To My Future Number 1 Fan

by L. A. Witt

  My stomach curdled as I kept scrolling. It was an electronic train wreck—I couldn’t look away.

  And the messages didn’t stop.

  Enough. Jesus.

  I went into my Twitter settings and locked down my DMs. Not just to prevent non-followers from messaging me, but anyone. Then I went to Facebook and turned my profile as private as I could. I was just finishing that when Adam came out of the bathroom.

  “What’s wrong?” He hurried to the bed and sat beside me. “What happened?”

  “The, um…” I cleared my throat, but I couldn’t look at him. “People definitely noticed us.”

  “I figured they would.” His tone was guarded and soft at the same time as he asked, “What are they saying?”

  Without a word, I handed him my phone. He frowned at the screen as a drop of water ran from his hair down the side of his face. He didn’t seem to notice. He scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.

  Finally, he shook his head, sending another drop flying. “They’re trolls. They don’t know you, and they clearly haven’t fucking looked at you if they think you’re unattractive.”

  “Call them what you want,” I said flatly, “but I didn’t think they’d…” I sighed and lay back against the pillows. “When we came out, I figured people would have opinions about… hell, I don’t even know.”

  That much was true. I’d imagined there would be gossip, but hadn’t thought about exactly what people would say. A famous guy had a boyfriend. Even in this day and age, that had seemed scandalous enough to spin up the tabloids. But it hadn’t occurred to me what they’d say about me. About how much better Adam deserved, and how I was clearly just there to make him look extra hot by comparison. I’d never been particularly vain, but this… God, it was humiliating. I’d been so worried about being in the spotlight, and hadn’t thought about how much worse it would be when everyone who could see me was pointing and laughing.

  Adam eased himself down onto his side. He took my hand and looked in my eyes. “I know it’s overwhelming. Believe me—I get it. But this is just everyone reacting to something new and juicy. It will die down. I promise.”

  “When?” God, I sounded so pathetic and desperate.

  “I don’t know,” he whispered, rubbing my thumb with his. “But it always gets better. And this kind of thing always feels a lot bigger than it is. The trolls are the loudest, so it makes it seem like that’s how the whole world feels. It isn’t, though. They’re just a really obnoxious minority, and they’ll eventually get bored and find another thing to obsess over.”

  I shuddered. The attention of thousands had been terrifying, but something I could face. Being the butt of thousands of jokes? Cruel ones? Oh my God. This was the grossest feeling in the world.

  “I just wanted us to be public so people would stop digging. I didn’t think we’d be a punchline.” Looking into his eyes, I shakily added, “I didn’t think I’d be a punchline.”

  Adam grimaced and leaned in to wrap his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would play out like this either.” He stroked my hair as I draped an arm over him. “It’ll get better, though. I promise.”

  I exhaled, but didn’t speak.

  “People are cruel and ballsy when they can hide behind computer screens and fake names.” He kissed my temple. “I feel you—they’ve said all kinds of shit about me too.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  He sighed, holding me tighter. “I wish I could do something to shut them all up.”

  “Me too.”

  But there was nothing he could do. There was nothing I could do.

  The truth was out, and there was no shutting off this burning, blinding spotlight.

  How the hell do I live with this?

  ~*~

  Adam had insisted this would get better, but… when?

  Walking through SeaTac Airport, my skin crawled with paranoia. Every time I saw a phone, I was terrified someone was videoing me or taking my picture. It was entirely possible no one noticed me at all or had any idea who I was, but after twenty-four hours of being called, messaged, emailed, and tweeted, not to mention written about in violating detail in every major tabloid, I made no apologies for worrying that strangers would notice me. Especially since they fucking did seem to notice me.

  God, this was hell. I’d expected media attention, but I hadn’t understood the enormity of it. It wasn’t possible to understand until it was experienced. And now there was no getting away from it. I wanted to go home and never go outside again. I wanted to delete all my social media and toss my phone into Puget Sound for good measure, but then I wouldn’t be able to reach people I actually wanted to talk to.

  Being out was supposed to be a relief, for God’s sake. No more secrecy—hooray!

  Of course I’d known it didn’t quite work like that. I’d come out in high school, and it hadn’t been all sunshine and rainbows. For all my dad supported me now, he hadn’t been so great about it at first, and our relationship had been pretty bad until I was in college. Now he wore I’m Proud of My Gay Son shirts to Pride, but still, he hadn’t taken it well back then. My coming out had caused a rift between my parents. I’d lost friends over it. I’d had to quit baseball because of the harassment.

  But times were different now, weren’t they? They were supposed to be, anyway. And besides, everyone had already known Adam was gay. We’d been coming out as a couple, not saying “we’re gay!” but “we’re together!”

  I rubbed my eyes and sighed. Going to that gala had been a mistake. We should have kept this quiet. The secrecy was exhausting and stressful, but I’d have sold my soul to go back to that if it meant stopping the onslaught of commentary from complete strangers. If it meant I could unsee all those nasty tweets and messages.

  If it meant those tweets and messages stopped coming.

  But they didn’t.

  Not today.

  Not the next day.

  Not the day after that.

  Every time I looked at social media, there was more. I was gold-digging. Adam was slumming. I was too boring, too dull, too normal, too unattractive. He was settling, compromising, selling himself short. I must have a huge dick or some other secret ‘talent’ to make up for my ugly-ass face. For days, it continued. A week. Then two. It didn’t stop. It didn’t even slow down. I couldn’t go anywhere—not even to work—without a camera lens pointed my way, and I couldn’t open my email or Twitter or Facebook without getting pinged by a stranger who thought I should rot in hell.

  Adam started filming while the shit was still flying, which meant I barely got to talk to him. And I needed to talk to him, but he was working long hours and usually collapsed as soon as he was done on set. I couldn’t blame him. Or I tried not to. Some irrational side of me wanted to be pissed that he was leaving me to the wolves, even though I knew that wasn’t what he was doing.

  And hell, from as stressed as he sounded whenever we did talk, I wasn’t the paparazzi’s only target. Though the commentary was mostly speculation about what in the world he must have seen in me, he had a lot more photographers and reporters on his tail. They followed him everywhere, some even making it dangerously close to his secluded house (though he was apparently pretty good at driving up and down the canyon endlessly until they got bored and left). He kept trying to reassure me they’d lose interest, but so far, no one had. Some of the paparazzi may have lost interest, but his rabid fans and haters? Not so much. The people in comment sections online? Not even a little.

  Most of the reporters physically followed Adam, not me, but there were plenty up here in Everett too. Once a couple of them had figured out how to find me, they were suddenly everywhere, and the constant feeling that I was being followed—not always unwarranted, I should add—was beyond unnerving. On my way to work one morning, utterly drained from the constant stress of being watched and commented on, I almost got into three separate fender benders because I was too busy watching for cameras. By the time I made it into the clinic, I was a
shaky mess. And of course a patient snapped a picture of me as I walked across the waiting room. To her credit, she was discreet about it, but still.

  I met Phoebe’s eyes, and she gave me a reassuring nod before I continued toward my office. She’d take care of it. Ever since the news had broken, the clinic staff had been instructed to remind patients that this was private property, and that employee privacy needed to be respected as much as patient privacy. People were warned against revealing anything that might tip off the press—or the assholes—about where I worked. My name had even been taken off the clinic’s website and the placard outside the door, just to be safe.

  I appreciated everyone’s efforts, but I resented the necessity. I had a high-profile boyfriend. So the fuck what? Were people really so desperate for a distraction from all the other shit going on in the world that they needed to fixate on Adam and me?

  Apparently so.

  Fuck. And with Adam so busy, I barely even got to talk to him and I definitely wasn’t able to see him. That would have sucked on its own, but he’d warned me about his limited time when he was filming, and I’d been fine with it. I hadn’t expected to have to deal with his absence and this storm of attention at the same time. Fending off paparazzi and being the butt of cruel jokes because I was dating a man I now spoke to so rarely it almost didn’t feel like we were dating anymore? This was some bullshit.

  I shut the office door behind me. I wouldn’t be able to stay in here long—I had patients coming in soon—but I savored the relative isolation. The reprieve from prying eyes and telephotos. Privacy had never been such a hot commodity for me, but now I grabbed every moment of it I could get and milked it for all it was worth.

  This has to stop. How do we make it stop? What the fuck do we do?

  I dropped into my desk chair and rubbed my eyes. I tried to convince myself that Adam was right and people really would lose interest. It wasn’t like we’d done anything scandalous. Being gay in this day and age wasn’t that shocking.

  Oh, but apparently it was a scandal to be gay and dating a man who was—depending on how you looked at it—miles out of your league or miles below you. We hadn’t predicted that part. I sure as shit hadn’t predicted how much it would wear me down. Hell, break me down. It was like all the bullying from middle school, and all those judgmental eyes on me as I floundered up on the stage, cranked up to an eleven and multiplied by thousands and lit up by a million spotlights.

  And there was no temporary escape when the bell rang. I’d seen cameras on my street. Outside the clinic. Sticking out of car windows while I walked across a parking lot. Where else were they? And if the photographers could find me, who else could? These assholes who kept messaging me? What if some creepy obsessed fan of Adam’s decided to fuck with me? Break into my house? Slash my tires? What if they showed up at my house? Or came into the clinic? Or what if they went to the doggy daycare and… I don’t know, stole Lola or something?

  My heart stopped. Panic suddenly surged through me. The same panic that had come the day she’d slipped past me and run out into the road, and for a few terrifying seconds, I’d been absolutely certain she was about to be hit by a car right in front of me and there was nothing I could do.

  The daycare facility had a 24/7 webcam so people could check in on their dogs. I didn’t usually get on it because then I’d never get anything done, but today I logged on.

  I scrolled through the different screens, searching for my dog.

  She wasn’t by the kennels.

  She wasn’t hanging out under the maple tree with Burt.

  She wasn’t inside eating.

  She wasn’t running around with that poodle that always took her toys.

  Each time I passed a screen without seeing her, panic gnawed harder at my gut. No one would really mess with my dog, would they? But where the hell was she? Why wasn’t she playing with—

  There.

  I sagged back in my chair as I caught sight of her in the grass. She was flaked out on her side in a sunbeam, partly hidden by Chester, the Saint Bernard she liked to wrestle with. Safe and sound, Lola pawed lazily at a Schipperke that was about a quarter her size and apparently wanted the red Kong toy she had in her mouth.

  I should have laughed at my own stupidity. Who in their right mind would have any reason whatsoever to do something to my dog just because I was publicly dating Adam?

  Then again, who in their right mind would lurk in cars and bushes to get a picture of some dude who dared to have a boyfriend?

  My stomach roiled. Maybe it wasn’t so irrational to be worried about my dog’s safety as well as my own. And what about Adam’s?

  Fuck. Fuck, this was not what I signed up for. Of course I’d expected a certain amount of attention once Adam and I came out, but not this. Not this constant feeling of stage fright. Of being under an unwelcome spotlight. Of having literally thousands of people pointing at me and laughing as if this was some horrible joke from a 1990s teen movie. Where the hot kid went out with the dork, and my entire life had become the moment when the dork realized it was all a joke.

  I hadn’t expected to feel unsafe. I hadn’t expected paranoia, never mind justified paranoia.

  Maybe this would have been easier back in the time when I’d come out originally. There might have been less acceptance of us being gay, but there wouldn’t have been social media. We could have ignored the tabloids, and the only people making comments we could actually hear wouldn’t have computer screens to hide behind.

  But this was the twenty-first century, and everyone had an opinion on everything. Like it or not, the objects of those opinions weren’t escaping them. The world had spoken, and the world thought Adam could do better.

  I leaned back in my desk chair and sighed. Coming out as Adam’s boyfriend may as well have landed me in a living, breathing version of the comments section. No turning away. No blocking or ignoring. Just uncensored, unbridled vitriol from people who thought two men shouldn’t be together or that Adam deserved better than me. And some of them might not even hide behind a computer screen.

  And all while I wasn’t even talking to him much outside of a few sporadic texts when he had some downtime.

  Sighing, I scrubbed a hand over my face.

  I wanted to go back to the way things had been before the gala, but we couldn’t. No matter how hard we tried, there was no putting this cat back in the bag.

  And, seemingly alone in this, I had no idea what to do now.

  Chapter 31

  Adam

  Son of a bitch. Another one?

  On my way out to my car after another long day on set, I ducked my head to at least try to hide my face from the two lenses that tracked me across the parking lot. Where the hell had those two come from?

  Not that it mattered. Seemed like they were everywhere lately. I swore these fucking paparazzi had put trackers in my car. No matter where I went today, they were there. A lens jutting out of a window while I’d pumped gas. A whole group of photographers loitering beside the stairs outside my agent’s office when I’d left after a meeting yesterday. A car with tinted windows that I was pretty sure followed me for a few miles before I finally gave him the slip on the freeway.

  Nobody else caught up with me on the way out to Topanga. None that I saw, anyway. I focused on the road and tried not to glance in the rearview every two seconds, all the while ignoring how bad my skin was crawling.

  It wasn’t unusual for a photographer to pop up in a random place. They were all over LA, and lived and breathed chance encounters with celebrities. They’d hover near places where we showed up frequently and hope for the best. Now that I was filming the new movie and there was some juicy gossip floating around about me, though, they were actively trying to find me.

  And the bastards were succeeding.

  Just please tell me you assholes are leaving Brian alone.

  Except I knew they weren’t. It was just as well he lived in Washington. Intrusive cameras existed everywhere, but they we
re way more concentrated here. Kind of like how mosquitoes are pretty much everywhere, but if you get close enough to some stagnant water, there’s clouds of them.

  Thank God Brian lived far away from the worst of it, and that my house wasn’t right on top of that pond of stagnant water. As I pulled into my garage, I released a sigh of relief. Finally, I had some privacy. Or at least a convincing illusion of privacy.

  I went in the house, dropped onto my sofa, and scrubbed a hand over my face. After four eighteen-hour days in a row, I was drained, but it had less to do with filming and more to do with worrying myself sick. What other rumors were popping up? How much more were people bothering Brian? We’d only been able to text occasionally—I’d been too dead on my feet to call the last couple of days—and his frustration and exhaustion had been palpable in every message. From his comments, as well as Vanessa’s, it seemed clear the press and the public were still having a field day with Brian and me.

  Christ. I rubbed my tired eyes. Two people in a relationship should not have created this much buzz. Why did anyone care so much? I got that the tabloids just wanted to get the scoop before anyone else did, and obviously there were enough gossip readers to keep those tabloids alive, but Jesus fuck. We were a couple of guys trying to date like anybody else.

  And I felt terrible for how badly it was affecting Brian. All day we’d been texting about it—as much as I could, anyway, which wasn’t a lot—and he’d been hanging by a thread since lunch. Especially after he’d had a momentary freak-out about someone possibly following him to the place he kept Lola during the day, and I hated myself for not being able to say I promise no one will ever be creepy or horrible enough to mess with your dog.