Publicity Stunt

i | avant que

CONTRARY TO POPULAR belief, I didn't consider myself a drastic or violent person.

I was a wearer of rings. A lover of lazy days spent in baggy clothes in my room. I took zero nonsense. I minded my business. I prided myself on being calm and collected all the time—well, most of the time, to be precise.

Needless to say, I was very appreciative of peace.

But I had a feeling I was absolutely going to raise hell if I remained alone on this patio for two more minutes.

Silverware clinked against glass in the distance as my sister conversed with the team from Claire, the organic skincare brand she was ambassador for, and I quietly counted down the seconds until I could call it a day.

Coco had just moved back into her recently renovated house, and she'd been sending my mom and I overenthusiastic photos of the new additions—the fire pit and dreamy pool, especially—in an attempt to both make us jealous and convince us to visit, and after a week-long debate, I somehow let myself get talked out of a relaxing day by the less dreamy pool at my house. And as if my coming wasn't enough sacrifice, my sister insisted for some reason that I got friendly with the enigma that was Takoda Calebs before I left. She made provisions for food and drinks and a camera team and everything, her schedule for today absolutely packed.

What she failed to remind me was that her best friend was a chronic latecomer.

To be honest, I didn't see the need for this. If anyone wanted to know anything at all about Takoda, they could visit the Wikipedia page about him or check out the several fan sites dedicated to him—he wasn't one of the world's favorite young men for nothing. Meeting him face to face was just for brownie points, and if my sister had told me about this beforehand, I would've done all the necessary research just so I could wiggle my way out.

I fussed with one of the straps of the ridiculously expensive backpack said sister got me earlier this year, before taking a sip of my pulpy orange juice. Most of the ice in it had melted, a result of the sweltering heat, and it managed to simultaneously taste vaguely like cough syrup, and make my teeth feel sensitive. I was wearing down my teeth enamel waiting for the Takoda Calebs on Coco Lavigne's hot patio. Most people would consider me lucky, but after so many years of doing this I'm famous thing, meeting people like him was starting to feel royally exhausting, and so was getting used to the fact that Coco was my sister.

Despite all my internal threats to leave in two minutes, I ended up waiting ten more before the sliding glass door was gently pushed open. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that he was putting on a black graphic tee and Ray-Ban aviators, but I was too annoyed to acknowledge him—I mean, what kind of man kept a lady waiting for thirty effing minutes?—so I continued to scroll through Instagram, even checking posts I'd been mentioned in for the first time in months.

Social media was a rabbit hole I didn't like falling into, but I'd take the distraction today if it meant letting him know how pissed I was.

"Shit. How long have you been waiting?"