type out the words, but I restrained myself from posting. Partly because it wouldn’t change a thing.
I know that. Producer cred and all.
Still, I sit with these heavy feelings today. Jealousy mixed with indecision. And what am I jealous of? Some random person calling Oscar hot on the internet? Maybe I just want people to know that he’s really mine forever. To finally believe me when they keep doubting the truth because of the Oslie rumors.
But I’m aware that yelling “Oscar Oliveira is my husband!” would be short-term bliss.
Some people will just take the marriage as a PR ploy. Warp it into something it’s not. And that’s why I ultimately need the time to think the annulment over. Maybe if we actually wait to get married down the road, people won’t judge so harshly.
I hate that I’m factoring in other people in my future with Oscar. When really all I want is him, but it’s been my life—my career—to understand outside perception. What it all means.
FYI: I looked up how long I have to decide before we can no longer get an annulment. Five years. So I have five whole years to live in this unbearable limbo.
Can’t wait that long—that’s all I know.
And at least I know something, right?
Finished with the WAC shoot today, I stuff my camera into its bag. Luna’s wiping her swollen eyes with tissues I handed her. Sharpie drawings decorate a neon-green cast around her arm. The golf cart crash caused a bone fracture that’s healing.
She’s curled up on a beanbag in the loft of Superheroes & Scones. The store closed early so we could film here, and she’s spent the last hour talking about all the headlines that surround her.
The ones that are obsessed with her nightly clubbing. How she’s been “spotted” kissing different guys on the same night, sometimes at the same place.
I gently asked her if she wanted to discuss the other media headline. Tabloids hyper-focus on any of the famous ones’ changes: tattoos, haircuts, weight-gains. And they’ve noticed that Luna has worn pants practically all summer long.
She didn’t want to talk about it for the show, but she told me that Donnelly tattooed her leg, up to her hip, and she’s afraid of her dad finding out.
I promised, like always, to keep the secret.
Hugging her another time, I tell Luna, “Remember, we don’t have to air anything, if you don’t want to.” I’m referring to our talk about the nightclubs.
“When do I have to make a decision by?” She crumples the tissue.
“No deadline.”
If she wants it in the show, it’ll appear in the upcoming season. If she doesn’t, I’ll be the only person that ever sees this footage.
“Thanks, Jack.” She tugs the string of her hoodie.
I stand and hook the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Do you want me to call someone? Tom, Eliot, your older brother, maybe?”
She shakes her head. “I think I’m just gonna hang out alone for a little bit.”
“Will I see you at the carnival later?”
H.M.C. Philanthropies is hosting a Carnival Fundraiser tonight, and I’m supposed to be filming Charlie there for Born into Fame. It already started about an hour ago, so Jesse’s at the carnival in my place.
She nods. “I’m gonna stop by. I don’t want to miss the Gravitron.”
That eases me a bit. It’ll be good for Luna to be around family.
“See you then.” I take the spiral staircase to the bottom floor. Her bodyguard is the only person here. Quinn Oliveira sits in the red vinyl booth by a window, scrolling through his phone. He glances up when I’m about a foot away.
“She ready?”
I shake my head. “She wants to be alone.” I readjust the bag as it slips off my shoulder. “How’s the therapy going with Oscar?”
He makes a noise that sounds a lot like a sigh and a snort crossed together. “He didn’t tell you?”
“He’s told me some,” I admit. “You guys don’t talk during the sessions. Has that changed?”
Quinn messes with a saltshaker. “Why would it?”
I shrug with a warm smile. “Maybe the therapist broke through?”
Quinn narrows his eyes at me. “I know what you’re doing, Jack. You can pretend to be nice and act like we’re friends, but it’s not working.”
Alright then. “Quinn,” I say. “I’m generally nice to everyone, and I know we’re not friends. But if you don’t want to talk, that’s cool.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine,” I say into a tight nod. “I’ll see you at the carnival.”
38
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
This is my least favorite kind of carnival: ones that