“Do you want Jell-O shots?” he asked. “I think we need some Jell-O shots.”

Unfolding his lanky frame, he got up from the couch and headed to the bar.

“He’s going to get swarmed,” Oliver said.

He wasn’t wrong. Everywhere heads were turning as people noticed who Gabe was. There were quite a few looky-loos slowing down as they reached our section as well.

I felt a twinge of concern. It seemed impossible that news wouldn’t get out.

“Is that a problem?” I asked. “For either of you?”

Oliver looked at me.

“I don’t know,” he said evenly. “Are you going to make it a problem?”

This wasn’t a story. This was the story.

Gabe Parker and Oliver Matthias spending an evening out at a gay club? It would be everywhere.

Right now, I barely had an article. After our interview yesterday, I’d spent an hour in front of my computer trying to find my angle. Trying to find the heart of the story. In the end, all I had was proof that Gabe was exactly as handsome and charming as everyone wanted him to be. It would be great for his career—another fawning, adoring puff piece—and exactly the kind of article that everyone would forget in a couple of days.

I’d written those kinds of pieces before. I was tired of writing them. Tired of seeing my name next to headlines—headlines I never wrote, of course—that read like the same thing over and over and over again.

Jeremy had always said I lacked voice. I knew that he was trying to be helpful. That his comments—his criticisms—truly came from a place of care and concern. After all, he had voice. All our teachers had said so.

“Your writing is ordinary,” he would say. “It doesn’t have personality.”

The worst part was that I knew he was right.

I just didn’t know what to do about it.

I wanted more. I wanted to work more. I wanted to write more. To be honest and real in my words. To put something out there that I was proud of. That felt like me.

It had been a long time since I’d written anything close to that, and even then, it hadn’t impressed anyone.

This was my chance.

But.

“Can we trust you?” Gabe had asked.

I realized that I couldn’t do it. I didn’t have the stomach for it.

I didn’t want Oliver to hate me. I didn’t want Gabe to hate me. Maybe I was being naïve, thinking that I was here because of some genuine connection between us, but even if there wasn’t, I didn’t want them to think I was the kind of person who would do anything for a story.

I didn’t want to be that kind of person. Not even if it meant I’d be a better writer.