Page 78 of Chase
It’s not that I’m jealous. I’m very happy for her.
But I instantly know what this means for the next few weeks of my life. The moment somebody sees that she’s dating someone new, all of social media is going to blow up about how she’smoved on before Logan has.
I can write these goddamn headlines in my mind, now.
I tap Charlie on the arm, leaning over to whisper to him. “Is it better to have gossip spreading about me fucking Cait, or about me getting ditched by Cait?”
He glances in front of us, seeing her getting cozy with the new guy. “Oh, you are screwed, Logan.”
I scrub my palms over my face. “How bad could it be?”
He gives me a look. “You know how bad it can be. Want me to kiss you out on the streets so that they have something else to talk about?”
He snorts and I give him a little shove, shaking my head. “I think a lot of people would kill for that, but no.”
Charlie shrugs. “I’d do it. You let me know, bud.”
He’s suppressing a cackle, now, right at a part where the movie is at an emotional scene after a storm. Charlie knows I’ve been with men, but he’s straight and apparently finds it hilarious to think about kissing me for the headlines.
Charlie issomuch better at fame than I am. It’s like he was born for it, and everything that gets published about him just slides off his back.
I’ve been trying to be more like that, too.
But I still don’t like knowing that a Caitlyn-shaped bomb is about to strike online.
I’m at Charlie’s afterparty when I pull out my phone and see an alarming email from my publicist.
L,
Wanted you to find out before the rest of the world does. This just got published on a blog.
We can talk tomorrow, when you’re back in New York.
Attached is a photograph of Caitlyn with that man’s arm around her, posing together at the premiere.
He’s leaning over, pressing a kiss to her cheek… but that’s not the part I’m looking at. In the background,I’min thepicture. I’m standing there staring in a different direction, looking profoundly sad.
It’s completely meme-ready, just as it is.
The picture of a sad, dejected ex-boyfriend, even though I’m nothingcloseto that in real life.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“I just saw the email,” Emily says, coming up by my side with her eyes glued to her phone, too.
The glimmer of blue light from the pool casts its glow up onto us. We’re at Charlie’s penthouse for the afterparty, which is a hyper-modern apartment at the opposite side of Central Park from the Bellwood.
It couldn’t be more different than the Bellwood, too.
Charlie’s penthouse looks like a museum. It spans the top three stories of the building, with multiple glass staircases inside. It’s beautiful, even if it’s not exactly to my taste. Every outer wall of the place is covered in floor-to-ceiling windows that look out at the glittering city, and people are circulating through the rooms.
Charlie tends to invite every actor within a ten-mile radius for his parties.
It’s packed out here on the long poolside deck, as well as inside, so my conversation with Emily doesn’t exactly feel private.
“Why do I look like I’m contemplating death in the picture?” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “I wasn’t even sad. I was just wondering where the bathroom was because I needed to take a piss?—”
“We have to do a little bit of damage control. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but it’s not great. It’ll circulate for weeks, maybe a month. We need to get your face in headlines for some different reason so it’ll die by the time these people open their phones again.”
