recognized the sound of the alert. It was from Snapchat. Someone (or multiple someones) was messaging him. I knew Tristan relied heavily on Snapchat to promote his music. That and Instagram were how he kept in touch with his growing fan base, but it irritated me that he kept looking at the screen. He didn’t actually respond to any of the messages (he’d just casually glance at them and then set his phone aside), but the fact that he kept looking—like he was checking to see if something more interesting was going on in the world—made my temper start to flare.
I had switched my phone off the moment I arrived at Tristan’s house.
I didn’t want to be distracted by anything.
But Tristan was almost welcoming the distractions.
By the seventeenth ding, I finally sat up and asked, “Who’s messaging you so incessantly?” I tried to keep my voice light. Friendly. A casual observation of his phone activity.
He waved away my concern with his hand. “Just some girls from last week’s show.”
Girls.
The word felt like a slap across the face. It’s amazing how five little letters can pack so much punch. He said it like it was the most innocent word in the English language. As harmless and unremarkable as “bread,” or “spoon,” or “chair.”
But to me, the word implied so much more.
All I saw through my red-tinted vision were flirty promises, too-short skirts, high-pitched giggles, and manicured fingernails.
I told myself to keep calm. Chill out. Stay cool.
You are the anti–drama queen.
“What did they say?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not much. Just wanting to know when our next show is.”
“Seventeen times?” The question rushed out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop it.
Tristan pushed Pause on the remote and turned to look at me. “Excuse me?”
I tried to backpedal. “I just meant it’s weird for you to get seventeen messages all asking the same thing.”
“Were you counting them?” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
“It’s a little distracting,” I admitted. “You know, while we’re trying to watch the movie.” I rubbed his shoulder in an attempt to disarm him. “I was kinda hoping we could have some alone time.”
“We are alone.”
I bit my lip. This was going downhill fast. I had to fix it. “I know. I mean, without our phones.” I pulled mine from my bag. “See? Mine’s off.”
“Fine,” Tristan said. “I’ll put it on Silent.”
Disappointment flooded me but I refused to let it show. I grinned. “Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
It was meant to be a joke, but Tristan barely even smiled. The tension between us was suffocating. What had happened to the playful, affectionate guy who used to run to me the moment he got off the stage?
As I cuddled up against him, I vowed to keep my jealousy in check for the rest of the night.
You’re being ridiculous, I told myself. Tristan is a musician. He has to stay connected to his fans. It’s part of the job.
My little pep talk seemed to work because my frustration eventually dissipated and I found myself pulled into the plot of the movie, which admittedly wasn’t half bad. It was a spy thriller about a CIA agent who is wrongfully accused of treason and has to go on the run to prove his innocence.
When the hero narrowly managed to escape an intense, high-octane chase through the streets of Rome, I glanced up at Tristan to share in a moment of relief, only to find that he wasn’t even watching the movie.
He was focused back on his phone.
And this time, I got a glimpse at the screen.
It wasn’t a message. It was a photo. Of a girl. She was posing provocatively, the phone held high above her to capture the perfect angle down the front of her shirt.
Enraged, I launched from the couch and stomped toward the front door. I yanked it open and charged onto the lawn.
Tristan was behind me in an instant. “Ellie? Where are you going?”
“Home!” I shouted.
“Why?” I was devastated to hear annoyance rather than concern in his tone.
“Why are random girls sending you selfies?”
He sighed. “Because that’s what they do. I don’t ask them to send those. They just do it. I can’t control what people send me. I’m a musician. It comes with the territory.”
“Why don’t you just shut off your phone?”
“I can’t. What if someone calls about a gig?”
“Someone incapable of leaving a voice mail?” I roared back.
“Ellie,” Tristan said, his voice aggravatingly condescending. “You’re overreacting. It was just