Charlie being safe-and-sound in a gated neighborhood means that I’m off-duty and enjoying rare free time. Unless I’m called in for security meetings or temp trainings.
I look across the table.
Farrow raises his brows. “You have Jack when you didn’t think you would, so what’s with the angst?”
“I’m a solid catch,” I say with a nod, “but you know what, I’m not even sure I’d date myself right now. I have Wednesday night off and then bam! I’m called for a meeting.” I throw up a hand. “Tell me, bro, would you date me?”
“No,” Farrow says slowly, “because I’m married to Maximoff Hale.”
I clap, almost grinning.
Donnelly claps too.
Farrow rolls his eyes. “Man, if Jack had a problem with your work, I doubt he would’ve kissed you in the first place. He knew what he was getting into.”
That is true.
I ease back, sitting on the same side as Donnelly. He takes off his reading glasses. “Maybe you should send him a dick pic.”
I laugh with Farrow.
“Let him know you’re thinkin’ about him,” Donnelly finishes.
“And that’s why you don’t take dating advice from Paul Donnelly,” I say and flip over my phone. No new text.
He must be sleeping.
But damn I wish he were awake and wanted to hang out. Even if it was a five-minute, hey there, looking good, Highland, kind of convo.
“Call him,” Farrow suggests.
“I shouldn’t wake him up.” I stare at my blank phone screen. “He had a horrible time trying to film Charlie this afternoon. Couldn’t ask him a single question since every time he opened his mouth, paparazzi shouted at him.”
Farrow chews gum slowly. “About your kiss?”
“Yeah.”
Silence eats at our booth, and the sound of billiards balls clinking seems louder.
“It’s annoying as fuck,” Farrow finally says. “Paparazzi, the hate online, but some weeks are better than others.”
I flip my phone again, realizing how much frustration I’ve been feeling. “The hate towards Jack is nuts, bro. These fans of mine, who are obsessed with the imaginary mother-effing romance between me and Charlie, will not stop. One told him to go choke and die the other day.” I’ve heard this kind of fandom language before and hardly blinked, but now that it’s directed at someone I have feelings for…
It stings.
I’d rather be the one they’re playing target practice with.
“They’re not fans,” Donnelly says. “They’re stans, but most likely antis.”
“An anti?” Farrow arches his brows.
“I’m with Redford. What the hell is that?” I know what a stan is—in short, an overly passionate fan. But I’m not as deeply involved in fandom culture like Donnelly. Though, I do keep up with it better than Farrow.
“Anti-fans, anti-shippers,” Donnelly explains. “They root hardcore against a couple. Like hate-watching a TV show, but real life, man. It’s my least favorite part of a fandom. No love, all hate.”
Fuck. “Now we’re dealing with anti-shippers? It’s my fault,” I continue, “what’s happening to Jack is on me. You date me, I come with baggage.”
Farrow leans forward. “See, that’s not what we’re doing here is blaming yourself. You didn’t create Oslie, and you can’t get rid of online bullshit and anti-fuckers. But you’re going to find a way to protect Jack because you’re Oscar Oliveira.”
I nod slowly.
Yeah.
I have to find a way. Because that’s the only avenue where I come out feeling like I’m worthy of being in a relationship.
“How much are you charging me for that advice, Redford?” I ask lightly, the mood lifting with my words.
“Eh, it’s free. I’m writing it up under, I couldn’t look at your face anymore.”
Donnelly laughs.
“Aw, fuck you.” I flip Farrow off, and we’re all grinning. For a moment, I start forgetting that Jack hasn’t texted me back.
SFO finishes their pool game, and Thatcher, Akara, Banks, and my little brother slide into our booth. We shoot the shit about the Phillies, Thatcher’s upcoming wedding, and Epsilon who keeps eyeing us to death.
Jealous motherfuckers.
“Get outta Philly!” a couple drunk guys yell from the bar.
I clamp a hand on Donnelly’s shoulder as he pops up. He shuts his mouth as his ass hits the seat. I’m sure he was about to yell, “We’re from Philly!”
Heard it before.
Inciting jeers happen at this bar too regularly now, ever since SFO gained some fame. Locals can’t stand us even if this has always been our local spot.
We refuse to be kicked out.
Akara gives him a friendly look. “Hey, don’t give Epsilon a reason to say they’re better than us.”
Donnelly nods, but Thatcher is glaring at the bar.
South Philly guys pop off so easily when their city pride is at stake. Love Philly to death, it’s been my home, but I’m not feeding into local hecklers.
We go back to our conversation, everyone grimacing at the cold coffees, and after another fifteen minutes, Farrow stands up on his seat—he’s wedged against the wall because everyone filled the booth. And instead of asking Thatcher, Akara, and Banks to move their asses, he literally walks across the table and jumps off.