Page 53 of Going Viral for Christmas
“What about you?” He runs a hand through his hair before laying it across the back of the bench. “You wear any masks, Bells?”
My shoulders tense. I’ve worn them all. The good girl. The dutiful daughter. The rising author who smiles for the fans, signs every book with a perfectly rehearsed flourish, and laughs off the questions that hit too close to home.
I’ve painted on cheer when I’ve felt like splintering. Pressed on concealer over sleepless nights. Bottled up heartbreak, fear, doubt–then pretended I’d never tasted any of it. Because if I cracked, even a little, everything underneath would come spilling out. And once it did, I wasn’t sure there’d be anything left worth saving.
“A few.”
More silence.
Soren laces his fingers together, his gaze drifting across the courtyard at the twinkling lights strung overhead, voices in the distance, and the hum of forced festivity pressing in from every direction.
I don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
Camille is off to the side, scrolling through her phone, while Renata chats with a journalist who attended the press conference earlier. She’s using her ‘I’m totally relaxed’ fake laugh.
Fisher’s nowhere to be found—probably retreated the second he sensed real feelings were on the horizon.
It’s just me and Soren. Close, but not touching. Quiet, but not disconnected.
You don’t have to smile if it hurts.
Could Soren be a safe space? He offered it so freely. What if we actually became friends?
No. No, that would never happen. There’s too much bad blood between us.
“Where’s that assistant of yours—Fisher? He seems loyal.”
I let out a breath that’s more of an exhale, thankful for the topic shift. “He is. Adopted me at my first signing when nobody came to my table. Talked a bunch of people into buying books because he believed in me. We’ve been stuck together ever since.”
Soren’s gaze lingers with an intensity that makes me readjust. I’m not uncomfortable, exactly. More like… exposed. Which is new. And terrifying. Somehow, he’s yanking out a version of me I’m not used to showing.
Wrapping my fingers around the edge of my scarf, I twist the ends into knots I don’t intend to untangle. “What about you? Is Camille your ride or die, or something more?”
Soren huffs out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “Camille definitely has my best interests at heart… at least the financial ones.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes sliding over to our managers before returning to me. “I pay her to manage me, Bells. Not fuck me.”
“Right,” I blurt, instantly wishing I’d just nodded and moved on after I told him mine and Fisher’s story. “I didn’t mean—just, you know, like… who’s really in your corner? Friends, family—someone else?”
The second the question is out, I hear the careful curiosity in it. I sound like a woman fishing for information she has no business wanting. Like the kind of girl who refreshes social media to see who he’s been tagged with.
My fingers pick at an invisible crumb on my jeans, because apparently I can’t handle eye contact or basic conversation.
Soren’s jaw works. His fingers curl tighter around his knees, the rhythm of his thumb halting mid-tap. His back goes straighter. I know this reaction. I’ve touched on something he’s spent a long time trying to bury. But what?
“Matthew,” he finally says. “My agent. Well, he’s more than that. He’s been with me from the start. One of the few people who sawthrough the noise and told me to write what scared me. Not what sold.” There’s such reverence in his answer—a truth he doesn’t hand out often. “M’s the reason I didn’t quit after my first book deal. Or the second. Or when everything went sideways after a disastrous film option. One of those Hollywood fever dreams that promised a big-screen blockbuster and ended up as a half-written script, a lawsuit, and six months of my inbox filled with nothing but tabloid gossip and refund requests. He’s part mentor, part therapist, and part whiskey-fueled life coach.”
That last part earns a small smile from me, and from him, too. This tug of recognition hits me. There’s a thread tying me and Soren together. Different lives, different people, but the same kind of loyalty holding us both up.
“Matthew sounds amazing. I have a similar friend. Her name is Emily.”
“Maybe I can meet her someday.”
“Slow it down, Pembry.” I smile. “We’ve only had one fake date.”
Soren smiles back. “Well, any friend of yours is someone worth knowing.”
He reaches over to pluck a loose thread from the sleeve of my coat. I’m surprised by the casualness of it. Soren doesn’t even seem to register the gesture.
