Page 16 of My Unscripted Life

“You heard that,” I say, not a question, because I already know it’s true.

“Yup,” he says. He shrugs, giving a little shake of his head. His Sparkling Personality is cracking a bit, but he’s holding on to it with a tight, wry smile. I can tell he wants to make a joke out of it, brush it off, but I guess Naz already took care of that. “Also, ‘music to have a coma to.’ I gotta admit, that was a new one.”

I shift in my seat and purse my lips. “I’m sorry. About Naz. She doesn’t always have a filter, and…” I try to come up with something to say that makes the whole thing not so harsh. I mean, stuff like that gets said all the time about celebrities; it’s not like you reallymeanit. It’s not aboutthem,exactly. And it’s not like you ever think they’re going to actually hear it. And even if they did, they’ve got money and fame and all that, so who cares what some small-town nobody thinks? But now that I’m sitting across from Milo and watching him struggle to hide the cracks in his foundation, I realize it’s not that simple. Or maybe itisthat simple. Mean is mean, whether they’re a million miles away or right in front of you.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. No qualifiers, because it needs to be said.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I mean, I get it a lot. Not quite so often to my face, but definitely quite a lot on the Internet.”

I shudder. I keep my social-media feeds private, because the idea of strangers popping in on my life totally freaks me out. But that must be what Milo’s wholelifeis like: strangers raising their hands to offer up their opinions on his life. “I never thought of it like that.”

“You’re lucky,” Milo says. “It’s one of the less fun aspects of my job.”

I laugh, and Milo raises an eyebrow at me in question. “It’s just that you call it a job,” I say. “I mean, teacher, doctor, lawyer, those seem like jobs. Waitress, bagger at the grocery store, traffic cop. It’s weird to imagine a career day where you’d show up and introduce yourself as a worldwide teen pop sensation.”

He grimaces. “Okay, first of all, if I ever use the phrase ‘worldwide teen pop sensation’ to describe myself, promptly direct me to kick my own ass,” Milo says. And then there it is again. The smile, therealone, and a bit of a laugh. I want to whip out my phone and film it so I can watch it over and over again, but that’s pretty much the exactoppositeof what he wants or needs right now. “But it’s definitely a job. It’s work, anyway. One that never really stops, unless you want to disappear for a weekend to a private island.”

Kristin drops our drinks and some straws on our table, and Milo spends the next minute or so fingering the wrapper, tearing it into tiny bits and moving them around on the chipped Formica table. Our awkward silence is finally interrupted by the sound of heavy plates landing between us, our food ready in record time.

“Dinner is served,” Kristin says, an ancient floral dish towel in her hand acting as a hot pad. Her eyes dart between us, taking in our silence. “Don’t talk too much, now. That food’ll get cold.”

“Thanks, Kris,” I say. I give her a grateful smile, which she returns with plenty of warmth. I suspect if Milo weren’t here with me, she’d bend down and wrap me up in a hug. Across the table, Milo tucks into his pile of fries, so I follow suit. My burger smells perfectly meaty, the lettuce and tomato towering on top, and I know from hundreds of burgers past that as soon as I smash the lid down on the bun, juice will run down onto the plate, and I’ll be warm and full and happy. Such is the power of Kristin’s burgers. They always seem able to chase away the bad days.

After a few minutes of silent—but delicious—chewing, I can’t take it anymore. I’m actually watching Milo Ritter, whose face lived for a short time in my ninth-grade locker, dribble pimiento cheese onto his lower lip and then slowly lick it off. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine. I’m pretty sure no one in the history ofeverhas looked that good licking food off his own face. I feel like I’m starring in a Milo Ritter music video, like at any moment he might pull a guitar out from underneath the table and sing about broken hearts over our plates of fries. The fact that this is my real life and not an elaborate fantasy I dreamed up while getting my wisdom teeth out is straight-up insane.

I’ve stared at him (and the spot on his chin that he just licked) for a bit too long, though, because now he’s staring back, his hand holding his sandwich paused halfway to his mouth.

“What?” He reaches up and swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did I miss it?”

At that moment, the whole situation reaches a point so surreal as to be bordering on an episode ofCandid Camera,and I’m pretty sure they don’t make that show anymore. I slam my burger down onto my plate, the silverware jumping on the table.

“Can we have friend talk for a minute?” I stare right into his bright blue eyes, ignoring the acrobatics in my stomach.

“Friend talk?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “It’s a thing my best friend and I do when we want to avoid the awkward and just get to the root of it. You know, not beat around the bush.”

Milo gulps like there’s a stubborn bite of sandwich stuck in his throat. “Um, okay?” He puts his sandwich down, then folds his arms on the table in front of him as if he’s preparing to give Senate testimony. I wonder when the last time he had something approaching friend talk. If the many faces of Milo Ritter are any indication, it’s been a while. I imagine quite a lot of his life is carefully choreographed and scripted by professionals, so this is probably quite a leap for him. I’m impressed that he’s going along with it.

I should probably think about this for a second, but if Naz were here she’d tell me to just get on with it. Real talk works best unfiltered, and let’s be honest, filtering has never been my strong suit. So I dive in.

“This situation is weird, okay?” I gesture across the table, but I’m talking about more than the meal.

Milo cocks an eyebrow at me, and I can see that he has no idea where this is going. Which is fine, because I’m not really sure, either. This is going to be harder than I thought.

“I mean, it’s fine, and you’re very nicenow,” I add, giving him a pointed look. He seems to sink slightly in his seat at the reminder of his earlier bad behavior. “But you’reMilo Ritter.” I watch him glance around the Diner quickly, then slouch farther in his seat. Not that he needs to. Not a single solitary soul heard me, and even if they did, I doubt Roy or Melanie over in the corner eating her daily chef salad while reading a paperback mystery cares a bit. “I’m trying to be normal and cool, but it’s hard sitting here having dinner with a Grammy winner.”

“Nominee,” he mutters, picking at the toasted crust of his sandwich. Little crumbs sprinkle off his plate and onto the Formica.

“What?” I lean across the table. Milo sits up straight.

“I have four Grammy nominations. No wins,” he says. He picks a stray fry off the table and places it back on his plate before meeting my eyes again. “And things aren’t exactly normal for me right now,” he adds, his eyes now glued firmly to his plate.

“Okay,” I reply. The running headlines and the string of photos sit heavy on my mind, but one look at his eyes, which are starting to cloud over again, tells me not to go there. Instead I head for the question I’m dying to ask. “Fine. Forgetting everything out there for a minute. Let’s talk about this. Right here. And why, after being prickly and rude for a whole week, you brought me here.”

He sighs. “First of all, I’m sorry for being a jerk. Like I said before, it’s been…well…Things haven’t been great for me lately. Not that it’s an excuse.” He glances up at me, his face full of apology. I nod to accept it, and he continues. “It was that weird pee-pants story. Honestly, you were the first person to make me laugh since…well, in a really long time. And you weren’t trying to. You were just talking, not to ‘worldwide teen pop sensation Milo Ritter,’ ” he says like the words taste sour. “Just Milo. Like I was anyone. I’d forgotten what that felt like. And when I saw you freaking out, I felt like I should return the favor. I mean, I wanted to.”

Kristin appears at the table. I shoot her a look that saysPlease go away, we’re having a moment.She smiles apologetically, but doesn’t leave.

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