Page 29 of Fangirl
I almost told her last night. Almost. But then she started laughing about something stupid, and I couldn’t do it. Not when she was happy. Not when it meant shattering that.
Not yet, I tell myself.I just need a little more time.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. Amy isn’ttalking to Jake Hollander—the guy Hollywood sculpted out of raw ambition and some very expensive personal trainers. She’s talking to Elijah Cohen.
Or at least, the version of him that might still exist somewhere.
"And she didn’t recognize you?" Will asks, incredulous.
"Why would she? She’s not a fan, remember?" I rub the back of my neck, suddenly irritated. "Besides, even my own face doesn’t look like my face anymore. The AI just took away all the Hollywood bullshit."
To her, I’m just Eli. A guy with messy dark curls, thick-rimmed glasses, and a slightly softer jawline. I could pass for the geeky tech guy in a crime procedural, not the Hollywood heartthrob on movie posters. And that’s exactly how I want her to see me.
Will tilts his head, eyes sweeping over me with something unreadable.
"You really think you’d be happier if you never changed?"
For a second, I don’t answer. Because the truth is, I don’t know.
But when Amy looked at me today, when she saw me and smiled at me, I felt like that old version of myself still existed somewhere beneath all of this.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
His voice cuts through the quiet. “How do you think this will end?”
I blink, snapping back. “Honestly? I haven’t thought about that. I like her.”
He winces, running a hand through his hair. “You knowus and normies… it never ends well.”
I exhale sharply, already done with this conversation before it even begins.
I don’t have the energy to listen to his stupid “unicorn theory” again. The idea that unless someone in our world is fame-hungry, relationships between celebrities and normal people are basically doomed.
Mostly because, as absurd as it is… there’s some truth to it.
Unless you find the one exception…the unicorn. And what are the chances of that?
I roll my shoulders, pushing the thought away. “What did you need, Will?”
His entire demeanor shifts. “I thought we could rehearse lines.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Rehearse what? We’re shootingExplosion Protocol: Blood Oath—it’s not exactly Shakespeare.”
Will raises an eyebrow, and I throw my arms out, launching into full mockery mode.
“I have literally sixty-two lines in the whole damn movie, and today’s dialogue is, ‘So what, they have an army? I have my knife.’” I rub my face and let out a tired sigh. “Oh, and let’s not forget the follow-up gems: ‘Let’s dance, motherfuckers’ before I throw a grenade, and ‘Time to carve my way out,’ after I get shot seven times but somehow don’t die and run for six miles in the Amazonian forest.”
Will leans forward, his amusement dimming slightly. “I don’t remember you being so blasé when you signed the deal. How much are they paying you again? Thirty-onemillion? Yeah, I don’t remember you hesitating before.”
I open my mouth and then shut it again. Because he’s right. I didn’t hesitate. I built this career, this role, this entire persona. And yet?—
“Is it because of that prince role?”
I glance at him. “No.”Yes.
Will shakes his head, half smirking, half-exasperated. “You’ll get it. Everyone knows that. Your audition is just for show.”
I don’t answer because I don’t know what bothers me more—the fact that he’s probably right, that the studio already has my name in bold, printed across the contract, or the fact that I’m not sure I’m good enough to bring Anlon to life.
