I’m not in any rush, Gabe had said.

“We had ten years,” Gabe says now, and this time the ironic twist to his words isn’t funny at all.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say.

“I know.” He looks a little chastened. “But we don’t really have that luxury. It’s better if we put out a statement now than say nothing and have paparazzi stalking us when we get back to L.A.”

Paparazzi.

They say that you should never read the comments.

I made that mistake after the first Go Fug Yourself article. The comments had been fine there, but once it went viral, appearing on websites where posts weren’t monitored, the claws had come out. People were incensed that I had gone with him to the premiere. It was almost a personal affront that I’d been allowed to stand next to him on the red carpet. After my article came out and there were whispers about how he’d fucked me to get good press, the vitriol increased. People were furious that I dared to be so unattractive and still get Gabe’s attention.

My very presence near Gabe had apparently created a tear in the fabric of the universe. Up was down, right was wrong, cats and dogs living together, total anarchy.

People had felt entitled to tell me that. In comments. In reviews. In emails.

To them, I was nothing more than a bad writer who had slept her way into the spotlight. I was the walking, breathing stereotype of a female reporter. And the worst part is that there’s truth in it all. How unprofessional I’ve been. How reckless. How selfish.

And now? That reaction would be nothing compared to the backlash I’d get if the world discovered the truth. If this thing between Gabe and me went public.

I’d be proving them right, and revealing myself to be a liar.

I’m sinking.

“No,” I say.

“No?” Gabe looks at me, then back at the phone. Frowns. “You want to say something else?”

“I don’t want to say anything.”

“Okay,” he says, the word slow and drawn out.

He’s confused.

“I can’t do this,” I say.

“What?”

“I. Can’t. Do. This,” I say, enunciating each word like an asshole.

He looks as if I’ve slapped him.

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

His voice is quiet but hard.

“Gabe,” I say. “I’m sorry if you thought differently, but—”

“Stop,” he says.

I can’t.

“Maybe something could have happened back then. But it didn’t. You made your choice; you ran off and married Jacinda while the whole world gossiped about whether or not I’d slept with you—”

“Enough,” he says.

The sharp lash of the word stops me.

He’s furious.