Page 94 of Until You Say Stay
The thought sits heavy in my chest like something solid and immovable. The knowledge that I might be standing at a crossroads without really knowing which path leads where.
For better or worse, I still don’t know.
CHAPTER 22
JACK
The hotel gym is empty when I get there at six-thirty in the morning, which is exactly how I like it. Just me, the weights, and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking West Hollywood as the city wakes up. Lark was still asleep when I left, curled up in the hotel sheets with her hair spread across the pillow, looking so peaceful I almost didn’t want to leave. But my training schedule doesn’t take days off, even when we’re in LA celebrating good news.
And yesterdaywasgood news. Really good. Tidal Records is interested, wants to move forward, sees real potential in her music. We’d spent hours talking about it over dinner last night—her excitement about the opportunity mixed with uncertainty about all the changes they want to make to her sound.
The lyric simplification, the pop production, the whole commercial package thing. I want this to work out for her so badly, but I also don’t want her to lose what makes her music special in the first place.
I’m halfway through my second set when my phone buzzes on the bench beside me. Thomas. I set down the dumbbells, my muscles burning pleasantly, and answer.
“Morning,” I say, slightly out of breath.
“We have a situation,” Thomas says without preamble, his voice tight in that way that means he’s already had three coffees and been dealing with this for hours. “Have you seen social media this morning?”
“No, I’ve been at the gym. What’s going on?” I grab my water bottle, taking a drink while I wait for him to explain.
“Multiple tabloids are running stories suggesting that you and Lark are a PR relationship. That it’s all staged for your image rehabilitation and her music career.” He pauses, and I can hear him clicking through something on his computer. “It’s everywhere, Jack. Instagram, X, entertainment news sites. People are analyzing your photos, looking for ‘proof’ that it’s fake.”
I close my eyes, leaning back against the weight bench. Of course. Of course this is happening right when things are actually going well, right when we’ve figured out that this thing between us is real and not just for show. The universe has impeccable fucking timing.
“How bad is it?” I ask, already knowing the answer won’t be good. “What started it?”
“A gossip account on X posted a thread last night breaking down the timeline. When you two started posting together, how it coincided perfectly with your Monaco incident and her label meetings. Someone did the math on her follower growth, pointed out the timing was ‘too convenient.’ It spiraled from there.” Thomas sighs. “The fact that they’re even questioning it means we need to address it. Put out a statement, shut this down before it affects either of your careers.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, my mind already racing ahead. “What are you thinking?”
“Simple, direct statement confirming the relationship is genuine. Maybe a quote from each of you about how you met, how it developed naturally, all the standard language we use for these things.” His keyboard clicks rapidly in the background. “Keep it brief, honest, shut down the speculation without being defensive. I can have something drafted in an hour. You and Lark just need to approve it before we release anything.”
“Send it over when you have it,” I tell him, pushing myself up from the bench. My workout is done. I need to get back upstairs, tell Lark what’s happening before she sees it herself and spirals. “We fly back tonight, but I’ll make sure we both review it before you release anything.”
“Perfect. You’ll hear from me soon,” Thomas says, already moving on to the next thing on his list.
“Thanks, I’ll talk to you later,” I say, and hang up.
I pull up X and immediately see what Thomas meant. #JackAndLark is trending. The top tweets are a mix of people defending us and people “exposing” us with badly analyzed photos and elaborate conspiracy theories.
Look at their body language in this pic, it’s totally staged. She’s not even looking at him naturally.
She gained 100k followers since they started dating. Convenient timing much? She’s a clout chaser!
He needs good PR after Monaco. She needs exposure for her music. It’s a textbook manufactured relationship.
Y’all are so naive. This is OBVIOUSLY for his sponsors. Wake up.
Thread after thread of people dissecting our relationship like it’s a puzzle to solve, looking for signs it’s fake, comparing it to other celebrity PR stunts. Screenshots of our Instagram posts with circles and arrows pointing out “evidence.” Some of thetheories are actually kind of close to what we originally planned, which would be funny if it wasn’t so damn frustrating.
I grab my towel and water bottle and head back to the room, my earlier workout energy completely gone, replaced by a sick feeling in my stomach. This is my fault. I’m the one with the tabloid history, the one whose life gets picked apart on social media. Lark signed up to help me with my image and grow her social media, not to have her character attacked by strangers on the internet.
When I let myself into the room, she’s awake, sitting up in bed with her phone in her hands, her knees pulled up to her chest. She looks up when I enter and her face is already wide-eyed with shock.
“Have you seen social media?” she asks.
“Yeah. Thomas just called.” I drop my gym bag by the door and sit on the edge of the bed. “It’s everywhere, huh?”
