I quickly found the thread in question since it now had a fire icon to the side, indicating it was literally a “hot topic.” I clicked on the last page to jump right into the fray. The last message, written only a minute earlier, told me all I needed to know.
Di$a$ter, who had no life off the boards, had written: All right. I’ve set up a fake email account so I could register. Let’s all go and let Gabriel Sanchez know he can’t mess with WD.
I rolled my eyes at how childish these people could be and at myself for letting this still be such a huge part of my life, but I began composing my trademark level-headed response to the incredibly short-sighted attempts to salvage the already solid reputation of the band from one bad review.
Guys, are you shitting me? You do realize that this is one review among dozens. The reviewer has a right to his opinion, and you only give the fan base a terrible reputation by flooding the comment sections. It won’t change the mind of the reviewer. It may in fact cement it. I’m going to lock this thread now.
If I come back and find you’re continuing this nonsense, I’ll have to start banning accounts. I don’t want to do that. I know you mean well, but please knock it off, you knuckleheads.
This was my life. My weird alternative life.
The fan reaction didn’t surprise me. Fans assume the world revolves around all the arcane knowledge they’ve collected over the years. After a while, a fan community is nothing but inside jokes, memes, and long-held grievances. The name Gabriel Sanchez would be added to the ever-expanding list of people who were dead to us.
Of course, I didn’t reveal that I currently sat at the very magazine they were battling. Hopefully Gabriel Sanchez wouldn’t know I had anything to do with the fans. If I ever crossed paths with him.
The reality of that possibility hit me.
I stood and scoped out the other cubes wondering if Gabriel might appear in the flesh. It would have been funny to tell him to his face what my posters wanted to say in blog comments, but I didn’t see anyone matching his bio pic, so I settled back in at my desk disappointed.
Confident I’d put out the distant fire, I couldn’t resist a quick run through unread threads.
Most of the action was about Walking Disaster’s new album and some chatter about concerts for other bands. I zeroed in on a discussion about a show Jo’s boyfriend Micah’s band had opened. The forum members would have lost their shit if I’d casually mentioned I’d be dining at their house that evening.
As it was, I was losing my own shit.
Once I’d caught up, I put my phone in airplane mode to avoid the distraction, but as soon as five o’clock approached, I reconnected. For a wonder, Ash had only texted me twice, and the second said: Never mind. I straightened it out.
The immediate temptation to check on the earlier forum drama lost out to my promise to contact Jo. After so much time dealing with brand-new coworkers, I considered bailing. I could unwind alone with my hundreds of anonymous friends, vague-posting about my brush with fame and hinting about the night that might have been.
But I knew I needed to wean myself from virtual society and make real-life friends, so I sucked up my courage and dialed Jo’s number, worried she’d forgotten about me anyway.
My pulse sped up as she answered. “Layla?”
In my mind, a million hearts exploded at the sound of her voice. It was official. I had a girl crush.
She instructed me to head down to the street, and fifteen minutes later, a town car with its own driver whisked me away like I was a movie star. As we rode across town, Jo told me about an art show she was putting together. I found myself straddling a line between showing enthusiasm while not veering into outright familiarity.
When she asked me about my day, I babbled as if she really wanted to hear all the technical mumbo jumbo, all the while saying, “Shut up!” in my own head. But it was easier to ramble about work than anything else, and she was sweet enough to listen.
We pulled up at her place. The front steps were identical to others up and down the street, punctuating one long row of townhouses. It looked like Sesame Street to me.
“Is this called a brownstone?”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
She dug out her keys and entered the abode, dropping her bags in the entry and moving quickly to the kitchen where she sat down and pricked her finger with a stick. “Don’t mind me. I’m diabetic. I just need to test my blood sugar real quick. Then we can eat.”
I knew all that. Of course, I did. I’d been peering through her virtual window for years. The worst of it was, I knew less about her than I did about her boyfriend Micah. And I knew less about Micah than I did about his sister, Eden. And I knew less about all of them combined than I knew about Eden’s husband, Adam Copeland.
One degree. I was one degree of separation from Adam Copeland.
Ten years ago, that would have driven me to fan-girl frenzy. Five years ago, I would have begged Jo to introduce me to Adam at the expense of her friendship. Even two years ago, it would have given me an intense thrill to get invited this far into a world I’d been watching like a scripted TV show for so long.
It was exciting. Of course, it was, but compared to my former psychologically questionable levels of fanaticism, my response to the current situation bordered on intellectual curiosity more than hysteria. Somewhere, sublimated deep in my brain, I was blowing my mind. But Jo was so nice, and her house seemed so ordinary. Her life was just . . . normal. And she’d taken me in as a friend.
All in all, I felt like I was being pretty damn cool.
As she packed away her testing kit, she said, “I’ve got these premade dinners in the freezer. I can heat up this incredible Thai peanut shrimp. You’re not allergic, are you?”
I shook my head as I climbed on a stool at the kitchen island, trying not to gawk at everything. “That sounds great.”
She grabbed a couple of Tupperware boxes of premade dinners that looked homemade. She turned the oven on and said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to change. I’ll just be a jiff.”
“No problem.”
Alone in her kitchen, I looked around. What would they say on the forum if I snapped a picture and told them where I was? I couldn’t do that, though. It would open such a can of worms. They’d want me to dig through drawers, basically destroying any chance of maintaining a friendly relationship with Jo. One glance at the boards, she’d know without a shadow of doubt who’d betrayed her.
I considered texting Ash, but she might get jealous or blab.
There was one person I could talk to who’d never spill. She’d been trying to call me anyway. I slipped through the sliding door out into the backyard and dialed my mom’s number.