“Thank you so much,” I whisper. I pull them both into a group hug.
My father hands me the keys. He’s getting in the passenger seat. We’re going to take it for a spin.
I turn on the engine. I’m happy about this, but sadness seeps in too—because part of happiness is sharing things with the people you care about most.
And the one person I want to share this with more than anyone else is Jamie.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jamie
Gabe has been avoiding me since Saturday, and I guess I’ve let him. But I can’t put this off any longer.
I park and walk in through the Fawkes and Horntail side entrance, stomach churning.
Hardly anyone’s here—I guess everyone’s at the Dunwoody office. It’s just Hannah and Alison, yawning at their desks under the fluorescent lights of the annex. But a moment later, Gabe rolls his chair into view, iced coffee in hand. He pauses a few feet from Hannah’s desk, laptop resting on his crossed legs.
I feel like puking. I’m not even kidding. My breakfast may not make it out of here with me.
Of course, Gabe grins when he sees me, like everything’s totally normal. “Big J! You here for poll observer training?”
I glare down at him. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Uh. Whoa.”
“I’m not kidding. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Gabe sets his laptop on the floor and takes a sip of his drink. “If this is about the picture—”
“Of course it’s about the picture!”
Hannah and Alison exchange glances, eyebrows halfway to the ceiling. “We’re gonna just . . .” Hannah’s already halfway to the annex door; moments later, Alison clicks it shut behind them.
“Dude,” Gabe says. “Chill. I took it down.”
“Yeah, from Rossum’s site.” I step toward him. “Great. What about BuzzFeed, Upworthy, Hypable—”
“Mashable now too.” Gabe pokes his finger up cheerfully. “And Bustle and the HuffPo. You guys are more popular than Fifi! Who knew?”
“You knew! This was completely calculated!”
Gabe leans back, calmly gripping his cup. “Did I think it could potentially drive a little traffic to the campaign at a critical time? Sure. But did I know it would go viral—”
“You’ve been obsessed with going viral! All summer! Don’t act like this wasn’t your endgame.”
“Look. Does it help the campaign? Yeah. More enthusiasm means more people actually showing up to vote. That’s how this works.”
The look on Gabe’s face right now. The way his lips tug casually upward. Like me losing my temper is just a funny little Monday morning distraction.
“I swear to God—”
“Look, Big J, don’t hate the player—”
“Are you even hearing yourself? You used us. You put a really private moment up on the internet without our consent.” My fists clench as I stare at him. “And thanks to you, Maya’s not speaking to me.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault she overreacted—”
“She didn’t overreact!” My entire body floods with heat. “Maya’s not allowed to date, and you put up a picture that basically looks like we’re making out. In public! You think that’s how Maya wanted her parents to find out about us? From BuzzFeed?”
Us. One tiny syllable. The word feels like an open wound.
There’s no us anymore for Maya’s parents to find out about.
“Dude, how they find out isn’t the dealbreaker here,” Gabe says. “If they’re freaking out, they would have freaked out anyway.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Okay, you know what?” Gabe sets his coffee down, then stands abruptly. “How about you stop being selfish for one minute. Are you forgetting the election is tomorrow? Tomorrow! We have a red-as-hell district, and this is the first time we’ve ever had a real shot at flipping it. And with a supermajority at stake? Big J. If you’re so worried about Maya’s family, you should be on your knees, thanking me for pulling out all the stops. We both know this hijab ban is moving forward if Newton wins—”
“Okay, fuck you,” I yell.
“Whoa.” He gapes at me. “I’m on your side—”
“No you’re not. You don’t give a shit about the hijab ban. You want Rossum to win so you can win. Full stop. So stop pretending you care. Of course I want Rossum to win! But I’m not going to exploit people to get there. Because that’s what you’re doing! You exploited me. You exploited Maya. Have you even looked at the comments? They’re not all fun and heart eyes, Gabe. You think the comment sections are kind to women? To Muslim women?”
Gabe rolls his eyes. “That’s a few people. Stop blowing this up. Ninety-nine percent of them think you’re adorable. You’re going to have adorable babies together—”
“Right, that’s your narrative, isn’t it? You saw the first comments and decided to keep fanning the flames. Does Rossum know what you’re willing to do to win?”
“Jordan doesn’t know shit about this.” Gabe’s face heats up. “You think this is just about winning? My ego?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
“Do you even read the local news?” Gabe slams his hand down on Hannah’s desk. “Do you even get what’s at stake? H.B. 28 is the tip of the fucking iceberg, dude. Representative Karpenter from deep red fucking north Georgia’s got one in the pipeline to remove discrimination protections in public schools. In the name of religious freedoms. We all fucking know what that means. Maybe think about your pals Felipe and Nolan before you come after me.”
Gabe’s words knock the wind out of me. A discrimination bill. Here in Georgia. I’ve seen them pass in other states, but our economy’s so tied up with the film industry, Governor Doyle’s never wanted to risk stirring up a boycott. But if Newton wins, and there’s a Republican supermajority . . .
I think of Felipe and Nolan. Thank God they’re graduating in a year. But what about all the kids who aren’t graduating yet?
What about Sophie?
My heart slams around my rib cage, pressure building behind my eyes. I don’t know if I’m about to burst into tears or detonate.
I whirl on Gabe. “That doesn’t make what you did okay.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Jamie, if my main fucking concern the day before the election is winning the goddamn election. I’m sorry Maya freaked out on you, dude. I am. But last I checked, Maya’s not the only girl on earth—”
“Okay, that’s—”
“Your comments are full of girls who think you’re hot,” Gabe continues, completely unfazed. “Dude. You want a girlfriend so badly? Make it happen, Big J. Go slide into some DMs. You know you’ve got, like, three thousand new followers since Saturday.”
I just look at him.
“So, you’re welcome,” he adds.
“I’m . . .” I open Instagram, head spinning. Random girls think I’m hot. Not that I care, but that’s, like, bizarro-world, alternate-universe levels of unexpected. Me? And three thousand followers? From the kiss picture? I wasn’t even tagged. . . .