Faking with Benefits : A Friends to Lovers Romance(108)

We barely get five feet through the door before fans start approaching us, crowding around us and shoving Sharpies into our hands.

“Oh my God, I love your show!”

“Can you sign my shirt?!”

“Can I get a selfie? I can’t believe you’re really here!”

“Where’s Layla? Is she not coming? Did you guys fight?”

“Is it true she cheated on you?”

“I always knew I didn’t like her.”

I force myself to smile and keep my mouth shut as we scribble our signatures onto programmes and merchandise.

Josh and I have discussed what to do about the gossip, and we finally decided to try and ignore it as best as we can.

It’s been hard. There’s nothing I want more than to sit down and spend all day replying to every piece-of-shit troll who’s spouting disgusting slurs at her — but I can’t. I know I can’t. Addressing rumours just validates them. When we tested the waters with a simple statement asking people not to spread rumours about the leaked photos, our socials practically blew up. The tweet got twice as much attention as any of our other posts, and the articles started coming in even faster. We were scared that we might attract the attention of another celebrity, so we backed off.

Paul solidified our decision. Our manager has been begging us to make an episode on the podcast called ‘Why We Broke Up’. He’s desperate to capitalise on the traffic the drama is bringing us.

Which is why we’re not saying anything. It feels absolutely awful to not step in and defend Layla, but I’m not going to do anything that will just end up hurting her more. This is about her, not about how much better I would feel if I stood up for her.

For her part, Layla’s been silent on social media. I hope she’s just switched off all her devices. I’d kill to know that she’s okay.

“You got another pen?” Josh asks me roughly, shaking his dried-out marker.

“No,” I lie. “I think Zack does.”

Zack signs a poster, completely ignoring us. Josh grits his teeth, and I sigh, pulling a spare marker out of my pocket. “Here.” Josh takes it wordlessly.

He and Zack have barely spoken since their big fight the day after the wedding. Not one word. Josh is too angry.

Not that Zack has much to say. I’ve never seen the man so utterly miserable. He still hasn’t found Emily’s ring. We’ve called the hotel, but they said it must have been thrown away during clean-up. I was hoping the Con would cheer him up a bit. Conventions are usually the highlight of his year. It’s probably a leftover from his time playing rugby; he still loves the rush of performing in front of a crowd, signing autographs, taking pictures with fans.

Right now, though, he just looks angry. He’s scowling like the spectre of Death as he bends down to let a girl take a picture with him. She doesn’t seem to care, squeaking with happiness when she sees the selfie, then skipping off to show her friend. I watch her go, staring at her pink t-shirt. Emblazoned on the back are the words—

“Team Josh,” Zack reads, rubbing his injured knee. “Interesting choice.”

Josh closes his eyes. “I thought they’d given up the shipping.”

So had I. But apparently not. As I glance through the people crowding around us, I see a bunch more shirts, in pink, white, and blue. All with our ‘team names’ on.

Oh, good. They’re colour coded.

Zack slaps Josh on the back. “Don’t worry, mate. If you’re her favourite, she’s obviously completely demented.”

Josh tosses him a dirty look, shrugging his shoulder away. “Don’t touch me,” he mutters.

Zack puts up his hands. “You think I frickin’ want to? I don’t want owt to do with you, you bloody idiot.”

“Guys—” I start.

The teenage girl whose tote bag I’m signing frowns between us. “Hey. Why are you guys fighting? Is it because Layla cheated on you all?”

Josh and Zack both freeze, going silent.

I shut my eyes. “Maybe we should just go to the Green Room.”





The Green Rooms are a row of identical dingy dressing rooms set at the back of the building. We’ve been to a bunch of conventions, and they’re always the same — faux-leather couch, ugly grey carpeting, mini-fridge full of bottled water and a basket of cheap snacks. A bubbly twenty-year-old convention volunteer called Katie shows us around inside, and talks our ears off for twenty minutes before we finally manage to get rid of her. Then we sit in silence.

I watch as Josh fiddles with his phone, his face pale.

“You good?” I ask. Josh might act like an unfeeling robot, but he has the worst stage fright I’ve ever seen. Before our very first live show, he threw up before we went onstage. He’s gotten much better in the years since then, but right now, he looks like death warmed up.

“Fine,” he says, not looking at me.

“Scared?” Zack says with mock sympathy. “Seems to be an issue for you, huh?”

“Zack,” I interject. “Stop it.”

“Least I wasn’t too much of a damn coward to tell her how I felt,” Zack continues.

“At least I regret hurting her,” Josh shoots back. “Instead of acting like an absolute twat about it.”