Page 41 of Well, Actually
“You met me at my worst, Eva,” he reiterates, keeping a hold of my hand even though my grip has gone slack, palm sweating. “I was dumb and devastated and I can’t take it backbut I want to give you the context as to why. You didn’t deserve my mess, but I gave it to you anyway.”
I stare at him, emotions a mangled, pulpy knot in my throat. His cheeks turn red, eyes flicking down in sudden shyness.
“Do you… do you kind of see why I was the way I was?” he asks, a touch of desperation in his voice as if he needs my absolution. I’m not sure why he would. I was a blip in his timeline of tragedy. My feelings shouldn’t matter… They didn’t matter then.
“I understand,” I manage, voice rusty.
Cooper looks at me again, eyes roving over my face as he checks for my sincerity. Whatever he finds there makes him smile. “I really nailed this light and cheerful friendship hour, huh?” he says at last, pulling his hand away and taking a sip of his latte.
My fingers curl into a tight fist like they’re trying to hold on to the lingering heat of his skin, embed it into my own. I make a conscious effort to release my grip.
“Yeah, you’re really good at small talk.” I allow a sly smile to play across my face, no matter how fake it feels. “A damn court jester.”
Cooper laughs, the sound coursing through my chest like voltage, and it takes a concerted effort not to rub my palm over my heart. “Next friendship hour I’ll make sure to do a vibe check and let you choose between a wine-and-whine or beer-and-queer so you have a better idea of what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Don’t forget the third option,” I say, shooting him a playful look. One of his eyebrows arches up, enjoyment dancingacross his features. “Dessert-and-hurt where we trauma dump over cheesecake and espresso martinis.”
Cooper laughs again, dimple highlighting his boyish grin. His hand darts across the table, grabbing mine and pumping our arms in an overzealous shake. “You, Eva Kitt, have got yourself a date.”
Chapter 11
“I hate this idea,” I say to Aida over FaceTime as I get ready for the recording starting in half an hour.
“Thanks. I worked really hard on it.”
I drag my attention from my mirror as I finish applying mascara, giving her a disbelieving look. “Really? It wasyourinnovative and brilliant idea to recycle the worn-out trend of people reading mean comments about themselves? That’s the kind of forward thinking they pay you the big producer bucks for?”
Aida rolls her eyes, twisting her curly hair into a bun on the top of her head. “Okay, obviously my first choice is not to replicate an idea that peaked in popularity in 2013, but I’m also not paidbig enough bucksto contradict a directive sent from the top.”
“This wasLandry’sidea?” My scowl is so severe my wetlashes smear along the tops of my cheeks. “Award-winning journalist Landry Doughright is leading this derivative charge?”
“Technically, it came from Prince Nepo, but Landry replied to the email chain with endless praise. They think this will be a good way to generate more engagement. Encourage people to keep commenting if they think they can make it on one of your videos.”
As much as I’d prayed all of this attention would snuff out, it’s grown like a wildfire. I feel like I’m not far from choking on the smoke.
People have continued to make dramatic video edits of us from snippets of our recorded sessions, which is fine and expected, but still feels a bit weird to see the reality of what actually exists between me and Cooper warped into a false romantic narrative. But those videos are nothing compared to how creeped out I was to find that pictures of us walking to get coffee and saying goodbye outside of the cafe had been added to the usual mix. The invasion of privacy was instant and physical, like I could feel some watcher’s hot, sour breath on my skin as I lay in bed and zoomed in on the shots, not believing my eyes.
I’d called Cooper at twoA.M.in a panic I disguised as anger.
“Hey, Kitten. I was just dreaming of you,” he’d said when he answered the phone, voice rough with sleep.
“A nightmare, I hope. Did you have something to do with these photos of us?”
There was a long pause, and I could hear the sheets rustling as Cooper repositioned himself in bed. For some reason, it had felt obscenely intimate, and I pulled the phone away from my heated cheek, putting it on speaker.
“What photos?” he’d asked, sounding slightly more awake.
Instead of answering, I texted him a slew of posts, a picture of us midstride in a crosswalk near his apartment as the thumbnail of one, his hand on my lower back as I’d walked into the cafe for another.
His breath caught, then turned deeper as he looked at the messages. “I didn’t know about these,” he said at last. “But I wouldn’t worry about it, Eva.”
“I shouldn’t worry about some creep on the street taking my picture without me knowing and then posting it on the internet?” I could tell he was trying to soothe me, but I refused to be soothed.
“They probably thought you were Florence Pugh and wanted to capture a celebrity sighting. Figure out who her sexy new boyfriend is.”
“You definitely have personal assistant vibes in that photo,” I said, the fist of worry in my gut loosening a bit despite my better judgment.
“A workplace romance? How scandalous,” Cooper teased, pulling a reluctant laugh from me. “I’m sure it was nothing, Kitten. Get some sleep.”
