called my brothers just a few months before. No, I felt bad for blowing Scott off but, with everything going on, I knew I wouldn’t be great company anyway. I promised myself that I’d call him soon, though, maybe meet him for a beer over the weekend.    

I closed my eyes. Maybe she really meant it when she said she never wanted to talk to me again. The thought was definitely sobering. I missed Sophie--really missed her, more than I missed my life at school, my friends, anything. I missed the awkward tension between us and her witty one-liners. I missed the fact that she never missed an opportunity to land a zinger, even when it came solely at my expense. I even missed how nice her hair always smelled.

I looked at my phone one last time before giving up and turning it off completely. Climbing into bed, I had to wonder: how had I managed to take something so great and turn it into nothing?