Page 46 of Just Friends Forever
We walk to the car and pull away from the house to a firework show of camera flashes. I’d say the likelihood of privacy is negligible.
Stevie lets out a huge breath after she gets her seatbelt on and we pass by the crowds. “Thank you, Lyla.” She lets her head drop back against the headrest, shutting her eyes.
I shoot a quick glance at her. “What?”
“Can you imagine if you didn’t have a girlfriend? It would make all of this a million times harder. I’m telling you, their questions would never have ended if not for that.”
“Ahhh. Gotcha.” I guess now isn’t the time to tell her Lyla and I aren’t going to be going out anymore and that we neverwerein a “loving, committed relationship.”
Stevie twists in her seat so she can see behind her. “There are a couple of them following us, as expected.”
“Do I need to channel my inner Vin Diesel? Use some evasion tactics?”
She faces forward again. “They’d be a step ahead of you. They’reverygood at their jobs. Really relentless.”
“I think you’re underestimating how many times I’ve watchedThe Fast and the Furious.”
“Unless you’ve seriously increased your viewing frequency from college days, I don’t think I am. But I’m telling you, Troy, these people make it their business to know all the tricks in the book. They are highly motivated and deeply nosy.”
I smile over at her mischievously. “That sounds a lot like a challenge. Have you ever tried to beat them at their own game? Mess with them a little bit to make it less easy?”
She scoffs. “Are you kidding? Curtis’s PR team would’ve killed me. They were terrified of antagonizing the media. We got briefed every morning on the latest stories and how we needed to respond.”
I frown, glancing in the rearview mirror. I recognize the car behind me as one that’s been parked on my street a lot the last few days. If it weren’t for that, I probably wouldn’t have realized we were being followed. They’re keeping enough distance to prevent suspicion. “Sounds kind of like living under tyranny.”
“That’s a great way to describe it.” She checks the passenger side-view mirror. “The places we’re going are gated, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” If Stevie wants any sort of privacy, that’s the only option. Thankfully, her price range allows for that.
* * *
Most showings take lessthan half an hour with the average house and average client. But these mansions aren’t average, and Stevie isn’t either. I’ve shown a fair number of nice properties, but this is a whole different level and, with all the gadgets and smart devices familiar to her but not to me, Stevie’s doing as much of the house-showing as I am.
In the past six days, I’ve gotten used to seeing Stevie in her sweats in Austin’s bare-bones-decor apartment, but that’s not an accurate picture.Thisis her domain. She doesn’t bat an eye at a personal putting green, an indoor pool with a waterfall feature, a meditation room, or four kitchens.
We might have grown up in the same world, but Stevie hasn’t lived in that world for a long time now. Her staying at my place is the equivalent of me going camping for a few weeks. She’s back in her usual habitat now, while I feel like a kid at Disneyland. I’m wowed and impressed and giddy playing with all the contraptions we see—until Stevie reminds me there are cameras watching our every move.
The point is, the life she’s used to is completely and utterly out of my reach. Once she finally closes on a house and moves in, she’ll feel thehome, sweet homefeeling, while I’ll drive home to my modest duplex, counting on the rental income from Austin’s apartment to help me afford little luxuries like freeze-dried eggs.
Whether it’s my breakup with Lyla, the news story this morning linking my name with Stevie’s, or the sheer amount of time I’ve spent with her over the past week, I’m finding it harder to convince myself my feelings for her are a thing of the past.
After being bombarded with a CGI-enhanced version of my body, Stevie was the next thing I noticed in that TMZ picture. When I zoomed in on my abs, I was actually zooming in to get a better look at her, to see if I was crazy or if she really was staring at me in admiration.
She was. Or I thought so until she told the paparazzi it was the pressure washer she was mesmerized by.
I can’t believe that, all these years later, I’m still dealing with remnants of my high school pipe dream, looking for evidence Stevie really does want me, despite all the evidence she’s given—including a flat-out rejection—that she never has and never will see me that way.
I don’t doubt she loves me the way a friend or a sibling loves, but she’s not attracted to me. When a woman is given the choice between looking at a shirtless version of you or a garden hose, and she chooses the hose?
That, my friend, is the sound of four-foot-thick steel walls going up around the friend zone.
Stevie didn’t want me when we lived in the same world; there’s no way she’d want me now that we occupy different universes. And in no universe, known or unknown, do I intend to put myself out there for rejection again, no matter what my feelings are.
* * *
The crowds area lot thinner when we pull up at my house in the early evening.
“Just the die-hards left,” Stevie says. “Looks like telling them about Lyla just about did the trick. Are you two going out tonight? Normally, I’d advocate for you pickingherup, but given the situation, it might be nice to have her come here. Provide a little more evidence for these harder-to-convince types.” She raises her brows to indicate the paparazzi flashing their cameras in hopes of getting a shot through the rear window.
