The wait for the release of the interview feels endless.

I'm trying to convince myself we did a good job with the banter while still keeping things light and entertaining, but I won't know for sure until it's released. Even worse—I won't know for sure until people have reacted to it, which stresses me out beyond belief.

Naomi, one of Sadie's many assistants, has been on 'let's make sure Esme doesn't spontaneously combust' duty, as Sadie has returned to New York for Harley Kane business. I know better than to take it personally, aware I'm not Sadie's only client, and Harley has been with her for longer, whatever their relationship might be.

Harley is dating a theater actor, Nick St. Martin, so I know it's not romantic. It would be a PR nightmare to handle, and Sadie would rather die than get involved in a scandal.

So, with Sadie being preoccupied with more important things and bigger clients, poor Naomi has to pick up where she left off and ensure I don't spiral out of control. Unfortunately for Naomi, Sadie is the only person—besides my mom—who can effectively ground me and call me out when I'm being completely unhinged about . . . well, anything. Here, I'm freaking out over how people who don't know me—and I don't know—will perceive me.

Was it enough? Were we believable? Do people still like us? Do people still like me?

Will this blow up on my face? What will Oakley do? Will he even care, or will his fans rally up against me to protect his good name and his frail ego from big, bad Esme?

"You need to accept that this is simply out of your hands now," Naomi advises. I know she's right, but it's easy for her to say; it's not her career and reputation on the chopping block. I don't make it a habit to be mean to interns or assistants—or anyone—even when the snarky remark is right on the tip of my tongue; I bite it so hard my mouth overflows with blood. "All you can do is wait, unfortunately."

"I know," I grunt, massaging my temples. A nasty migraine has assaulted me, one that has lingered for two whole days, and I don't know how I'm expected to exist in these conditions. At least when this happened while I was shooting Absolutely!, I had something to distract me. "I hate waiting. Waiting is the worst part."

"You tell me, girl."

I've never been a particularly patient person.

It stresses me out having to wait for the microwave to beep. I don't like standing around and waiting for things to happen—I chase after them. I'm proactive, not reactive. I take matters into my own hands.

The fact that it's not up to me is driving me up the wall.

To make it worse, Sadie and Kirk decided Matt and I should meet up for coffee today. We're not being forced to do it—just heavily encouraged to do so—and I decided to bite the bullet and agree to it, knowing there's no use in fighting with them. Matt just shrugged, like it's any regular Tuesday. For all I know, it might be.

"For what it's worth, you look fantastic," Naomi tells me, brushing my hair away from my face. I pull down my skirt until it's resting comfortably around my waist. "I think it's great that you and Matt are still hanging out even after filming wrapped."

There's a limited number of people who know the truth about our ruse. To keep things on the safe side, Sadie and Kirk agreed to be extremely selective about who knows about it, passing strict NDAs along, and it's classified information. The low-ranking employees don't have access to it, making them more people Matt and I have to convince.

Of what, I'm not sure. We're supposed to keep them on their toes, never confirming or denying anything, and ham up that behavior. We never know who's watching.

"It's been months of filming, after all," I say. "You can't spend that much time with someone else and expect to not feel some sort of way towards them."

"That's true. You either end up loving them or hating their guts."

I flash her a stiff smile. There has to be a gray area somewhere; when Matt is being tolerable, showing uncharacteristic kindness and a jovial mood, I find I don't hate him. I don't love him, either, so where does that leave us?

"Yeah," I agree, not wanting to prolong the conversation and accidentally stick my foot in my mouth. "It's been . . . nice hanging out with him when we're not playing a part."

You filthy liar, you.

Her face lights up. "You two looked so great together at the wrap party. Our group chat couldn't stop talking about it." She leans towards me in a conspiratorial manner. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but everyone is loving this . . . thing you have going on."

My heart skips a beat. "Thing?"

"I mean, clearly it's not just to make Oakley jealous, I know that, but it certainly helps that Matt is just so"—she closes her hand into a fist in feigned frustration—"hot. If I were Oakley, I'd be foaming at the mouth if I saw you looking stunning and happy next to someone else. He's been trying so hard to make you look bad after the breakup, and you and Matt are just so unbothered. Whatever you have going on—friendship or something more, I don't know—must drive him out of his mind."

I don't want to think about Oakley or his opinion on any of this. The moment I do, I'll start spiraling, questioning everything I do—even more than usual—and how it's being perceived, especially by him, his team, and his fans.

Although he didn't directly threaten me, and telling the truth about his actions isn't defamation—he confessed to cheating right to my face—I don't want to poke the bear. I don't want to see my good name dragged through the mud even further, but it makes my blood boil that he gets away with everything he has done while I had to lick and patch up my wounds all alone.

So, yes, maybe I am pissed off. Maybe I'm petty and hold grudges. Maybe I want him to suffer by watching me thrive in my professional life, but also in my personal life.

Maybe this will be a good thing, after all.

"I don't care what Oakley thinks," I tell her, "but if he cares about what I do, that's his loss."

˗ˏˋ★‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

I meet Matt at a popular café, as per Kirk's suggestion. The floor-to-ceiling windows make it a place where people go to be noticed, thus the ideal location for a public meeting that may or may not be interpreted as a date. The natural light is perfect for photo ops, and I know it's filled with people who either write for tabloids or sell them pictures.

This is not a date. It's a business meeting—a strategic business meeting, orchestrated over overrated coffee. We're playing a part, stoking the rumors.

He's sitting at a corner booth when I walk in, making me feel horribly overdressed for the occasion. I'm all dolled up, while he's wearing a blue shirt—sleeves rolled up, as always, and the color brings out the ocean in his eyes—and jeans, but even I know those clothes are expensive. There's something about him that makes my stomach turn like a hurricane, not entirely unpleasant.

I take a deep breath as I approach him, unsure why I'm so nervous about something that, ultimately, means nothing. He doesn't seem to notice me at first, scrolling through his phone, and I carefully slide to the seat in front of him.

"You're late," he says, without looking up.

"I'm late, and you're early." There's an empty cup of coffee next to him. The smell still lingers, so I'm assuming he's been here for a while. "I'm sorry."

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to get somewhere on time."

I'm a chronically late person. It's ironic considering how much time and effort I put into pleasing people—and being late for appointments is a sure way of pissing them off—but, even though I always start getting ready hours in advance, something always gets in the way. I can't deal with afternoon events, as I can never get anything done beforehand.

I scoff. "Were you not late for a premiere because you lost track of time?"

"That was two years ago. Lovely to know you've been keeping tabs on me since long before we met."

"Surely it's mentioned in the caption of some obscure post on your Instagram."

Matt laughs. It doesn't even sound mocking. "You got me there. Are you ordering anything?"

I peel off my jacket, setting it aside. "Yeah, I'll drink something. Sure."

"Oat latte, double shot of espresso?"

I blink. It wouldn't be a big deal coming from anyone else, but coming from him . . . it's the kind of thing you remember when you pay attention. "How did you know?"

"You're not the only one who's been doing their research, sunshine." He gives me a once-over. "You look the part, anyway."

I easily shrug off that last comment, knowing he's unable to do something out of pure kindness, and wait for his return like an eager schoolgirl with a crush. I'm not eager nor a schoolgirl, and I most certainly don't have a crush on Matt Crain, out of all people.

It's because he's here. It's because he's doing something nice for me. It's because he has stood up for me—repeatedly. It's because of our current circumstances. It's because he's undeniably attractive and I can't function around attractive people.

Once he returns with our drinks—my oat latte and a black americano for him, very much on brand—I lean forward, keeping my voice down to ensure nosy people won't overhear us. People are glancing at us and whispering, thinking they're being discreet, and I'm certain they've recognized us.

If we cozy up to each other, they'll think we're close.

"Have you seen anything yet?" he asks.

"Huh?"

"The interview," he clarifies, like I'm stupid. Blood rushes to my cheeks, both from the question and from realizing he paid for my drink without hesitation. With Oakley, I always paid for my stuff; sometimes I'd offer to pay for his, too, but he never did the same. "I don't think it has dropped. We'd know if it had."

"I think we're fine for now. We were convincing enough."

"Maybe." He stirs his coffee, pensive. "I hope. I don't want to screw this up."

"You're scared of screwing something up? Color me shocked."

"Is it really that big of a surprise that I care about this movie and my career?"

"Can I be honest? Sometimes it feels like you don't care. You're always so . . . detached, like you're above it all. You show up, do your job—bare minimum—go home, audition for the next role. You move through life like it's boring. I don't know how you do it." I sip my latte. It's hot enough to be comforting without burning my tongue. "I wish I could be like that sometimes. Not care too much about what people think."

"Ah, well." He shrugs. It lacks the usual energy, sending a sharp stab of guilt through my chest. "I care. Sometimes I care too much. Like I told you, you have to learn to compartmentalize, you know? If you take everything to heart—every criticism, every bad review, every mean-spirited comment—you'll just be miserable all the time. Some days are easier than others."

"Right." I set my elbow on the table and support my chin on my hand. "You know, we have to keep this up for a while. Maybe until after the movie is out. If we immediately stop being seen together, it will look suspicious. I think it can be . . . mutually beneficial. We make the movie look good and make each other look good."

He eyes me carefully, like he's understanding what I'm trying to get at. My heart, the traitor, is jumping around. "So we go on some dates."

"Fake dates, of course."

"Right," he echoes, rubbing his chin. He licks his lips and I stupidly stare at them. "Does this have anything to do with one Oakley Collins?"

I fight the urge to vomit all over the table, taking a deep breath. "Yes and no. I'm terrified of what his fans will say, of course, but I also realized I don't need to be sulking and weeping over him. The best revenge is to show I'm indifferent."

"Which you're not."

"Not yet. You make me look good, I make you look responsible. If you repeat this to anyone, I'll literally kill you"—he laughs at my weak threat, shaking his head, and a lock of blond hair falls from its place, charming in a way I didn't think possible—"but you're objectively a very attractive person. I'm also an objectively very attractive person. We might actually become friends at the end of this ruse if we learn to tolerate each other."

"You've really thought things through."

"Yeah, well." I flip my hair over my shoulder. "I've been told I have great ideas. Something Naomi—one of Sadie's assistants—said planted the seed. Of course, we don't have to go the extra mile if you're not comfortable with it; I don't know if there's anyone in your life who would have an issue—"

"Are you asking if I'm single?"

I gulp. "Yes."

Matt is still smirking, watching me over the rim of his cup. "I am."

"Good."

"Interested?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Oh, I'm not. You were the one who said I'm an objectively very attractive person."

Before I can complain about him using my words against me, my phone buzzes on the table, and I glance at it before I can stop myself. I shouldn't have done it—it's Sadie's job, not mine—but I follow alerts for my name just in case . . . in case I need damage control and Sadie somehow misses it.

(She wouldn't. Her team wouldn't. I'm just paranoid.)

The notification is from a gossip account. Pitiful, I know. They already know we're here, tipped off by an anonymous source who snapped a photo of the two of us—they've caught him mid laugh, me leaning forward across the table. My fingers are dangerously close to his.

It does the job. People are talking.

Spotted: Esme Mendoza and Matt Crain cozying up for a coffee date downtown! Is this the perfect rebound from Oakley Collins?

˗ˏˋ★‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

oakley collins you're fugly