Page 65 of The Catch

Ames: And because you want to show off. You like the edits your fans make online, be honest

Saint: Have you been checking out those edits, Amy? Be honest.

I snort. Of course I have. Before bed sometimes, just to check what people say about him. Alone in the dark, I can watch Evie's video of him jumping the rope and study it in detail, unafraid of what my face might show despite my best intentions. If the algorithm starts feeding me more and more videos of him dancing, or collections of him in his best outfits, I cannot be blamed.

Ames: I think the app geolocated me somehow and thinks I'm a fan.

He sends me a picture of him grinning. It triggers a small heart malfunction that I ignore.

Saint: You're funny. I know how those algos work. Your eyes linger, don't they?

Ames: Only because I'm trying to figure out if that's what it looks like when you're showing off.

Saint: Tell me you like it and I'll send you a selfie of what I'm wearing right now. As a reward.

Ames: So cocky. You can't help yourself, can you?

Saint: I cannot. Nowtell me

Ames: I will not

Saint: Are you sure? I'm shirtless.

Ames: Gael, stop.

I send the two words before I know what I'm doing. My breathing has picked up.

Saint: But you wanted to know the signs! This is me showing off.

Ames: I thought it was something like… I don't know. Logan and Bear headbutt their helmets together and make power poses. You and Dom dance. Anything else I've missed?

Saint: Logan makes a heart toward Evie.

Ames: I didn't think that was showing off

Saint: he's showing off his feelings.

I lick my lips. Texting can be like walking on an icefield. You miss out on all the tone cues. Assuming he meant that in a wistful way could crack the white surface and drop me into freezing dark waters.

A few words appear on the screen anyway. I'm typing them myself, but I hesitate. It's a question I shouldn't ask.

How would you show off your feelings for someone you love? I'd like to keep track for no reason at all.

The full sentences glare at me on the screen, the cursor blinking patiently until I make up my mind.

A call comes through from an unknown number.

Fuck it, I mutter as I press send on the text.

I answer the phone to distract myself.

It's Mark, the producer from the streaming network.

"I'll keep this short," he says after a few niceties. "We liked your presence— your energy while recording the Christmas special. We want to produce a pilot for a cooking show with you. We're in a rush. TV is always in a rush, but we'd like to get the conversation started on Monday with your agent and our team. Get the vibes right, pick a few tentative dates, all of it. Are you on board?"

I'm not altogether sure a tremor didn't hit the city, and reached me up here in Saint's condo alone. I say yes, like this isn't the kind of news to shake up my system.

The call ends and I leave my phone screen-down next to me. I'm shivering, despite the perfect temperature in the room. It's an internal source of cold and shock. I need to recover before I go back to my texts, but I stare at the device with little shakes at the tips of my fingers.