Page 80 of Fangirl
“There you are,” Landon says, already steering us toward the exit. “Let’s go.”
I frown, shoving my phone into my jacket. “Go where?”
“The after-party, of course.”
“Will there be booze?” Will grins, almost hopeful.
I just shake my head. “I’m not going.”
Landon stops, eyebrows shooting up as if I just told him I was quitting acting to become a monk. Then he laughs—a short, sharp sound. “Of course you’re going. You’re contracted to go. These people paid a shitload of money to see you tonight and bankroll your next film. You’re going to smile, shake hands, sign whatever the hell they shove at you—and you’re going to make them love you.”
The rage bubbles fast,—but before I can open my mouth and tell him exactly where to shove his party, Will nudges me hard in the ribs.
“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Not now. Not like this.”
And just like that, I know—I’m trapped.
Will winks at Landon. “You go ahead. Save me a bottleof champagne.”
Landon eyes me, then Will, then back again. He sighs like we’re both children. “Five minutes. Or I’m coming back for you.”
He turns and disappears into the crowd.
The second he’s out of earshot, I whip around, glaring at Will. “You seriously enjoy this, don’t you?”
Will shrugs, completely unbothered. “What? Someone’s gotta stop you from torching your entire career over a girl.”
“She’s not just any girl,” I grit out. “She’s my soulmate.”
He snorts. “Jesus, you sound like one of those shitty movies you refuse to audition for.”
I glare harder. “I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Will waves a hand, his smirk softening just a little. “And if she really is? Then don’t screw it up more than you already have.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out—because he’s right.
And we both know it.
“She wouldn’t want you to burn everything down for her,” Will adds quietly. “That’s not who she is.”
I look away, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. No. She wouldn’t.
Will claps me on the back, smirking like the cocky bastard he is. “Don’t worry, Padawan. Stick with me, and I’ll teach you how to survive these things in under an hour and still make it look like you did your job.”
I shake my head but follow him, letting him lead me through the throng of producers, investors, and assorted industry leeches. It’s everything I hate—fake smiles,meaningless small talk, everyone trying to out-name-drop each other.
I nod when I have to, shake hands when expected, and sip expensive champagne that tastes like regret. My mind isn’t here. It’s still outside, in that alley, watching Amy walk away from me.
Just as I start edging toward the exit, ready to bail, Will appears out of nowhere—his shoulders tense, face pale, his phone clutched tight in his hand.
My stomach drops. “What?”
He doesn’t answer. Just hands me the phone like it weighs a thousand fucking pounds.
I glance down… and the world tilts.
The headline screams at me in bold black letters:Jake Hollander Gets Dumped at His Own Premiere.
