Page 44 of Just Friends Forever
His tone doesn’t tell me much. Troy’s not the kind of person to admit when something’s going to inconvenience him—hence his inviting me to stay here—but this headline and picture can’t possibly be anything but unwelcome. It’s going to make his life a lot more complicated, and I’m the one at fault. I mean, maybe if he didn’t look so good, the media wouldn’t be having a field day with this image, but I can’t really blame him for that.
“Should I be offended or grateful they CGI’d my abs?”
“Huh?” I say, taken off guard.
He zooms in on the picture, and my heart goes haywire because firstly, I donotneed a close up of Troy’s abs right now, and secondly, the zoom brings my highly approving expression—to put it lightly—front and center. Or top and left, rather.
He shakes his head and hands the phone to me. “Yeah, definitely CGI.”
Thoroughly confused, I glance down at the picture again. “They didn’t CGI your abs, Troy.” Not sure why I’m defending TMZ, but I realize now that I’ve solidified the image of me documenting every detail of Troy’s bare torso with eyes like laser scanners. I shift my weight and turn off my phone screen. “I just mean, I don’t think they’d go to that trouble.”
He gives a little scoff and lifts his shirt.
MUST I BE ACCOSTED BY TROY’S ABS EVERYWHERE I GO? What did I do to deserve this?
He evaluates his stomach, then drops his shirt and laughs. “You almost had me convinced.” He points to the phone in my hand. “Give me four weeks. Maybe five. I’ll get there. I’d probably have to give up Magic Shell, though.”
I shake my head to refocus myself and lose the photo-versus-real-life side-by-side comparison of Troy’s abs. He can’t really be this unbothered by the article. “Troy, this is bad.”
“I said give me a few weeks. Geez, Stevie. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither is an eight-pack.”
“Can you forget about your abs for half a second?!” That would make one of us, at least. “We need to address this.”
His smile fades, and he gets serious, facing me. “I thought we agreed to ignore them.”
“We did,” I say. “But some things need to be addressed. This dumb article is going to cause a lot of problems.”
Holding my gaze, he nods, all of his humor gone. “Yeah. Okay. So, what do we do?”
I grimace. “I have to talk to them directly, I think. Give a statement and tell them the truth—they’ve got it wrong, we’re just friends and that’s all we ever have been.” I blow out a breath. I hate talking to the media. I always have. I get so nervous. They’re trained to ask questions that make you say stupid, stupid things you regret. And then they twist those stupid, stupid things into even stupider things that barely resemble the truth.
“Do you want me to do it?” he asks. “I will. Easy-peasy.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“I’ll even keep my shirt on,” he says, like he’s sweetening the deal.
“Gee, thanks.” I shake my head with a reluctant smile. “They really captured your essence, didn’t they? You were even fixing your hair.”
“What they captured was a lot of water to the face. They’re lucky they got that shot at all.” He pauses. “You sure you don’t want me to talk to them?”
I shake my head. “It’s my fault they’re here. I should be the one to handle it.”
“Youstillassume you’re the only person living here deserving of paparazzi, Stevie. It cuts me deep. Real deep.”
“Well, as of today, that’s certainly no longer the case. The whole world has your name and picture.” Specifically, a picture of him half-naked. Given my experience with celebrity gossip enthusiasts, they’ll latch onto Troy in a heartbeat. He’ll have a fan club and at least three dedicated Instagram accounts by tomorrow. “I promise I’ll get them out of your luxurious hair soon, though. Speaking of which, is there any chance we could go see a couple houses?” I need to hop on the take-charge-of-your-life train before I cause any more problems—or get any more doses of shirtless Troy. An overdose is imminent.
“Yeah, of course,” he says. “I’ll text the one we bailed on a couple days ago and maybe two or three others to see if they can squeeze us in today.”
* * *
Troy textsme to let me know we’ve got a green light on three out of the four properties, and I hurry to shower and get ready. I slick my hair back into a low chignon, hoping to give uptight-business-woman vibes. I choose a black blazer and slacks for my outfit to confirm the look. I don’t want to give the impression we’re heading out on a date.
Troy looks every bit as much the professional when we meet in the foyer, with a black suit and a blue button-up shirt that, ideally, would draw a little less attention to his matching eyes.
“Seems like we had the same idea,” he says, looking me up and down with a smile. “You ready for this?”
I take in a deep breath, trying to remember everything I heard Curtis say about acting during the time we were married. I’ll need those skills to confront these paparazzi. “Let’s do this.”
