Page 2 of Shy Girls Can't Date Celebrities
That’s literally the biggest news going around social media right now.
Oh please, please, please.
Be false.
Be a big nasty rumor without a shred of truth.
But the truth is, no one has seen him in public for a few months.
Production on his new movie shut down.
Something massive happened, and it was covered up for weeks, until someone leaked that he was in a serious accident.
“Josie!” Casey calls out to me.
I drop my phone and move into the living room. “What?”
Casey stands in the living room, her arms crossed. “Mom said you cooked eggplant lasagna.”
“That’s right.”
“I thought it wasreallasagna.”
I huff and roll my eyes. “It isrealfood.”
Callum’s lip upturns. “What the heck is eggplant? Did you put an egg in a pot plant?”
I snigger at his comment. “No, it’s the purple vegetable.”
They both screw up their faces. “Eww.”
I huff again, turning to leave the room. “Hush, you two. You’ll enjoy it.”
We get through dinner and it’s finally past the twins’ bedtime. Sometimes, getting them to shower, brush their teeth, and tucked in, feels like a full-time job. I leave Mom downstairs to chill in the living room, and Dad should be home any minute. The twins still love hearing a bedtime story, and I always read them something I’ve written. But something about tonight’s story has really riled them up. As I leave formy bedroom, my sanctuary, I hear their mischievous little voices calling out to me again.
I trudge to their doorway, about to snap. “Oh my gosh, will you two just go to bed?”
It’s like their only mission in life is to give me a mammoth crater of a headache.
They giggle and blow raspberries at me from their twin beds.
“Ugh. You guys are the worst.”
I move back to my bedroom, unlocking my phone. Between opening word docs and refreshing my newsfeed, my phone is getting a massive workout. I lie flat on my back, diagonally across my double bed, with my curls cascading away from my face. As the queasy sickness vortexes in my stomach, I keep an eye on the posters lining my walls to keep a semblance of grip on reality.
Since something happened on the set of Wyatt Hayes’s latest movie, the tabloids and social media have been speculating on his current condition. Piecing together the scraps of information, the reports say he’s in a private hospital called The Clearview Clinic, and worse rumors he has amnesia.
I don’t even want to fathom it being true. Kylie keeps telling me that if so many online commentators are saying it’s true, it can’t be one-hundred percent false. But my heart just won’t let me believe it’s true.
I try my best not to look at what people are saying online. Sometimes, I go days without checking social media, and that’s the way I prefer it. Instead of letting the speculation fester its way into my brain, I open the notes app on my phone and jot down lines of poetry. Unlike my short stories, which I share with friends and family, the poetry is just for me. I’ve never told a soul I write it, and I’m fairly positive I’ll never share it.
I read over a stanza I wrote earlier.
To love you then,
And love you now,
Another chance is when,
