Zeke and Riley smiled at each other. “Both of us have made mistakes,” Riley answered. “But we admit when we were wrong. And we always come back to each other.”

The room shifted back to them, a few pictures snapped as more hands went up, confused as to whether that was really the last question or not.

“I appreciate you sharing that answer,” Clay said, and heads swiveled again, confusion washing over everyone trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Me included.

“And you guys have a really great story.”

“Aw, thanks Clay,” Riley said, giving Zeke googly eyes as she leaned into him.

“But ours is better.”

My heart stumbled, stopping altogether for a long breath as Clay’s eyes snapped to mine.

“Wait… ours?” someone asked, and there was a brief pause before the madness, before every camera turned toward Clay and reporters struggled to find mics they could hold out toward him, since all the press ones were focused on Riley and Zeke at the podium.

“Yes, ours,” Clay confirmed. “Mine and Giana Jones’ story.”

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, covering my mouth with shaking hands.

“Oh, my God,” Charlotte repeated, though her voice was firmer, and filled with the disdain of a PR agent whose client had gone rogue.

“You probably don’t know Giana Jones, at least — not by name. But she’s the gorgeous girl who’s always wrangling us, who gets you your interviews and podcast exclusives and commercial spots.” The side of his mouth tilted up as he faced each camera. “And she’s my girlfriend. At least, she was — before I screwed it all up.”

Charlotte snapped her fingers, waking me from my haze. “Go fix this,” she hissed.

I nodded, bolting from behind the stage and squeezing through the crowd that grew thicker and thicker around Clay.

Clay, who was now holding up a small book for everyone to see.

“Blind Side,” he said, showcasing the simple black cover. “The story of how I fake-dated the girl of my dreams and then lost her from being an idiot.”

There was a mixture of laughter and the buzz of questions as the crowd leaned in, making it even harder for me to shove through.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I muttered, shoving as politely as I could.

Clay opened the book, holding it up and showing the godawful stick figures drawn inside it along with the large text like it was a children’s book.

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful PR princess named Giana,” he said, showing the stick figure with glasses and curly hair with a headpiece on. He licked his thumb and flipped the page. “And a dumb safety named Clay.”

The crowd laughed at the next drawing, which was a stick figure with beefy arms in a too-tight jersey.