Page 11 of Well, Actually
“Did you just call meprincess?” Cooper asks, his grin lazy and dangerous.
“Yes. Does that offend you?” I ask, a hopeful lift to my voice. “Or would you prefer baby girl?”
He laughs again, eyes crinkling. “Princess will do just fine.”
My lips curl but I force them into an acrid smile. “Whatever you say, baby girl.”
Aida starts the countdown to our live, and Cooper shakes himself, slipping on the cool mask he wears in most of his videos. When Aida gets to three, she stops talking, ticking the seconds off on her fingers before pointing to me. I slip on my own facade, an apathetic expression not far off from my real self, and look at the camera like it’s a tedious younger sibling.
“I’m Eva Kitt,” I say without feeling or energy, my trademark vibe. “And welcome toSausage Talk, where fun in thebun is guaranteed. We have a semi-special guest for today’s meat and greet, and his name is…” The neonMEAT & GREETsign is lowered into frame, and I ignore it, making a show of checking my notes, thumbing through a few pages and running my finger across some lines. “Rylie Cooper. And he… he…” Slowly and with a thoroughly disenchanted energy, I rifle through more papers, letting the silence linger.
“I host a podcast about deconstructing toxic masculinity and post stupid videos on the internet,” Cooper says, voice low, a smile in it. I drag my heavy gaze up to him. He adjusts his glasses, then plants his elbows on the table, resting his chin in the cradle of his hands. “You know a few things about the latter, right, Eva?”
My lips part, unprepared for the poke, but I recover quickly, scrunching up my face. “A podcast? Hmm. You host it, you said?”
“I do, yeah,” he replies, eyes glinting. He leans back in his seat like he’s settling in for some fun. Okay, asshole. Let’s play.
“And people actually listen to it?” I’m in dangerous territory here with my own piss-poor number of subscribers to my creative endeavors outside of this stupid show, but I’m committing to the kill.
“They do.” His smile grows, an air of challenge in his relaxed posture,
I sniff, raising my eyebrows and looking off. “Huh. I would never willingly listen to a man speak in my spare time, but that’s just me.”
Cooper guffaws, then laughs, but Aida gets in my line of sight off camera, William right behind her, both glaring at me. A substantial portion of our viewers are men, and I’d guessa huge chunk of Cooper’s audience are women interested in what he has to say, so I’m undoubtedly not helping the engagement goal.
“Anyway.” I glance back at my notes as if I don’t have every word memorized… to use against him, of course. “It says here your social media presence has been described as a safe space for men too afraid to be on Pinterest. Was that always your goal?”
His lips quirk like I’m moderately amusing. I find myself having to look away from the catch of his stare, something scrambling in my stomach at the warmth I see there. “Well, actually, I don’t think anyone’s ever described my social media presence like that.”
“I just did,” I say, a heavy dullness in my voice, boredom in my eyes.
“Yes. Creating content that is somehow Pinterest adjacent for boys was always my life goal. If Maslow were alive, he’d write a case study on my self-actualization. Was yours to interrogate C-list social media personalities over hot dogs but treat it like the correspondents’ dinner?”
“I’ve had some B-listers on here,” I say, facade cracking as I jump to defense.
“Oh, I stand corrected. Barbara Walters isshakingwith career envy from beyond the grave.”
Blood rushes in my ears with a fresh wave of rage that he’s so easily needling under my skin and he damn well knows it. This is my domain, my turf. I can’t let him get the upper hand and control this conversation.
He reaches for his hot dog, lifting it for his first bite. My arm snakes out, and I grip his wrist, halting him with hismouth hanging open, eyes equally round with horror. I ignore the singe of heat from where my skin touches his… probably the same cosmic reaction of holy water burning a demon.
“Are you sure you should eat that?” I ask, holding his pewter gaze.
His eyes flick between me and the hot dog, and he clears his throat, a genuine thread of worry in his voice as he asks, “Why? Did you poison it?”
“No. Higher-ups told me I wasn’t allowed.” I frown. “But I just wanted to double-check youcaneat it.”
He lifts an eyebrow in question.
“You look like someone with a lot of food intolerances.”
He makes a choking sound as I drop my hand from his arm.
He recovers, then takes an aggressively large bite of the wiener with a look that saysHa! This’ll show you!But after a few chews and an attempt at a swallow, he starts coughing, little bits of bun sprinkling his plate. Avoiding the impulse to recoil at this meaty shower, I reach out and thump his back a few times, hard enough that his glasses skitter to the tip of his nose.
“Oh no, was the ketchup too spicy for you? I told them they should give you mayo.”
He bats my arm away, face red as he sucks in a deep, unsteady breath. He rights his glasses and we stare at each other for a moment, his eyes narrowed, expression taut. And then he… starts laughing?
