Chapter 3

Adam

 

By the time I left the after party and checked my phone, social media had turned into a hurricane of people talking about my speech. I hadn’t expected it to get such a big reaction, but there it was. Good thing I’d hired a driver tonight—I’d planned to have a few drinks, after all, and I hated LA traffic—because I was glued to my phone.

A lot of the “autographs” people posted were obviously fake. Unless I’d been drunk off my ass when I’d signed them, those were so not my signatures. And of course there was the usual mix of verbal abuse about everything from my appearance to my acting chops to my sexuality. Sometimes I wondered how people had that much time on their hands.

There were so many tweets, I decided it would take the rest of the year to scroll through every single one. Instead, I did a search for my username plus “number 1 fan.”

And right there at the top:

I think it might be me, Adam. From your number 1 fan.

My heart stopped and my jaw dropped. I blinked a few times.

Then I tapped on his icon, and the photo he used for an avatar enlarged slightly.

I would have recognized that warm, sweet smile in a crowd of millions. This had to be him. No way in hell it wasn’t.

Brian. His name was Brian. After all this time, I finally knew his name.

His bio was, as Twitter bios usually were, quite short: Just a guy with a job he likes and a dog he loves. #GoSeahawks #GoMariners

I smiled to myself. I kind of wanted to scroll through his tweets and see if there were any pictures of his dog, but that felt a little too stalkery. I also wasn’t sure about replying to his tweet; my fans could be a bit wild, and I didn’t want to send a Twitterstorm his way. I especially didn’t want to put him on the radar of the haters and homophobes. Nobody needed their bullshit. Instead, I checked to see if he accepted direct messages from people who weren’t following him. He did, so I sent a quick message.

Do you have a picture of the autograph?

A moment later, a photo came through.

My hand went to my mouth, and I caught myself feeling as shaky and overwhelmed as I’d been on the stage accepting the award, and at that diner a million years ago when I’d first written those words.

To my future number 1 fan—Adam Jacobsen.

I smiled as my eyes welled up. A million times, I’d thought about somehow reaching out to see if I could find him, but for some reason, I’d been too scared. Even tonight, I’d debated nixing the speech and going with a generic I’d like to thank my agent and all that other bullshit. At the last second, I’d vowed to stick with what I’d been planning to do ever since that day in the diner. And after I’d done it, I’d gone backstage and puked because there’d been too many emotions crashing through me and I hadn’t been able to handle it.

And now… here we were. Connecting on Twitter. I’d found him. Which meant he’d heard my speech. Either he’d watched it live or someone had told him about it, but he’d heard it, and he’d reached out. Now we’d made contact.

My mind darted back to a conversation at the after party. My assistant had said she’d already started getting calls from talk shows wanting to arrange for me and my mystery fan to meet up.

Thankful that anxiety didn’t transmit through DMs, I wrote back, They’re serious about bringing you to LA. You in?

He didn’t respond immediately. He started typing. Stopped. Started again. Stopped. There was nothing for a solid two minutes, and I wondered if he knew I was sitting there gnawing my lip and staring at the screen and trying not to get sick again.

Finally, a message came through: That sounds amazing. Who do I talk to?

Send me your number + email & I’ll have the powers that be get in touch.

Great. I’m looking forward to it.

I smiled as I forwarded his info to my assistant.

Yeah, I thought. I’m looking forward to it too.

 

~*~

 

This was one of those years where awards season and a new film coincided. That meant having at least three tuxes pressed and ready to go at all times, flying constantly, never really knowing where I was or what day it was, and spending most of my waking hours with cameras and microphones in my face. It was part of the job, and though it was tiring, I didn’t really mind it. Having my assistant, Vanessa, by my side for most of it helped, too. She could at least steer me in the right direction and make sure I was in the right place at the right time wearing the right outfit. Without her, I would seriously be wandering lower Manhattan in my gym shorts when I was supposed to be in a suit in London.

As soon as we stepped off the plane, I knew we were in LAX. It was one of those airports I recognized immediately. Oh, did that mean I could sleep in my own bed tonight? Yaasssss sign me up.

Of course it also meant a gauntlet of photographers as soon as we were out of the secure area. I was used to that, but I fucking hated it. Keeping my head down, I stayed on Vanessa’s heels as she strode through the crowd of faces and lenses.

There was an SUV waiting on the curb, and the driver took our luggage as Vanessa and I got into the backseat. The door shut, and we both exhaled.

“I could do this until I’m ninety,” she grumbled, “and I will still hate those assholes.”

“I can’t wait for that. It’s going to be hilarious watching you shaking your cane at them.” In a nasal voice, I added, “Get off my lawn, you stupid paparazzi!”

Vanessa laughed. “Right?” Then she tsked and took out her phone. “How are you feeling, by the way? Jetlagged? Hungry?”

“Both.” Damn, now that she mentioned it, I was starving. “You want to hang out for something cheap and unhealthy?”

She laughed but shook her head. “I wish. I’ve got a whole list of calls I need to make tonight to straighten out your schedule for the next month.”

I didn’t even want to know why it needed straightening out. I’d made the mistake of asking in the past, and discovered it was never a good idea to peak behind the veil of what she did and how she did it. She kept so many plates spinning at a given time it made me queasy just imagining it. This woman was definitely getting a fat bonus this year.

Without looking up from her phone, she said, “Oh, and don’t stay up too late tonight. You’re on Los Angeles This Morning tomorrow.”

I glanced at her. “I am?”

“Yeah. That guy who has the autograph you mentioned in your speech? They flew him in today, and you’re both on first thing in the morning.”

My stomach fluttered. I hadn’t forgotten about Brian, but I also hadn’t realized everything had been arranged already. It had been less than a week since the awards, and I knew they wanted to arrange it while there was still buzz, but damn. “Oh. Uh. What time do I—”

“A car will pick you up at 3:30.”

“3:30? You mean the 3:30 that happens in the morning?”

She shot me a playful glare. “Unless you think the one that happens in the afternoon will get you there in time for a live morning show.”

“Damn it.”

“Sorry, hon.” She patted my knee. “But hey, you’ll be jetlagged enough your body will think it’s 6:30, so there’s that.”

I grunted unhappily. I didn’t do 6:30, either, but in this line of work, there wasn’t a lot of leeway. “So, what about Brian? I mean, I at least want a chance to talk to him one-on-one before—”

“Not gonna happen, hon.” She shook her head apologetically. “You need sleep, and anyway they want you two to see each other for the first time on live TV.”

I huffed and rolled my eyes. “Okay, but I mean, he’s not exactly used to lights and cameras hovering over him. Will there at least be someone to make sure he’s not overwhelmed?”

Vanessa met my eyes, an odd smile on her lips. I could feel myself blushing, and was about to defend my concern for him, but then she shrugged and shifted her attention back to her phone. “I can check with the network. They’re handling everything, so I would assume they know what they’re doing.”

That was probably the best we were going to get. My first few talk show appearances, I’d been dropped into a makeup chair, shoved into the green room, and heaved onstage without a lot of preamble. It was intimidating as hell even when I’d already kind of gotten used to things like paparazzi and red carpets.

Brian would be going into this completely unprepared, and I’d seen how much that could overwhelm someone.

While Vanessa caught up on texts and emails, I opened Twitter and went to my direct messages. I scrolled to Brian and pretended tapping his name didn’t give me crazy butterflies as I messaged him.

You going to be ok tomorrow?

I was nearly home before he replied, Not gonna lie – nervous.

I grimaced as I wrote back, Shows can seem intimidating. The reality’s not so bad though. Promise.

Right then, the car pulled up in front of my house, so I pocketed my phone, thanked the driver, and collected my things. Vanessa reminded me—again—that the car was coming at 3:30 and I’d better be ready and packed, because I had to catch a flight to… to… fuck if I remembered where.

After they’d left, I let myself into the house, dropped my suitcase by the door, and took my phone out again.

I’ll be ok, he’d said. Nervous but I’ll be ok.

Don’t sweat it. They always seem scarier than they actually are.

And besides, I didn’t add, you’re not the one who’s liable to break down in tears on live TV.

Guess we’ll see, he said. Looking forward to it! :)

So was I. God, so was I.

In fact, it took every bit of restraint I possessed not to suggest meeting somewhere in LA tonight. He was undoubtedly staying down near the network studio, but I could handle driving back into the city if it meant seeing him.

Except that was probably not a good idea. For one thing, the damn photographers had been nipping at my heels every second since the awards, and they popped up everywhere in this city anyway. It would be just my luck they’d catch us, just like they’d caught me with every man I’d left the house with since I’d started mattering to tabloids. Brian didn’t need that. Not the swarm of paparazzi, and definitely not his face showing up under headlines speculating about who he was, what we were doing, and how long we’d been fucking. Because they always assumed I was fucking any man I spoke to for more than three seconds

So no, I wouldn’t subject him to that. As much as I wanted to see him, I didn’t want this to turn into a nightmare for him.

That, and I couldn’t stay up very late.

After all, the car was coming at 3:30.

The 3:30 that happened in the morning.

Son of a bitch.