A 'SUB' REQUEST (Cate Blanchett x OC)

Chapter 15: A last resort

"If you're down for it, as the gen-Z like to say."  Cate propped up her head with one hand.

Cate and I had gotten to the "what are we" talk. It was a dream come true moment, but for all the elation that I expected to feel, dread filled me in equal measure. 

Until that point, I'd always dismiss the idea of "dating within one's league". Philosophically, I found it repugnant. But then theory became reality, and I found myself doubting whether I could live up to the task of being Cate Blanchett's girlfriend. Sneaking around was one thing - but as a glimpse into Cate's life over the past few months informed me, being in a committed relationship with a celebrity came with it enormous pressure, unimaginable deprivation, and heightened visibility to vast swaths of people who insisted that they knew you. 

"I think..." my voice trailed off, "that I need to think..." and hated myself as soon as I said it out loud. 

"Well I'm not in a rush," Cate surprised me by how unfazed she was, "at my age, I always debate whether I should say 'girlfriend' or 'partner'. You're hardly a girl anymore..." 

I didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved - this was a watershed moment in our relationship, and here she was playing with semantics. 

"I love you, Cate," I mumbled, "but I feel like while dating you, I'm also dating all these people from your past, and it's making me very overwhelmed. Trust me, if there was an alternative universe where they don't exist, or if I'm mentally strong enough to be at peace with all of this, I'd say yes to you right now. I just really don't want to disappoint you again..." 

A silence. 

"Are you mad?" my heart was thumping, "please don't be mad." 

"I understand that my life is chaotic and it's not for everyone. I've come to terms with the fact that there's only so much I can control in life," she said calmly, "but please know one thing - you have never disappointed me, sweetheart." 

For all the trials and tribulations that the past few months have put us through, the one thing I was sure of was how Cate felt about me. But did I truly have what it took to be loved by her? I thought on my drive home. 

And just in time to disrupt my meandering thoughts, my phone lit up again. 

At first I thought the message was spam. There were four blurry photos side by side as if in some kind of haphazard collage, like stuff that you'd send to a friend when drunk. Then I realized that they were all of me: the first was me checking into a hotel with Cate in Bath, the second us kissing on the London Bridge, the third was me knocking on door 38 at the Oscars, and the fourth - fresh out of the oven, showed me leaving Cate's house in the exact outfit that I had on right now. 

And an accompanying text from the evil brunette at the bottom: "You've given me enough material for a cover story. See you on the front page of Us Weekly coming out this Sunday." 

-----

"I need serious help," I confessed to my boss at our Friday bar crawl, "I wouldn't turn to you if I wasn't in a gay crisis." 

"Spill everything." There was more intrigue than sympathy in his voice. 

"I'm fallen in love with someone famous, and she wants to take things to the next level, but she's got a lot of powerful enemies who are jealous and threatening to out us in the tabloids if we stayed together."

"Ooh let me guess," his eyes lit up, "are you sleeping with Sarah Paulson?"

"No."

"Rachel Weisz? I always knew she swung both ways. And she's hot."

"No, and you're not being very helpful." 

"Bitch, you can rock an Oscar de la Renta gown, but you also carry yourself like a gunslinging gym teacher. No one I know would bat an eyelash to find out that you're gay."

"I just really don't want this to be the first search result on Google when people type in my name..."

"Ok, let's say a future employer sees this. Chances are they'll be like, damn this girl's got killer connections. What are you really afraid of?" 

 I started tearing up, "I'm the happiest I've ever been when I'm with her and I'd be so proud to be her girlfriend, but I'm terrified for the world to see it." 

"And what would they see exactly?"

It took me a long time to get the words out. "A disgusting dyke with mommy issues who slept her way up in the industry. I'm only 25, and the image will define me for life." 

"You are in a pickle, my friend." He said as if I just told him I couldn't decide what to order for dinner, "A big classic gay pickle."  

"I won't be for much longer," I said, exasperated, "when everything comes out in the open on Sunday." 

"And there's no way you can keep things on the down-low from these people?"

"Her enemies probably own half the paparazzi in town...we're being watched everywhere we go." 

"Look, just break it off if it's bothering you this much. You dykes always get so attached."

"I can't..." 

"Listen, I gotta go, but walk with me back to my place." He got up and escorted me out the bar, putting his jacket over me as I was shuddering in my tank top. As the cool night air hit my face, I started to gain a bit of lucidity. We walked side by side in Beverly Hills - the palm trees towered over us, casting ominous shadows. 

"Honey tell me, can you look back on this and say you had fun while it lasted?" he asked earnestly. 

"Yes, and so much more."

"Then there's nothing to regret," he wiped the tears away from my face, "Now go on home, get on Bumble or Hinge or Raya or whatever you chicks dig these days, and you'll find yourself swimming in pussy and munching box in no time. But you know, find a normie this time. Less than 3k followers on Insta type of gal."

"How can you just move on like this?" 

"Darling, this is Hollywood, your next-door neighbor's probably hotter than your GF. You think you've landed a big one, but don't settle until you've really shopped around town. Speaking of, I have a rendez-vous with my studmuffin from the Oscars, so night night." he waved and sent me on my merry way. 

As we parted ways and I was about to hail an uber, I realized that I still had his jacket on. So I headed back towards his door to return it. His midnight booty call had just arrived, and I could make out their dark silhouettes in front of the door. The guy, who had a round form, was no studmuffin by conventional standards, but I'd already accepted my boss' trashy taste in men as an integral part of his identity. As the light from inside the house lit them up from inside, and they turned their faces to check that no one saw them, my jaw dropped. 

The bulgy midriff belonged to none other than Mr. Andrew Upton himself, who now had his arms wrapped around my boss, his flaming homosexual paramour. One man's poison was another's meat. Literally. 

Then I realized my fury had blinded me. There was a magnificent opportunity here. With stealth, I might secure the prize long-term, forever in my debt. I could gain everything by doing nothing.

Well, by doing one little thing, to be exact. I took out my phone, snapped a beautifully permanent memento of the homophobic Mr. Blanchett tasting the rainbow (bless the digital age!), and texted it to Hylda Queally. 

"Happy Pride, bitch." 

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