much frustration I’ve been feeling. “The hate towards Jack is nuts, bro. These fans of mine, who are obsessed with the imaginary mother-effing romance between me and Charlie, will not stop. One told him to go choke and die the other day.” I’ve heard this kind of fandom language before and hardly blinked, but now that it’s directed at someone I have feelings for…
It stings.
I’d rather be the one they’re playing target practice with.
“They’re not fans,” Donnelly says. “They’re stans, but most likely antis.”
“An anti?” Farrow arches his brows.
“I’m with Redford. What the hell is that?” I know what a stan is—in short, an overly passionate fan. But I’m not as deeply involved in fandom culture like Donnelly. Though, I do keep up with it better than Farrow.
“Anti-fans, anti-shippers,” Donnelly explains. “They root hardcore against a couple. Like hate-watching a TV show, but real life, man. It’s my least favorite part of a fandom. No love, all hate.”
Fuck. “Now we’re dealing with anti-shippers? It’s my fault,” I continue, “what’s happening to Jack is on me. You date me, I come with baggage.”
Farrow leans forward. “See, that’s not what we’re doing here is blaming yourself. You didn’t create Oslie, and you can’t get rid of online bullshit and anti-fuckers. But you’re going to find a way to protect Jack because you’re Oscar Oliveira.”
I nod slowly.
Yeah.
I have to find a way. Because that’s the only avenue where I come out feeling like I’m worthy of being in a relationship.
“How much are you charging me for that advice, Redford?” I ask lightly, the mood lifting with my words.
“Eh, it’s free. I’m writing it up under, I couldn’t look at your face anymore.”
Donnelly laughs.
“Aw, fuck you.” I flip Farrow off, and we’re all grinning. For a moment, I start forgetting that Jack hasn’t texted me back.
SFO finishes their pool game, and Thatcher, Akara, Banks, and my little brother slide into our booth. We shoot the shit about the Phillies, Thatcher’s upcoming wedding, and Epsilon who keeps eyeing us to death.
Jealous motherfuckers.
“Get outta Philly!” a couple drunk guys yell from the bar.
I clamp a hand on Donnelly’s shoulder as he pops up. He shuts his mouth as his ass hits the seat. I’m sure he was about to yell, “We’re from Philly!”
Heard it before.
Inciting jeers happen at this bar too regularly now, ever since SFO gained some fame. Locals can’t stand us even if this has always been our local spot.
We refuse to be kicked out.
Akara gives him a friendly look. “Hey, don’t give Epsilon a reason to say they’re better than us.”
Donnelly nods, but Thatcher is glaring at the bar.
South Philly guys pop off so easily when their city pride is at stake. Love Philly to death, it’s been my home, but I’m not feeding into local hecklers.
We go back to our conversation, everyone grimacing at the cold coffees, and after another fifteen minutes, Farrow stands up on his seat—he’s wedged against the wall because everyone filled the booth. And instead of asking Thatcher, Akara, and Banks to move their asses, he literally walks across the table and jumps off.
Donnelly and I applaud mockingly.
Farrow just lifts a couple fingers in goodbye. “I’m out. See you boys later.” He walks casually to the exit.
“And there he goes,” I quip.
“Gone so soon. RIP,” Donnelly says.
We all laugh, but my smile fades as I glance at my phone. Knowing, for sure, that he has to be asleep. I’ll see him tomorrow.
I hang onto that, at least.
25
JACK HIGHLAND
Greenland.
Colorful houses in bright reds, yellows, greens, and blues landscape steep mossy mountains that plunge down into a fjord, a deep inlet of water between cliffs. Icebergs jut out of the teal water, and while whales breach the sea, the sound of playful seals fills the chilly air.
The location is so stunning that it seems fabricated. Like some pitch I’ve embellished as a location scout seeking to shoot in the Arctic Circle.
It’s real, though.
On the deck of a bright blue house, I fix my camera on a tripod. Aches and pains flare up as I move around my equipment. Underneath my winter jacket, bruises decorate my body. All over my elbows. Down my hips. I have a big welt on my thigh and knee.
These past five days trying to film Charlie and push back paparazzi has been taxing. Physically, sometimes mentally. A little emotionally.
They shove their cameras in my face and yell, “Jack! Jack! Did you know about Oscar & Charlie before you kissed the bodyguard?!” It’s irony, right? I have