The bathroom felt impossibly small. For the first time I noticed there was no window—the door was the only way out. Even with the faucet running I worried they had heard us, that somehow the producers already knew that I knew.
“Why is he home? It’s not a coincidence, right?” I asked. “Are there mics in here? Could they have heard what we said?”
My fingers went to my throat, and I felt along the collar of the sweater, then down over the front, checking if it was possible I had a mic on me, like the ones I’d seen talk-show hosts wear. I studied the buttons on my jeans and squeezed the little metal grommet thing at the seam, but they felt normal. At least I thought they did.
“I’m not stupid,” he said. “There aren’t any microphones in bathrooms, not these at least. I think they have a few right by the sinks in the girls’ bathroom at school, and they definitely have some in the locker rooms, cameras too. But not here.”
I thought about tugging off my gym clothes on camera, or Kristen talking to me in her bra as she took ten minutes to flip her tee shirt inside out. I felt sick. He must’ve noticed my expression because he added, “They have a female editor who cuts out the visuals whenever you’re changing. It goes to a black screen. Some of the actresses are older, like eighteen or twenty, so they show those shots sometimes.”
As if that made it any better.
I pressed my ear to the door, trying to gauge where Craig was. I couldn’t hear much beyond the rushing water, just the occasional creak of a wooden floorboard, or what sounded like the refrigerator opening and closing. Tyler squeezed next to me. He checked and rechecked the doorknob, making sure it was locked.
“Look, I don’t know how much time I have left on the show,” he said. “You’re supposed to date Patrick Kramer. You were always supposed to date Patrick Kramer, that was the plan from the beginning. The audience likes him better.”
It was the way Tyler said it, like it was a truth neither of us could escape. We’d just have to accept what the producers wanted, what the audience wanted, as if that was the most important thing. What about what I wanted? Didn’t that matter? Why couldn’t I set my own course now, knowing what I knew?
“Who cares if the audience likes him better?”
“I know, right? You don’t have to explain it to me. But I guess he tests really well with teen girls and the over-forty set, which is kind of creepy if you think about it.” Tyler’s face scrunched tight, like it enraged him to even think about Patrick. “Males ages eighteen to thirty-four like him too, which is really annoying, because he’s so vanilla. I mean, what do people see in him? He’s like a cartoon version of what a high-school guy should be.”
“He has no personality.”
“I know.” Tyler leaned in close, and I could feel the warmth of his breath. Only everything between us was different now.
“I mean, I feel like that moment in the storage closet was beyond romantic, right? That’s the kind of stuff all classic nineties TV shows have. Joey and Dawson from Dawson’s Creek, like every scene in 90210. The kiss in Jen Klein’s bedroom felt real, didn’t it?”
I tried to back away but I knocked against the sink. There was nowhere to go. I couldn’t believe I’d ever kissed him. That I’d ever liked him.
“Are you serious?” I finally said.
“You don’t even know the whole story,” he went on. “Patrick and his family already have a contract for a spinoff show. They live inside the set in this huge, decked-out house, with all this fancy tech and crap, while the rest of us commute in every day like a bunch of plebs. And you haven’t even been over there yet, that’s the worst part. You haven’t even set foot in there, and they’re living large.”
There were footsteps on the kitchen stairs. His stepdad’s voice was getting closer, and even over the water I could hear him repeat Tyler’s name. Tyler grabbed my hand. I stared down at it, as if it wasn’t part of my body.
“You know how people are always walking in on us, how Jen interrupted?” he said. He didn’t wait for my answer. “And then they sped up the whole Sara storyline, making her slip into the coma last night, because they thought that would throw me off. But they didn’t count on you having real feelings for me. You really do like me better than Patrick. They can’t stop this, no matter how hard they try. I’m a real player now.”
“I don’t get it. What’s your point?”
Tyler held my hand up. He was clutching it now, holding it tight between both of his, and then he did the grossest thing. He pressed it to his cheek.
“They’re threatening me,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment. “I know this is going to absolutely crush you, Jess, but they want me off the show. They’re never going to let a ginger be the love interest, and they refuse to let me dye my hair. Now they say I’m distracting you too much, and they want you with Patrick, even though—for the record—I’ve really grown my following in the last two months and it’s only a matter of time before I have more followers than Patrick. Seriously.”
“Following? What do you mean?”
There was a knock on the bathroom door. Tyler’s stepdad was right outside now—I could hear him clearly.
“Tyler? You in there?”
The doorknob turned half an inch, then stopped.
“One second, Craig!” Tyler called out, like he was delivering the punchline of a joke. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “They’re pissed that I went rogue. That I dared become more than the shitty little best friend part they assigned me. They’re going to write me off. Boarding school. Maybe ol’ Craig here will have to move home to Michigan to take care of his dying mother. Some crap like that. But you can change it, Jess—you can force them to keep me here. I told you everything you asked, I answered every single question. And from now on I’ll make sure you have whatever info you want, and then you’ll be in on everything. Let’s just act like we’re going to go back to being friends for a while. We can just slow this all down and pretend we had a change of heart. Then I get to stay, and you’re in on everything moving forward. We’ll plan and decide on things together. Like business partners. Isn’t that genius?”
It was like I wasn’t there. He wasn’t asking me, he was telling me how it would be, how we would be together. When I stood up my legs felt unsteady. He’d spent years pretending to be my friend, and the last three months luring me into a fake relationship. He’d been to my house hundreds of times. After Sara had gotten sick he’d brought her a basket of candy and YM magazines and gave this whole shy, rambling speech telling her he hoped it “lifted her spirits.” Then we’d had a movie marathon in the treehouse, as if watching Dazed and Confused for the third time could replace all my bad thoughts with good ones.
I’d been so excited when he’d offered to help me with the talent show. One time we’d stayed up late, practicing in the garage for an hour after our bassist went home. We made Bagel Bites and I played him a song I’d written on my guitar. I’d believed him when he’d told me I was “crazy talented” and “really something else.” He’d actually said that, in this low, breathy voice I didn’t recognize. You’re really something else, Jess Flynn. Do you know that?
“Just date Patrick Kramer for a little bit.” Tyler kept going, squeezing my hand tight. “Or what about a love triangle? People are obsessed with love triangles. You date Patrick and I fall back, become the best friend again. Steady. Dependable. I’ll pretend I’m waiting in the wings, the unsung hero type. But then they’ll get what they want and I’ll get to stay.”
I tugged my hand out from between his and turned the faucet off. Tyler was still staring at me.
“So…” he started. “What do you think?”
This was his version of sincere. He actually thought he was being considerate, kind. He thought we were a team.
“I think you can go fuck yourself,” I said.
Then I swung the door open and stepped out into the den, where Tyler’s stepdad was waiting. He acted surprised to see me.