“You’re dating him for views? Does your ego need that big of a boost?”
His words were like a punch to my gut. “It’s not about ego. My videos are monetized, and my other videos are getting clicks too. I’ve always wanted to build my platform enough to maybe make a living at this, and for the first time, it might be a reality.”
“And what happens when this wears off? When a piano-playing cat or an elaborate gender reveal party steals the attention away? Will you go on vacations together? Film an engagement special? Let CBS pay for your dream wedding? How far does it go?”
Every question hammered against me. Every insecurity I felt about playing this game with Eric laid out bare. I knew it was wrong. So wrong that I’d lied to everyone I cared about. The shame of what I’d been willing to do to get out of this town, the shame of wanting to leave in the first place, all hounded me. I didn’t even know myself anymore. Still …
“Why are you pissed?” I asked. “It has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not pissed.”
I gave him a bland stare.
“Okay, I’m a little pissed. But I’m pissed because I’m worried. Why are you inviting this into your life? Is it worth having voyeurs on your front lawn and people picking apart every word you say, just waiting for a chance to drag you until you bleed?”
“What do you know about it?” I choked down the urge to yell. Lisbeth and Gigi would probably not appreciate my presence at this hour. “You aren’t online. You don’t even have Facebook. Half the Bees have Facebook.”
“I know enough about it.” The hard edge in his voice made me pause.
I dared a step forward and peered up at him. Underneath the hardness held an incredible amount of hurt. I wouldn’t let it go this time. Even if he kept pushing his past away, I needed to know. “What happened to you?”
“Why do you want to know?” His tone was hollow. “So you have something else to exploit when all this baseball stuff goes away?”
I reeled back, putting more physical distance between us. “That’s a bullshit thing to say to me, and you know it.” All the anger I felt toward him, toward myself, I flung outward. “I get that my sudden fame is an issue for you, though you won’t bother to tell me why, but I’m going to keep doing what I need to do to grow my subscribers. It’s my life and you have no say in it. You’re not even my boyfriend.”
I couldn’t read him and it scared me. I’d always been able to get a feel for his moods. The distance between us widened. “You’re right. I’m definitely not your boyfriend.”
That was all we had left to say. Scraping up the small amount of pride I had left, I turned on my heel and marched toward my car. He didn’t follow me or try to stop me.
I waited until I pulled into my driveway to let the tears fall.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I hung out with Mom in the Hamptons. I picked at the dead grass and moped. She wore the gaudiest floppy hat adorned with plastic roses, and had a blush to her cheeks that didn’t have anything to do with the summer sun. She must’ve had a good time with cradle-robbing Roger. I wondered if I’d ever meet him, and if I’d be able to keep myself from calling him cradle-robbing Roger.
“You look happy.” I nudged her foot with mine. “Did your date go well?”
“Hmm?” Mom looked up from the book she’d been staring at for ten minutes without turning a page. “Oh, yes. We went out on the lake.”
“You went out on the lake after the park closed?” I narrowed my eyes. “How?”
“You think Paxton is the only who knows how to break into that shed and snag a boat?” She laughed at my scandalized expression.
“Oh my God. My mom. The rebel teenager.” I did not want to know how she knew Paxton stole boats for our movies on the lake. I’d never told her about those nights, but I supposed moms had a sixth sense about those kinds of things. She went back to her book, and I opened the YouTube app to post the dinner video. First I wanted to check on my Dirty Dancing video. It still had a lot of thumbs-downs, way more than my other videos, and while I could admit it had been a rush job, I didn’t think it was that bad. I took a peek at the comments.
EmilyChase: Boring
MargHenry: Less movie talk, more Baseball Babe please
AllySheridan: what does dirty dancing have to do with baseball babe?
LincolnDunn: I’m only here for the porn
KellyConner: wake me up when she talks about baseball babe again
At least they had a running theme. Even Lincoln, in his own trollish way. The more I scrolled through the comments, the more they started to prove Paxton right—they wouldn’t care about my videos once the novelty of Fly Ball Girl wore off—which just pissed me off even more. I shut down the app and threw my phone into the grass.
“How did your date go last night?” Mom asked.
I wanted to ask which one, but I wasn’t in the mood to be cheeky or to talk about Paxton. “I don’t know. It feels icky. Like I’m playing into what other people want for me, not really what I want for myself. I wonder if it would be better if I left it alone.”
It was one thing to play up this fauxmance online, but once I’d seen Eric in person, I’d crossed a very fundamental line. I kept telling myself it was worth it, long term, but now I wasn’t so sure. Elise didn’t seem to think so. Paxton definitely didn’t think so. I didn’t want to text him, because then I’d just look desperate, so I did the totally reasonable and normal thing by letting it eat away at me instead.
Mom laid a hand on my arm. “For what it’s worth, I think Eric genuinely likes you. I got that sense at the stadium, and you both got caught up in an unfortunate circumstance that you can now make the best of.”
She was too much of a romantic and a softie to see all the games people played online for their fifteen minutes. We weren’t two teenagers in love who’d met by chance at a baseball game. This ultimately wouldn’t be a story written in the stars. We’d gotten what many people tried for and only a few attained. Instant, viral fame. And playing it up, stretching it out, to meet our own ends didn’t make us good or right, but we did it anyway.
“I still can’t believe you let me drive to St. Joseph on my own.”
Mom set her book aside. “Are you saying that because you didn’t really want to go?”
“No.”
She gave me the Look.
“Maybe a little,” I said sheepishly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to see Eric again.” He was way worse off than me, anxiety and nightmares included. His obsession with likes and retweets bordered on masochistic.
Mom tipped her sunglasses down. “Oh?”
“There’s no story. It just wasn’t a love connection.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. He seemed like a nice boy.”
They all seemed like nice boys, until they weren’t. I did my best to smile, if only to ease that worry crease between her brows. “It wasn’t a total bust. I did get a free meal at Pellegrino’s.”
Mom brushed her hand over my cheek. “I worry about you.”