LEIGH

I can smell self-sabotage coming from a mile away.

I'm a master at it. I might as well have gotten a degree in it—not even a bachelor's or a master's. A PhD is where it's at. Therefore, I know that's exactly what Lottie used this morning instead of body wash.

I try not to let it bother me too much, but I'm only human. I can only take so much before I break, and I knew I was bound to shatter. I didn't expect it to be like this or so soon; I thought I still had more fight left in me.

Turns out that hearing her say I might only be in this relationship to prove I can do it, all but confirming my fears that our mutual trust doesn't run as deep as I thought, is nearly enough to break my spirit.

Then I forced myself to at least try to be rational about it. I tried convincing myself of all the cliché things—Lottie is scared. Point blank. She's terrified, and she's starting to second-guess just how ready she is for all this. She's scared on my behalf, but the fear also extends to how this will affect her. No matter how many times I tell her I know what I'm getting myself into, her first instinct is to retreat, thinking she's protecting me.

Under different circumstances—maybe if we were different people—I could be flattered. No one has ever stood up for me like that, but it might be too much. I know she has to be paranoid, much like I know she's doing it for my sake more than hers. But I need to breathe. I need to have some agency.

When she gets scared, she overcompensates. Her overcorrections are catastrophic; by trying to anticipate the potential heartache, she sabotages the whole thing. You can't get hurt if you don't let anyone get close enough to do that to you.

Not even me.

I always forget how lonely it must be to be Lottie Fitzpatrick. It's isolating. Even with all those loving fans, even with a team of people covering more areas of her life that I can name, even while surrounded by industry peers, she's all alone. And the worst part is that she believes that's all that's destined for her—no one could ever keep up. Even if they could, even if they wanted to, she can't let them.

She's scared. She's acting out. She's losing sleep over it. She's not lying when she says everything she does feels like a statement. I just never thought one day I'd be a part of one of them.

I've seen her write something titled Ships in the Night. I went to school. I know what that means. I also know all about artistic liberties and the importance of exploring concepts as catharsis, but I'd be lying if I said this doesn't hurt. It's a knife twisting in my stomach.

It can't be about us. I don't want it to be about us—two people forever fated to miss each other. Parallel lines. Even if it's a brief meeting, we can anchor each other. Right?

There are so many things I want to tell her. I was joking earlier when I asked her to beg, the tone of the situation being so much different from this, but nothing comes out of my mouth. It would only make it worse, but I don't know how to stop what feels like a train wreck waiting to happen.

I do what I do best. I bottle it up, and wait for it to explode like a Molotov cocktail.

It's not giving up. I never give up on things I care about; no matter how hard Lottie tries to fight it, no matter how much she tries to argue with me, that's non-negotiable.

My words to her from a while back return to haunt me, just like I knew they would.

You look like the type of girl that will break my heart.

I don't beg. Not anymore. The past few years of my life were all about that—begging people for second chances, begging investors to believe in me and the camp's potential, begging my family to trust that I can handle running the camp, begging the school board for more funds for my kids—and I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired.

There's only so much fighting I can do. Even if I grit my teeth and go after what I want the old-fashioned way, clawing my way up, it's exhausting. For once, I'd like things to go my way because fate wants it.

As we head out of the restaurant, I reach out for Lottie's hand. She doesn't shrug it off or dodge, which I'm counting as a win. She takes it instantly, glancing back at me with regret-filled eyes, and it's the last thing I see before my world is engulfed in flashes of blinding light.

We're outside in broad daylight. The sun is shining; the birds are singing, and I can't see a thing in front of me. The warm summer air kisses my skin like a punch. I feel boxed in.

A pack of hounds barks and howls. Scissors snip the air. We might as well have walked straight into a lightning storm.

I'm underwater. I'm drowning on dry land.

My chest is so tight I can't breathe; the only thing I'm certain of is the soft pressure of Lottie's hand in mine, especially when she tightens the hold on me. She steps in front of me to shield me from the bright light. I don't understand.

"Charlotte," I breathe out. "What—"

It's only when I utter her name that I realize there's no barking or howling. These are people—they're behaving like animals, but they're still human. They're shouting her name, a cacophony of LOTTIE LOTTIE LOTTIE, and camera flashes surround us.

I see the shift in Lottie's demeanor almost instantly. Since she's still holding my hand and carrying her bike helmet with the other, she uses it to hide her face, lowering her head. My fingers are trapped in her grip, so tight it nearly cuts off my circulation.

This is hell. It must be. Who in their right mind enjoys this? Who wants this?

Lottie is in charge now. This is her playground. This is her war-zone.

Trying to push past the crowd of photographers and screaming fans is near impossible. When I try to walk faster to help clear the way, she blocks me, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. I gulp, forcing myself to slow my pace again, even though it goes against every instinct in me.

This isn't the girl who sang Joni Mitchell directly to me during open mic night. This isn't the girl who let me braid her hair. This isn't the girl who left gentle kisses on the hollow of my throat. This isn't the girl with a gentle, warm, inviting smile.

This is the brand. This is the HBIC. This is the woman protecting a business. And I'm a part of it.

"Get the fuck out of my way," a voice bellows. Lottie reacts faster than I can blink, turning to face the source, and somehow I find Luca elbowing people aside. Some of them complain, like they don't know who they're talking to, but he easily towers over everyone. With legs that long, he gets to us in a fraction of a second. "Come on, come on. Head down."

"Get her out," Lottie begs him, all but handing me to him. I don't need to be manhandled, not when it's not me who attracted this crowd or who is in danger of being pulled away. "I can handle it."

"Babe, no offense, but don't be dense. We have to—I swear to fucking God, get that camera out of my face."

"I can run," I say. "I'll run towards the car. I'm athletic."

"Let me think—"

"It'll be worse," Lottie chimes in. "They'll think—"

"Lottie, I don't care what they think," I tell her. "I'm with you. They can suck it, and we can figure out what to do later once we're out of here. Right now, I don't think we're in a position to make demands. If you stay, they'll eat you alive. It's exactly what they want."

"Mean lady is right," Luca supports. Warms my fucking heart. "But you can't make demands. I can. And I will. Darling, you point that thing at her again, and I will break it," he tells an aggressive paparazzo holding an obscenely big camera. "We'll make a run for it. Be prepared."

Luca keeps an arm around Lottie, tugging her close to him, and she ducks her head, nearly tucking it under his chin. It's an awkward train of three, me being dragged behind them like a stubborn dog on a leash, and I try not to look up. If I'm blinded or if they glimpse at my face—what I think Lottie is trying to prevent—I might ruin Luca's escape plan.

I don't know how these people found out Lottie was here. I'm not sure whether her presence in Evermere is still a secret or not, but they knew exactly where and when to find her, and they came armed with cameras, phones, and microphones. And according to her, this is nothing compared to her life out there.

Her real life. The one she's so hesitant to let me be a part of. Like I'm only good enough when she's on a break.

Luca's free arm is bent ahead of him, at a perfect ninety-degree angle, and he's so big he can help keep a somewhat safe distance between Lottie and the crowd. I'm blinking away tears by the time he tells her to sprint towards the getaway car.

She obeys, nearly pulling my arm out of my socket, and everything is a blur.

Racing against the proverbial clock. Slipping inside a car with tinted windows. Slamming the door shut. Nearly falling on top of her, my hip colliding against hers before she steadies me. Flashes of light surrounding us even now.

Horror spreads across my chest as I realize that just because they can't see inside the car, it doesn't mean they won't try to. Some of them even try to step in front of the vehicle, despite the police ushering them to move out of the way.

I've never seen so many cops in one place at once. Not here, at least. Evermere is supposed to be safe.

Blessed be Luca. I don't know how he got here so quickly or how he knew where he had to be, but he's the reason Lottie is unharmed. Shaken, frazzled, but unharmed.

Her fingers are still laced with mine, grip so strong her knuckles are bone white. She exhales through her mouth—one deep breath, then two—and I try to use this moment to quiet my racing heart.

I focus on what matters.

Five things I can see: Lottie's freckled knees; her thin golden ring; Luca's helix piercing glimmering with the sunlight; the road ahead, his hands firmly clenched around the steering wheel.

Four things I can touch: Lottie's hand; Lottie's hip; the faux leather seat underneath me; the cool window to my right.

Three things I can hear: Luca's French profanities; the bubblegum pop song playing on the radio; Lottie's heavy breathing.

Two things I can smell: Lottie's body wash (coconut, chocolate, and vanilla); Luca's sunscreen.

One thing I can see: my girlfriend.

"I'm so sorry," Lottie whispers. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"I'm fine," I whisper back. "I'm okay."

"You're shaking." She raises our hands, holding my wrist. Now that my fingers are no longer intertwined with hers, they're vibrating. I blame it on adrenaline. "Leigh, I'm so, so sorry."

"I'm fine," I whisper back. "I'm okay."

"You're shaking." She raises our hands, holding my wrist. Now that my fingers are no longer intertwined with hers, they're vibrating. I blame it on adrenaline. "Leigh, I'm so, so sorry." Luca heaves the wheel with a huff, but she ignores him. "I should have been more careful. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

"That was not your fault. You didn't call the paparazzi on yourself." I know some celebrities do, either for good or bad publicity. Pap walks are a thing. But Lottie wouldn't. Not here. Not now. "So it leaked. What I don't understand is what took people so long. And how did you get here in record time?"

"This is my job," Luca retorts, "and I have alerts on my phone. I know what to look for and which online communities to be a part of."

"Wait, wait, wait. You're on stan Twitter?" He doesn't answer. Out of everything that has happened today, this discovery might be the wildest. "Okay . . . wow. That was unexpected."

"People figured out about Cape Cod a while ago, but it was mostly kept under wraps. I knew people were swarming random places, paparazzi want the inside scoop, the first photo . . ." The look of sheer betrayal Lottie throws him shatters me. Wasn't she supposed to be informed of this? Even if he was just trying to protect her, keeping her in the dark has only harmed her more than the alternative. "Someone from the camp posted a photo where you can see Lottie—something harmless, I hope—and it got recognized. Then, you went out to the restaurant, people already knew you were here, and . . . yeah."

"There was a group of teenagers there," I continue. "They kept staring at us. They had phones."

"Of course they had phones. They're teenagers."

Lottie groans, leaning the back of her head against the seat. "You could have told me. You should have told me."

"If I thought it was a big security risk, I would have. This was contained. Something small would only stress you out—"

"Dude," I chime in, "you can't be serious. Did you not see what happened back there? It could have gone so much worse. Lottie could have gotten hurt. That's your job. You can't minimize anything."

"Don't you dare tell me how to do my job."

"I wouldn't have to if you were doing it! You were so stressed out over a motorcycle, but people stalking Lottie's location in real time wasn't a big deal because she could be anywhere in Cape Cod? I don't care if she knew about it and didn't want to think or care about it; I care that you would place hurt feelings in front of someone's security."

I'm playing with fire. I'm not stupid enough to think otherwise.

But this was a taste of what life is going to be like. I'll be in Boston, Lottie will, presumably, stay in Los Angeles, and we'll meet sometimes. As often as possible, until things fizzle out, because I always ruin things. I can't stay in a relationship. And when we're together, we'll be hounded.

I try to find some reassurance in the thought that Luca will be there for that. There will be extra security. Not a move will go by unplanned. It has to be that way—it's the only way Lottie's life can be minimally manageable. I don't want to settle from crumbs, but if that's all I can get from her . . .

"I fucked up," Luca admits. If he could lower his head, he would. But he's driving. He can't endanger Lottie's safety twice in one day. "I know that. And I'm sorry."

"Sorry won't cut it! We're lucky this was all it was. Paparazzi and fans outside of a restaurant. What if it had been more serious, or a credible threat?"

"Leigh," Lottie murmurs, "it's—"

"No! This is not fine! This could have been avoided!"

"Not forever!" she argues. It's the first time she's ever raised her voice at me, and she's not screaming. My volume is higher. "You can't hide forever. Not when you're someone like me. Not when—you heard Luca. Everyone wanted to be the first to find me. They'd work harder than they usually do. And they did. It was an accidental photo—"

I raise my hand, then turn back to Luca. "Who did it? Who posted the photo?"

Luca is still pissed at me, but not enough to keep things a secret. Lottie's safety is on the line.

"Olly."

☀︎༄.°

oh olly. now you've done fucked up