five
A makeup person rushed to apply a second layer of gloss to my lips as the ten-second countdown commenced. Mason’s skin was hurriedly being wiped with a brush chalked full of bronzer, and lights were starting to blink everywhere. The makeup team dispersed from the stage, and we got the signal that we were live on air in another five seconds. Mason shot me a side-glance, and I stuck my tongue out at him. With a loud “Three! Two! One!” the camera was on, and we were back to by far one of our strangest interviews yet.
The thirty year old with more energy than a hummingbird on crack turned back to us, and grinned widely, her bright red lip upturned at the edges. “Welcome back, everyone!” she said to the viewers who weren’t currently in the studio, but rather somewhere else watching by the means of electrical currents. “So, Mason, as we were discussing before, I hear that you and Natalie are doing pretty well. Care to elaborate?”
I tried not to smirk, recalling the exact line that Mason was about to say. As the boy to my right picked up my hand in his, he replied with a rehearsed, “Yeah, Nat and I are dope. Last week we went out for Starbucks, and had the sickest time.” Just like we had practiced. So far in this interview, we were both being pretty conservative and trying desperately to follow the script to a T. Fred was beyond happy because we didn’t sound like complete idiots, and all of Mason’s diehard fans in the audience were also loving it because, well, he was Mason Grey and they would love him even if he committed murder.
“Really, now?” the interviewer said, turning to me. “Natalie—actually, can I call you Nat? Is that okay?”
“Nat’s fine,” I sighed, just wanting to finish this thing up. There were about twenty minutes left, but I was done now. The talk show wasn’t the problem, but rather the host of the talk show. She was just crazy and too eccentric and expressive and her eyebrows were weird and she was wearing neon colors and it was a show for teens but she was twice their age and I just didn’t like her. Also, she kept going off on random tangents about nothing and not asking us the questions we had prepared for. Mason didn’t like her either, so we were in the same boat. Twenty minutes. We could make it.
“Okay, Nat, so a few days ago you told your fans on Twitter that Mason asked you to move in with him,” she said in a single breath, not bothering to look at the teleprompter that she was supposed to be following. “We’re all dying to know—have you accepted yet?”
Though a proper answer wasn’t in our or any version of the script, that didn’t stop Mason from replying with a confident, “She has. Nat’s moving in with me.”
“And when did we decide this?” I shot back defensively, the script I had memorized being thrown entirely out the window now.
“Babe, chill!” Mason laughed. “It’s okay. I know you wanted to be the one to tell people.”
“What are you talking about?” I laughed, knowing for a fact that we hadn’t settled on anything yet. I was still living in my current apartment, dreading the day that my roomie came back and decided to rob a bank and peg me as her accomplice.
“Ooh, sorry if I brought up a sore subject!” the host apologized emptily. We all knew that she was just loving the drama, as were her producers and everyone watching the show. “Now, Mason, a lot of people have been wondering this lately, so let’s set the record straight: how’s your sex life?”
If I had been drinking any liquid, then I would’ve done a spit take right there and then. This was definitely not in the script we had prepared. I was pretty sure that Fred was about to cry, and Rob was probably about to have a mental breakdown. Regardless, Mason still managed to reply with a casual, “You mean how’s our sex life?”
“Yes, of course! You and Nat. Doing the dirty. How’s the sex? Is the spark still there? Try to keep it PG. Nothing R rated—you can save that for after the show!” she winked at us suggestively. I wanted to vomit, and it if hadn’t been for how uncomfortably humorous the situation was, then I probably would’ve hurled.
“Actually,” Mason started, squeezing my thigh for the theatrics, “we’re both saving each other until we’re married.”
“Really?” the interviewer said as the audience gasped.
“No,” Mason snorted. “Sorry, but my sex life with Natty is private. Hate to disappoint.” I let out a sigh of relief, glad that he hadn’t made up any gory details about our nonexistent “sex life.”
Since I found out that Mason wasn’t actually pretending to be straight, but rather the opposite, things had been adequately awkward. Mason was acting as if nothing had changed—because to him, nothing really had—and I was walking on eggshells, unsure how to treat this “new” Mason. He was still my best friend, only now he didn’t like boys—he liked girls. I was still pretty mad at him for having lied to me for so long, but currently it wasn’t my job to be mad at him—I was supposed to act like his girlfriend, which was exactly what I was doing.
“That’s too bad,” said the host with a disingenuous frown that instantly turned upside down. “Now, would you two both mind standing up and following me, please?”
With inaudible groans, Mason and I stood from the comfortable sofa we had been sitting in, and then trailed behind the woman, over to an area on a different part of the stage. Before us was a large wheel mounted to a wall with an axis. It was divided into about twelve equal triangles, all of which said different things on them like “Fan Call,” “Jell-O Eating,” and “Sticky Hickey.” As I stared at the various words, fear began to grow in the pit of my stomach as I realized that Mason and I would be forced to do one of the things on the wheel, whatever exactly that particular thing entailed.
“As all of you know, this is Wheel of Fun time! Mason’s going to spin, and then pick a challenge to do with Nat!” the host explained—more to the viewers than to us. “Now, who’s ready for the Wheel of Fun?”
The spectators roared with anticipation, which balanced out the qualms from Mason and me.
“Now, Mason, can you spin the Wheel of Fun for us, please?” requested the lady, her eyes eagerly following Mason’s movements as he hesitantly gave the circle a spin. Music started playing, and the entire set began to light up with rainbow polka dots. Then, the wheel stopped, and one of those pointer things directed our attention to a particular phrase that I was really dreading: “Seventh Heaven.” The interviewer inspected the wheel, and smiled broadly so that she looked like a mild-mannered serial killer. “Seventh Heaven!” she announced excitedly into the camera. “Just like the popular party game, Seven Minutes in Heaven, Mason and Nat are going to go into a closet”—I almost burst out laughing at that, considering Mason’s fabricated history with closets and all—“for seven minutes, and we’ll see what happens from there!”
We were then escorted over to another part of the stage, where a narrow structure with four sides had been constructed. The side facing the camera, however, was made of some translucent fiber. The interviewer pushed us into the makeshift “closet,” told us that we had seven minutes, that she would be doing something else in the meantime, that we should totally kiss, and that our mikes had been turned off. Then, she closed the see-through door, leaving Mason and me to our own devices—aka, each other.
“We’re still on live TV right now, aren’t we?” Mason asked.
“Yep,” I nodded, leaning up against one of the walls. The space was really cramped, so unless I pressed myself up against the wall, then I would pretty much be forced into Mason, and that didn’t seem too appealing right now. “So, I’m moving in with you, huh?”
“Glad you’ve finally agreed!” he said back with a smile.
“Mason!”
“Nat, now’s not the time to be screaming my name. Save that for later tonight.” The asshole literally couldn’t keep the smugness out of his voice as he articulated the cheesy innuendo. It took all the self-control that I had not to slap him on national television. “So. Seven—well, more like six, now—Minutes in Heaven. Want to play, Natty?”
“No,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest strictly.
“Too bad,” he countered, discreetly pointing over to something in the distance. I glanced out the clear door and noticed Fred and Rob trying desperately to get our attention. They were holding up a sign that said, “KISS!” in messy handwriting.
I turned back to Mason and scowled at him, muttering an irritated, “Why couldn’t we have just eaten Jell-O?”
“Because eating each other’s faces makes much better TV,” Mason said, taking a small step towards me. And like usual, Mason Grey was right.
He reached out and grabbed me by the waist, pressing my body up against his. With a juvenile look of mischief sent my way that turned smoldering in a blink of the eye, one of his hands moved to the back of my head, and interwove itself in my hair. His face grew nearer, and his lips hovered over mine. My breath hitched in anticipation, and before smashing his mouth into mine, Mason Grey whispered a painfully husky, “Pucker up, buttercup.”
And then, before I had the chance to laugh at his use of the word “buttercup,” my main source of air was cut off, and Mason Grey was kissing me—again. I wasn’t really sure why he thought it was okay, but just like the other day at his house, instead of sticking with the safe and practiced stage kiss like we always did, the idiot decided to spice things up. And since kissing wasn’t something meant to be experienced with the eyes, I shut mine, hoping that it would make Mason go away. It didn’t.
Though I was desperately trying to keep my teeth locked together, Mason’s sudden movement of his lips made me hesitate, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside my mouth. “Gay” Mason would’ve never done something as stupid as that. I liked that version of Mason more. It went against every fiber in my being, but I then found myself kissing back just as passionately, and giving in to the temptation. Mason pressed me up against the wall of the “closet”/box that we were in, and began to kiss me even harder, if that was even a thing. And I reciprocated.
Mentally, I didn’t want to kiss Mason Grey. He was my best friend who had lied to me, and I was supposed to be mad at him. Unfortunately, my body didn’t get the memo, for despite all the warnings my brain was sending, I just couldn’t stop. Maybe it was because after years of pretending to have chemistry with one another, we actually did. Maybe it was because Mason was a really good kisser. And maybe—just maybe—it was because deep down I had some glimmer of attraction for Mason Grey. But probably not.
Then, as if a beacon of metaphorical light was shining through the enclosed area in which we were trapped for at least 420 seconds, Mason’s mouth left mine, and I took the time to allow stale air into my lungs. I was so relieved. But because good things always came to an end, Mason decided to be Mason, and pulled another dick move. He began to suck on my neck.
Even with the distraction of Mason Grey’s lips on the skin that concealed my vocal cords and esophagus, I still managed a clipped, “Mason! What the hell! We’re on TV!”
“And if we weren’t then I’d probably try to do a whole lot more than just give you a hickey, Nat,” he mumbled against my skin. Before I had time to slap him or tell him that I’d cut off his testicles if he tried anything more, Mason Grey then moved his mouth back on mine, shutting me up. Just like every other time the idiot had tried to kiss me, all I could do was attempt to not kiss back, only to fail miserably.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door swung open to a euphoric grin that truly expressed the quintessence of intrigue and absolute delight. Standing there was the interviewer, and all she could do was click her tongue in a disapproving manner, even though she was probably over the freaking moon to find us like this. “Times up, lovebirds!”
Mason’s lips gruffly retired from my face, and before I could pull away, Mason murmured into my ear so that only I could hear, “‘Sweet yet passionate and zesty.’” He was quoting a line from the script. A shiver ran through my body as I then gladly skedaddled my way out of the “closet” faster than a bullet train. We followed the host back over to the typical seating area, trying to pretend that we hadn’t just shared a heated make out session that would surely be sweeping the web in a matter of minutes.
I sat down beside Mason, struggling to create a space between us, for just as I scooted over a few inches to get away from the boy, he decided that it would be a dandy idea to snake his arm around my waist so that we were flush up against each other. As discreetly as I good, I elbowed the pop star in the side. He didn’t even flinch.
“So,” the interviewer began, bubbling over with joy, “that was…interesting! Nat, on a scale of one to ten, how good of a kisser is Mason? We’re all just dying to know!”
“Oh, numbers can’t even begin to do Mason justice,” I replied with a tight grin that was about as fake as the interviewer’s boobs.
“Aw, thanks, babe!” Mason said, kissing the top of my head, much to my dismay.
I squirmed, forcing a cheery, “Anytime, loser!”
“As cute as this is, I’m going to have to cut the love fest short! Sorry, guys!” said the interviewer, standing up once again. She turned to the camera, saying directly into it, “And when we come back, Mason Grey will be preforming right on this very show!”
The show cut to a commercial, and I knew that I was finally done. Mason, however, still had five minutes left to entertain the masses with his voice, because apparently his mouth wasn’t just for kissing—it could sing, too! As producers and production assistants flooded the stage, I went against my better judgment and ran (despite how awfully awful the action was) over to Fred and Rob. Rob was making a frantic call on his Bluetooth, and Fred was trying to recover from what had just occurred.
“That was not okay,” I told Fred, causing the man to look up and stare at me in disbelief.
“You two didn’t follow the script,” was all he could say.
“There wasn’t any part in the script that said we would being doing that!” I countered back.
“And what exactly happened back there, Natalie? Tell me,” he prompted, not as annoyed as I, but definitely close.
I was about to tell him that Mason had shoved his tongue into my mouth instead of sticking with a nice stage kiss, but then I stopped myself. If Fred knew that Mason’s tongue had purposely slid into my mouth, then there wasn’t even a doubt in my mind that he would immediately become suspicious of Mason’s “gayness.” Typically—and as far as I knew—gay guys didn’t like hooking up with girls. Even if I was infuriated with Mason, I couldn’t do something like that to him. He had trusted me enough to tell me the truth (which, incidentally, also forced him to confess about his lying), and even with my current emotions towards him, I wasn’t about to break his trust.
“Mason decided to try and give me a hickey,” I settled on, knowing that I could spin it in a way so that it still sounded like Mason was, well, gay.
“Why?” Fred demanded, asking the same thing that I had been wondering.
Thinking quickly, I fabricated a lie, and blabbered it out without even having time to contemplate whether or not it was even remotely believable: “He was trying to be funny.”
“I’ll have to speak to Mason about this, but no more hickeys on TV, okay?” Fred said sharply.
“Actually, I disagree,” Rob stepped in, pressing the device in his ear. I was about 76.8% sure that he was talking to us rather than someone else on the phone, but this was Rob, so I would never know for sure. “The kid’s a genius,” Rob said, causing both Fred and I to snort. Mason Grey was a lot of things. A “genius” was not one of them. “Aside from getting rid of gay rumors for at least another three weeks, with the stint that you two pulled, Mason’s not only going to be everywhere, but also his music sales are going to skyrocket. Believe me, this was a good thing.”
“The popped blood vessels on my neck beg to differ,” I stated coldly, not being able to recall the last time a boy had given me a hickey. I always found the “love bites” to be pretty annoying, because they were practically impossible to hide, and generally guys just did them to mark their “territory” or whatever. Mason, on the other hand, had done it to be an asshole. I really couldn’t wait to try and hide this thing with concealer. Oh, what a fun experience that would be!
“So what are we doing with Mason? Telling him to shape up, or praising him for his job well done?” Fred asked Rob in a confused tone.
“I vote on taking away his car for the next month!” I said.
The two men responsible for the singer completely ignored me (as they often did), and decided amongst themselves that they would make Mason promise not to bite me again, but tell him that the kissing looked really believable (it was as if it was a real kiss or something!). All the while, the only thing I could do was try to drone out the sound of Mason’s crooning voice as he sang one of the singles off of his new album. It was some dumb song about road trips and summer nights and partying. The tune was nauseatingly catchy, the lyrics sucked, and Mason’s voice was undeniably the best part about it. But right now, Mason Grey’s voice was the last thing I wanted to hear.
“So, what exactly do I get out of this arrangement?” I questioned once the manager and publicist were done deliberating how to deal with Mason Grey. Yet again, they ignored me. Because I wasn’t one to be ignored, I offhandedly said, “Okay, I guess he’s getting a black eye from his ‘girlfriend’ when this show is over. Fine by me.”
Unsurprisingly, that got their attention. “Natalie, if you so much as flick Mason, I will make sure to write a part in every script for the next month where he gives you a hickey. Are we clear?” Rob threatened, sticking up for his homeboy like a true saint.
I muttered a brief, “Whatever,” before being whisked back onto the land of TV for the conclusion of the show. Someone had guided me over to where Mason was finishing up his song, and I was told to go give a hug when he was done. Mason ended on a high note (literally—the last note in his song was veering into the falsetto range), and then I was pushed into him, and we hugged like the perfect couple that we weren’t.
“Mason Grey, you have no idea what type of hell you’re in for,” I hissed, continuing to hug him as I kept up the charade.
“Game on, Natty,” Mason returned in an equally as hushed tone.
A literal spotlight was then cast our way, and the host came over to us, concluding the show as she looked into the camera with a wide grin: “Thanks for tuning in, folks! And let’s have a round of applause for our special guests, Mason Grey and Natalie Perry! It’s been real! See you next week! Bye!” The camera stopped blinking red, and everyone let out a unanimous sigh. It was finally over.