Page 49 of Selling Out
Never mind. I do. I 100% want—nayneed—to know it.
So I nod and try to look like all he’s offering is the answer to a mundane question.
“For you,” he says.
“For me,” I repeat. Is it because he knows how dangerous he’s become to me? He’s had enough experience with rabid fans, he can probably see the signs of a girl falling for him a hundred miles away. And now that I’ve spent more time with him one-on-one? Now that I’ve seen those dumb old videos of him strumming the guitar and singing with that buttery voice?
He can see I’m in huge trouble. This is him trying to spare me a lot of potential pain.
It’s nice and chivalrous, but I also hate it.
“You know what happened to the last girl my name was evenattachedto?” Austin asks.
I shake my head.
“She got death threats, Mia.”
I say nothing, but the insane part of my brain is calculatingwhether being with Austin might be worth some death threats. As long as they stayed threats, obviously. I’m not trying to be a martyr.
But that’s not what he’s talking about. He’s worried about our names even beingassociated. Associated does not mean the things my brain is jumping to.
“I love my fans,” he says, “but they can be?—”
“Psycho?”
“I like to call it protective.”
“Possessive.”
He chuckles. “The point is, I like you, Mia. AndbecauseI like you, I don’t want to hurt your career by starting things out that way for you. You deserve so much better than that. You’ve got incredible talent.”
I’m fine. My heart is beating at a totally regular rate. This conversation is boring. Austin is ugly and terrible.
These are the lies I’m telling myself.
Austin said helikesme. Is there a more ambiguous word? He could mean he likes me the way people like the background music at a restaurant, the way someone likes a dish towel or their Amazon Prime delivery driver.
Austin likes me like a Prime driver, and he wants to make sure I keep my job.
Giuseppe’s love song cuts off suddenly, and the gondola slows.
I turn to the gondolier. “What’s wrong?”
“It is blocked. The canal.” He nods at the chain and sign ahead, preventing us from continuing straight. “Veneziais very busy today. We will have to go the long way around.”
I sigh. “Of course we will.” Could this day have gone less according to plan? So much for dessert and fireworks.
“How much longer will it take?” Austin asks.
“Hard to say,” Giuseppe says, turning us to the left.
Austin grimaces. “I’mreallyreallysorry.”
I shrug like I have plans to come back to Venice for this festival on an annual basis and like losing my phone and purse is an everyday occurrence for me.
“It’s okay,” I say. And it really is. I would have loved to eat dinner on a boat and watch one of the biggest firework shows over the most romantic city in the world, but then I wouldn’t be having this conversation, and I don’t know that I’d want to sacrifice that.
Austin pulls out his phone. “I’ll let the others know we won’t make it to dinner.”
