Page 48 of Fangirl
“You’re not wearing that.”
I glance down at my sweater, then back up at Jennifer, my publicist, who stands in front of me looking like she walked straight out of a high-end fashion campaign. Everything about her is designer, from the sleek black dress hugging her frame to the sharp red-soled Louboutins clicking against the hotel floor.
She barely spares me a glance before going back to scrolling on her phone. “I don’t care if it’sComic-Con, Jake. It’s New York, and that,” she gestures at my sweater like it personally offended her, “is positively hideous.”
I don’t just feel irritated, I feel angry.
Not because she doesn’t like it. Not even because she’s being her usual controlling self.
But because she’s dismissing something Amy made for me.
Something she spent hours on. Something she crafted with care, with no ulterior motive, no agenda, just because. And when I first pulled it from the box, I swear I caught the faintest trace of floral perfume. Hers, I’m sure.
I run my fingers along the sleeve, tracing the tiny embroidered skeleton she stitched just for me, and feel something hot settle in my chest.
I lift my gaze back to Jennifer, cocking my head slightly. “It’s interesting,” I say coolly, stepping past her. “The way you think you have any right to tell me what to wear.”
She startles, looking up from her phone. “Jake, I do have a right. Your image?—”
I stop in the doorway, cutting her off. “You work forme, Jen. Not the other way around.” My voice is sharp and colder than she’s used to from me, and I watch with satisfaction as she stiffens. “Maybe you forgot that.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it, eyes darting between me and the sweater like she’s trying to figure out why I’m suddenly drawing a line here, of all places.
I step closer, lowering my voice just enough to make my point. “It’s fucking October in New York. I agreed to come to this shitshow because Landon begged me to, butpush me one more time, and I’ll walk back into my room, cancel my appearance, and you can explain to your boss why thefuckinglead isn’t showing up to his panel.”
Jennifer turns bright red.
I don’t care.
This isn’t just about the sweater, it’s abouther. About Amy. About the fact that, for once in my life, something matters that has nothing to do with PR, publicity, or pleasing the masses.
This sweater? It’s mine.
And I’m wearing it for so many reasons.
One, because it’s probably the first thing I’ve received in years that truly comes from the heart. No strings, no ulterior motives, no industry bullshit. Just care. Thoughtfulness. Her. And putting it on? It feels like a goddamn safety blanket, like I’m carrying a piece of her with me.
I’m also wearing it because… I want her to see it.
I want her to find out.
Every day, I tell myself that today is the day I come clean. Today is the day I stop hiding behind Eli and tell her the truth. But then the moment comes, and I cave.Every. Single. Time.
Because I crave her company too much. Because I’m selfish. Because I know the moment she finds out, there’s a very real chance I’ll lose her.
So, I’m taking the coward’s way out.
I’m hoping she finds out on her own.
And then what, idiot? What will you do then?
I don’t have time to dwell on the answer. The door swings open, and suddenly, I’m being ushered into thegreen room, where Will and a couple of the other actors are waiting for the panel.
I take a deep breath, forcing everything else out of my head. Right now, I have a role to play.
Will spots me immediately. He looks good—rested, put together—but I know better. I always do. I see it in the slight sway of his stance, the way his blue eyes shine a little too bright. He’s a high-functioning alcoholic, and no amount of grooming or perfectly tailored designer clothes can hide that from me.
I’ve tried to help him. Twice, I convinced him to go to rehab. Twice, he walked right back out. His demons have their claws in him, and no matter how much I fight for him, he fights harder against himself.
