I am skipping around the house in an old They Might Be Giants t-shirt with my hair wrapped in a towel, fresh from a shower. I was too wiped out last night to do anything but crawl into bed and sleep. And remember Harry's lips against mine. I think I did more of that than sleeping, really. Now, I am blasting my music, an odd mix of pop punk and classic alternative. Fall Out Boy and Taking Back Sunday and Motion City Soundtrack. REM and The Replacements and Radiohead. Paramore and Concrete Blonde. And of course, They Might Be Giants. As I am transferring a load of clothes from the washing machine into the dryer, there is a very quiet tap on my front door.

I peek through the side window and squeak like a cartoon character. Harry is outside my door, and I have been singing along to these songs as loud as I can, in my underwear. I can hear him laughing outside. Keeping the door as a barrier to shield my bare lower half, I crack it open a few inches.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you, too." He grins at me, his eyes drifting up to my head. I reach up and feel the towel. Stupid towel. I untwist it and throw it to the floor behind me, my wet hair hanging over my shoulder. He laughs again, and holds up a white paper bag. "Delivery."

"Um. Hang on." I run to the basket of warm clothes fresh out of the dryer and pull on a pair of shorts. "Okay, come in," I open the door wide.

He walks into the kitchen and sits on a stool. The stool. I lean back against the stove across from him, the high breakfast bar between us. He stretches his tattooed arm out toward me, and I swear it's like he has watched my daydreams. "Don't you, like, have any food in your house?" He gestures around my kitchen.

"Like, no. Not really," I chuckle.

His laugh crinkles his eyes. "Is that why you always order from Sal's?"

Do you know that laugh you do, where your mouth is closed because you're trying to contain the absolute elation from spreading over your whole face, and so you just sort of breathe out a laugh that shakes your whole body? That's me. "Yes, usually. But I didn't order anything today."

He groans, "Sal."

"What? Wait, did you tell him?"

"No," he says too quickly, and it stings. "Well, some. Did you tell him?"

"Why would I tell him?" I can't help but laugh again. Why would I tell the guy who owns the deli? What would I even say? I would love a tuna sandwich, and oh, I nearly sucked the face off your nephew last night.

"Why would I?" He asks.

"He's your uncle. Duh."

"Should I have told him? I mean, have you told anyone?"

He is up and walking around the counter towards me, an animalistic look in his eye. I remember his hands pulling at the back of my shirt, holding me to him like I might vanish if he didn't maintain contact. I look at his lips, so pink and curving and pretty.

"I don't know. I wouldn't know what to say. I mean," the closer he gets, the more flustered I get, blood rushing to my face. "I don't know what this is, what we are."

He puts one hand on the edge of the stove behind me and the other on my jaw. "Day two and you already want to define the relationship." His eyes are glittering with amusement.

I shrug. "I've never done this before. I don't know. I don't know how these things usually go."

He kisses me. Soft and slow. "After I take you out tonight, I guess we can say that we're dating." His lips brush mine again.

"Actually, I think we can't say that until we've gone on multiple dates. Dat-ing implies an ongoing, regular sort of activity."

There is that deep-dimpled smile. I place my hand on his cheek, running my finger into the divot.

"Fine. What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"I'll be in New York tomorrow night," I answer, frowning.

He steps back, away. I miss him, and he's two feet away. This cannot be healthy. "What! When were you going to tell me?" I mean, before last night, what were we to each other? Barely more than strangers. Acquaintances. Why would I have told him?

"Um," I offer an exaggerated shrug. "Now?"

"Why?" He breathes the word out like he inhaled something awful, pushing his hand into his hair. And it is so beautiful, I fall deeper into this pit that is Harry.

I press my lips together and shake my head. "The show premieres this week, so they have me doing all the talk shows to promote my last season." I run my hands over my face and look up at him. "And I have to be all fake, and smiley, the charming Maddie Turner that America loves." I clench my teeth in an exaggerated smile.

"No, you don't." He says it like it's so simple. Like it's no big deal. "Why can't you just be yourself? I mean, what happened to not pretending anymore?"

"I meant in my real life. For my career, I have to. I have to give them what they want. I don't think people would like the sarcastic, broken me. That's not what people want to see on these shows."

"I think if you showed the world your true self, they would love you more." His voice is low and sweet and sincere, and I want to wrap it around myself and take a nap in it.

I am shaking my head. I think I have been shaking my head since the conversation turned to New York. My true self is so shattered. I have been working for six years to put her back together. Hell, for 18 years. Let's be honest, even before he died, I still wasn't really okay.

I look into his eyes, so intensely locked to mine. I wish he could read my mind, so he could understand. "I can't," I whisper. I can't.

He nods and puts his arms around me, kissing the top of my wet hair. "Okay." His arms slide up and down my back, and I breathe in his smell. "Let's eat."

"Wait, don't you have to get back to work?"

"It's my lunch hour." He smirks at me, unrolling the bag of sandwiches.

I grab a diet cherry coke for myself and offer one to him. "What kind of sandwich did you bring me?" I am so excited, you don't even know. Like, I should seriously make a blog just about their sandwiches.

"Sal said turkey with pepper jack."

Fist pump. That's my third favorite sandwich. Harry just watches me as if I am crazy. I am. Crazy for these sandwiches. And him. I grab his hand and lead him to the tv room, where we sit on the floor, cross-legged and facing each other, my bare knee touching his. His eyes move from my face to my hands, holding my sandwich.

"Are your nails real?" What a weird question.

"Yeah," I look at them, the dark blue paint is chipping away on nine out of ten. Nope. Ten out of ten. "I used to bite them. I mean, until they bled. But now, as long as I keep them painted, I don't usually get the urge." He eats while I talk. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugs. "You don't seem to wear much makeup, but you always have your nails painted a different color. Green, lavender, blue. Black and red stripes," his eyes get a faraway look, before he looks back into my eyes. "I think that was my favorite. I thought maybe you used the stick-on fake nails. I was just curious." He has noticed a lot more about me than I would have ever imagined. Is he as stalker-level obsessed with me as I am with him? A girl can dream. (Stalking is wrong, kids. Don't do it. And stalking is a serious problem. Don't joke about it. Ignore my bad example.)

"They make me wear so much makeup for the show, like it is just caked on. It's horrible."

"Are you wearing any make up now?"

Neither of us is eating the sandwich in our hands now. We are just staring at each other.

"No." I roll my eyes. "I just got out of the shower when you knocked." A blush creeps up my neck and onto my cheeks.

"You have really long eyelashes."

"Thanks."

"You're really beautiful."

"Thanks," I frown.

"What?" He sets his sandwich down and rests his hand on my bare leg, just above my knee, and I swear I can feel his touch everywhere.

"I don't usually get 'beautiful.' I usually get nerdy. Or quirky. Or cute." I look down at my lap. "Or fat," I mutter.

"You. Are. Not. Fat. You're perfect."

My eyes shoot up to meet his. You're perfect. "I'm not perfect," my voice is raw with emotion. "Far from it." All I can see is my brother's face.

"Hey, hey." He reaches out that tattooed arm toward me, reaching for me. "I'm sorry. I don't know what just happened. We were all smiling and laughing and now you're about to cry."

"I'm not about to cry." I push those tears back down. "I'm fine." Fuck.

I pull a lock of my wet hair across my face and hold it there, hiding behind it. "Can we just go back to you calling me beautiful."

Harry raises up on his knees and leans toward me. "You're beautiful. And adorable. And deeply flawed." He takes advantage of my laughter to slide his tongue into my mouth. His lips taste like honey mustard. "And I have to go back to work." He stands.

"No," I groan. "I don't want you to go." I look up at him through my long lashes, hoping my cuteness will make him stay.

"Sorry, love. Some of us have to work for a living." He scoots away before I can smack his leg. "I'll be back here at 6:30 for our date."

"Okay." The door closes, and I am swooning. I lean back against the couch and say the word aloud. "Love." He called me love. I am love. I am an idiot.

I watch bad reality tv, eat my sandwich and the rest of his, and do laundry. This is my usual Saturday. Except usually I do it all with a heavy numbness sitting on my chest, and today.... Today my chest is squirming and tightening with anxiety and anticipation. And excitement. And happiness.

At six, I change into a short periwinkle shift dress and brush my hair. I have those really long lashes, so my brown eyes don't require any makeup to stand out. But my lips are pale. Like, people ask me if I'm sick, pale. Like dead, pale. I paint on a bit of long-lasting color in a nice, full shade of pink. Not bright or showy. Just the way normal people's lips look without adding anything.

The weather has turned suddenly, and the October skies release an unusual amount of rain. From sunny and dry to a full-on downpour in a matter of minutes. I go back to my closet to grab a coat, or maybe even change. Harry knocks at my door, a few minutes early. I hurry to open it so he can get out of the rain, and I am out of breath from running the length of my house. And he is drenched, his long hair plastered to his face. At least he's under cover on my porch.

He grins at me. "You look lovely."

I ignore the compliment. "Did you walk here?"

"Yeah," he shivers and nods.

"I could've picked you up."

He shivers and shakes his head. "Wouldn't be a proper first date if I didn't come to get you." He pulls his hand from behind his back. "And bring you flowers."

It is a bouquet of cucumbers and tomatoes cut into flower shapes and stuck to toothpicks, the other ends of which are tucked into---no. An orange. "Is that an orange?"

"Yeah." He shivers again. I can feel bile rising in my throat, and air seems to reject my lungs. Or vice versa. "Maddie?"

"Okay, this is going to sound insane, but I need you to stay out here. I'm going to bring you an apple. Please." I gulp some air, leaning against the doorframe. "Please, get rid of the orange."

I get a green apple from the kitchen and hand it to him. I close the door, leaving him on the porch. Leaning over the breakfast bar, I rest my head against the cool marble and try to breathe. I hear the click of the door and the sloshing of his shoes. His hand trails down my hair and back.

"Are you okay?"

I nod against my folded arms.

"Do you still want to go?"

Another nod.

He sets the food bouquet in front of me. The way to Maddie Turner's heart is through her stomach. "Did you make this?" I ask, finally standing up straight.

"Well, Sal's daughter, my cousin. She's in culinary school."

"So she made them."

He feigns hurt. "No! She showed me how to make them."

"They're lovely." I kiss his cheek and place the bouquet in the fridge. "Where are you taking me?"

"I thought, maybe pizza? Louis and I found this great place." He looks panicked for a moment. "If that's okay."

"Pizza's great. Let me just get my shoes." His eyes travel down my body to my bare feet. How can he make my body heat rise with just the slow movement of his eyes?

At the door, shoes on and bag over my shoulder, I slip my hand into his, smiling up at him. "You brought me flowers."

"I made you flowers."

"You had someone make me flowers." Before we step out into the rain, which is tapering off, I raise my car keys to him. "Do you want to drive? I mean, can you drive? Do you have a license? Of course you do, you drove the rental truck. But I mean, because it's the other side of the road..." I am babbling. But I am also too shaken to drive.

He is laughing. He is always laughing. I am always laughing with him. "I can drive if you want." He takes the keys, and kisses my hand. "I think I need to change before we eat, though."

I nod. "You're soaked." And I made him stand out here shivering on the porch while I had a fucking breakdown over citrus fruit.

The short ride to his place is silent. He parks parallel to the curb in front of his duplex and holds a hand up to me when I reach for the door handle. "Stay. It's still raining. I'll be back in two minutes."

And when he returns, he's wearing an outfit almost identical to the one that was wet. Tight black jeans and another band t-shirt under a black button-down, and he looks incredible. As he buckles himself into the driver's seat, he asks, "so, are you allergic to oranges?"

I stare at him wide-eyed for far too long. "Sort of. It's a long story, and not a fun, nice story."

"Tell me."

I want to. I actually want to for the first time, ever. But not now. God, not tonight.

"I will, another time. But it's really not a first date kind of story. Let's talk about things that are fun and nice. Like you."

"So, you think I'm fun and nice," he smirks at me.

"Clearly, or I wouldn't be here. I mean, just being hot is not enough to get me on a date."

"You think I'm fun and nice and hot."

I cover my face with my hands. At the stoplight, he reaches for my hand and pulls it into his, resting our twined fingers on my bare knee. "Please, please can we just talk about you."

"I thought we were talking about me. How fun and nice and hot I am."

I beg him, "Please, give me a break, would you?"

"Sorry, love. What do you want to know?"

I answer quickly, "Everything." He rolls his eyes at me, but the dimple gives away his amusement.

"For a start." He is sarcastic like me.

"Where are you from?"

"England."

"Duh."

"It's a tiny town. You've never heard of it."

"For god's sake, Styles. What's the fucking place called?"

"And you think the talk shows won't like the real you." Ouch. He glances at my face. "Hey. Hey, Maddie it was a joke. I'm sorry. And for what it's worth, I like when you get irritated and say what's really on your mind."

"What is the fucking name of your fucking town?" I glare at him, humor dancing just behind my eyes.

His laugh comes out a burst. Like, if he had fluid in his mouth, it would have come out his nose. "Holmes Chapel."

"Where is that?"

"Um, sort of near Manchester."

"Do you like it there?"

"I guess. It was too small for me, but it's a great little town."

The date progresses like this: we eat. A lot. And I ask him a barrage of questions about his life. He has a sister. He loves her more than anything or anyone. He has a cat back in England. Molly, a fat and fluffy tabby. He admits he misses her more than he does most people. His parents got divorced when he was seven, just like me, I tell him. His mom is young and pretty, and soon to be married again. She teaches primary school. His dad was a musician, like him. It was the constant touring and struggling that led to their break up. They fought all the time, Harry tells me. Not physically, just horrible shouting matches that would last for hours. He met the guys in his band when he moved to London at 16. I tell him that I moved out at 16, too. He's two weeks older than me. Exactly two weeks. We sit side by side in the booth, and he wraps his arm around my shoulder, twirling his fingers in my hair as we talk. He doesn't ask me too many questions about my family, and I suspect that's because he already knows. The whole fucking world knows. But I offer him little insights where I can. Like, that I will never take the stairs if there's an elevator. And that I will watch Mean Girls whenever it's on, no matter what else I'm doing, no matter how many times I've seen it. His eyes catch the light in such miraculous ways, and I think I could set up camp and live inside them for the rest of my life.

At the end of the night, I offer to drop him at home, but he insists that a real date includes walking the girl to her door, and hoping for a kiss. His expression is shy as we get to my door, and I want to roll my eyes. Not in a mean way. But come on. As if I am not going to kiss him.

"I had, I daresay, the best time of my life with you tonight," I say, moving a piece of his hair off his forehead.

He catches my hand in his and steps toward me, moving me back against the door. His other hand weaves into my hair and pulls me closer. The kiss is...breathtaking. I mean, I can barely breathe from the moment his lips touch mine. I am swept up in a wave of passion, drowning in his kiss. His tongue, oh god his tongue. I make a sound like a whimper. He pushes his hips into mine, groaning. I free my hand from his and wrap my arms around him. I wrap my soul around him. I wrap my whole self around him with this kiss.

"What time do you leave tomorrow?" Fuck. I don't want to go. I want to live in these kisses and his eyes and... Shit.

"I have to be at the airport by 7." I kiss him again.

"Morning or night?" Kiss.

"Night. It's a red-eye." Kiss.

"Can I see you tomorrow before you go?" Smile. Kiss. Smile. Kiss. "I'll take that as a yes."

I don't even have words. He has stolen them with his kisses. I nod sleepily.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow. Noon?" Nod. Smile. Kiss. "Goodnight, love." His fingers trail across my fluttering stomach as he steps away. I stand there in the dark on my porch watching him walk away, glancing back at me every few steps, until he turns the corner.

I lean against the inside of my door. There aren't enough words for smiles. How do we have thousands of words to describe colors and only a few to depict a smile? A grin. A smirk. None of these are right. They aren't strong enough. I need, like, a smile equivalent of euphoria. I'm going to have to invent a fucking word to describe these smiles. Like, face rainbows or some shit.

I sleep terribly that night, tossing in the bed. It is that almost-sleep, where you are aware that you're sleeping, and consciousness is just above the surface. I finally give up at 5, throwing back the sheets in irritation. I hate to fly. I know that is the cause of my insomnia. I don't want to go. I don't want to fly 3,000 miles away from the boy who makes me feel alive. Safe. Happy.

I don't want to face the talk show hosts. I am scheduled for two daytime and two late night talk shows, and a morning show, all over the course of three days. By the time I return on Thursday, I know I will be physically and emotionally exhausted, just to film one more back here in LA.

I decide to swim to relieve some of the tension in my body. The lukewarm water of my lap pool soothes me almost immediately, and I set a good pace, cutting through the water smoothly. When I get out, the sun is up, yesterday's rain a distant memory. Still, it is cool in the dawn light at the top of this hill, and I shiver into my towel.

After a shower to warm me up, I wander down the long hall to my kitchen. This house suddenly feels too big. And so empty. I open the fridge to search for food, and I am all face rainbows. Fucking face rainbows all over the place. The little bouquet of edible flowers rests on the shelf, and I reach my hand out to graze the delicate petals. My face is a rainbow.

I settle on a bagel to satisfy my hunger, then turn my attention to packing. I only have a few hours now until Harry is supposed to come, and I don't want to waste any of our time. I select my favorite black and dark blue skinny jeans, gray and black sparkly tops, and a couple of dresses--a dark green and blue paisley and a gray and black houndstooth. I almost opted for more colorful clothes because that's what the producers like. It looks better on camera. But I am going to be me, at least with my clothes, even if I can't with my words. I zip up the garment bag decisively.

I'm just finishing up the smaller bag, with my shoes, underwear, and toiletries when he knocks. I know it's him. He always knocks so softly. I run down the long hall, my socked feet slipping a bit on the dark wood floor, and pull open the door with face rainbows.

"Are you all right?" He laughs, stepping into the entry, and sliding his arm around my waist. "You're all out of breath."

I peer up at him. "This is what you do to me."

Now his face is a rainbow, and his rainbow is pressed to mine, our colors mixing. Every time I kiss him, it feels new. Like I have never felt anything like this in my life.

"What have you been up to this morning?" Harry asks me so casually.

"Packing."

"Dislike." His eyes scan around the entryway.

"Do you want to see the rest of my house?"

"Okay."

I lead him past the kitchen to the dining room, where a long table is set as if some huge family will soon sit down for a meal. I love this room because it opens out to my yard.

He touches a place setting. "Do you ever use this space?"

"Sometimes," I answer, then tip my head to the side. "Not really. No. Never."

He laughs. "Where does that go?" He points.

"The garage."

"Can I see?"

"Why? It's just a normal garage." Except it isn't. It's a garage with no cars and lots of boxes. Boxes of his stuff. Boxes that have been packed for six years. Boxes that my mother wanted to throw away, and I had to bring them here to prevent her erasing him completely.

"The tour wouldn't be complete."

"Fine," I whine and open the door. I wave my hand towards the largely empty space. "See. Normal ordinary garage."

"Why don't you park in there?"

I shudder involuntarily. "I just don't like it."

He can tell there's more. I know he can, but he lets it go. I take his hand and lead him to the next room, the living room, where my piano sits, looking out over the pool. He smiles as he runs his hand over the piano. I lead him down the hall to the three extra rooms, all with bathrooms attached. The first I use as an office, and my books and school work are scattered over the desk. The second and third rooms are set up as guest rooms.

"No one has ever slept here," I say, just an off-hand observation.

"Never?" He is incredulous. "Why do you have them then?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

"You have more space than you need," he says, almost sadly. And it could come across as judgmental, but I don't take it that way. I think, I hope, he is just recognizing how alone I have been.

"I always imagined someone would come to visit," I shake my head. "I have no idea who that would be. But it feels like changing the room to something else would be giving up on that idea."

He nods as if that makes sense to him. It barely makes sense to me.

Finally, I lead him to my room, and I am blushing before we even cross the threshold. "And this is my room." He takes his time, looking out every window and at every picture on the wall. He runs his fingers over one of me and my brother, and I know, I just know, that he is aware. That he knows he's dead. He has to. I stand in the doorway, hugging my arms around my stomach, frozen. Broken.

Finally he sits on the end of my bed and gazes at me, with that fervent eye contact. "Come here," he murmurs.

I walk to him, and he pulls me to sit on his lap, my knees straddling him on the bed. His arms wrap around my back and move up slowly, into my hair. I am clutching his shoulders tightly, probably too tightly. He kisses my jaw. My collarbone. My neck. His ear is right in front of my face. I bite it gently, and he laughs, a low hum. His lips find their way back to mine, moving slowly, sweetly. When we pause to breathe, he runs his finger across my eyebrow, tracing the shape of the bone. "So beautiful," he whispers.

He leans back and pulls me with him, so that I am hovering over him, my hair creating a curtain around our faces. "Second date and you're already trying to get me into bed," I joke, kissing him before he can retort.

"I guess this means we're dating," he answers when I finally slide off him and lay beside him. He reaches that tattooed arm out and moves my hair off my face.

"I guess," I roll my eyes as if the idea barely appeals to me. As if my heart isn't already picking out wedding china. What?

Our faces are rainbows as we settle into my bed to watch a movie and eat my bouquet with ranch dressing. It is a perfect second date. And I don't want it to end. At 4:30, he asks how I'm getting to the airport, and he gapes at me when I tell him I'm driving myself and leaving my car.

"You can't leave that car at the airport."

"Why not? I do it all the time," I frown. "They have a special lot--"

"For celebrities." He seems disgusted by the idea.

I shake my head. "For rich people."

That gets him laughing again. "Are you rich?"

"Yes," I answer honestly. I have so much money, now that my mom can't get her hands on it. More than I will ever need.

"You fly first class?"

"Of course, but the show pays for it."

"Do they pay for the hotel too?"

"Yes." I can tell there is something behind this line of questioning. "Does it bother you that I have money? That I travel first class?"

"No." He lays back, and I run my fingers across the words tattooed on his right arm. "Sort of. I mean, I don't want you to think I'm interested in you for that. And I can't help but feel a bit intimidated. I have, like, a hundred dollars in my bank account right now."

"I don't care about money. I care about who a person is. And I like the person you are."

He smiles that slow-spreading, deep-dimpling, heart-stealing smile. "I like the person you are, too." His hands wrap into my hair and pull my face down for a kiss. "You should let more people see the person that you are."

"Hm," I grunt. Not this shit again. I change the topic. "How many tattoos do you have?"

"43." He kisses me again. And again. And again. A kiss for every tattoo. Then, I kiss all the ones I can see, pushing his sleeve up and pulling his collar down. He chuckles and lifts his shirt, and my stomach tightens as I lean down to kiss his abdomen, his hips, his chest. His breathing is shallow as I move back up to his mouth.

And way too soon, I have to go. The air is thick with unspoken wishes. I wish I could stay. I wish I could erase my life before meeting Harry. I wish I could tell him about my life before. I wish I could take his shirt all the way off.

He loads my bags into the car, and I like watching his muscles contract under his shirt. I am going to miss him more than is normal, surely. He wraps those long arms around me and kisses my hair, murmuring, "I'm going to miss you. So much."

"Me too."

"Call me when you land."

"It'll be five in the morning."

"I don't care. Call me." I nod and we kiss, a deep kiss full of longing. I miss him already, and he is still attached to my fucking face. How am I going to make it through these next few days?

Finally, I have to go or I'll miss the flight, and my phone is buzzing in my pocket. I know I'm in trouble for being so late already. "Go on," he says. "I'll see you in a few days."

Two hours later, I'm flying over the boy I am falling so completely in love with, Lou in the seat next to me. I stare out the window at the city below me until I can't recognize anything, then stretch out on the large seat to sleep. I wake Harry up when I land, and his sleepy voice makes me smile from so far away. I send him back to bed.

My first two days in New York pass in a haze of shopping and food and limos and a huge hotel suite. And awful, horribly fake talk shows. I hear myself saying the same bullshit over and over, laughing my tv laugh. Yeah, it's really my last season. I'm in my second year of film school and the schedule is so demanding. I can't do both. I love everyone on the show. The season is shaping up to be the best yet. We were thrilled to win another Emmy. I can barely stand myself by the end of the interviews.

The highlights of my days are the texts that Harry sends me. I laugh so much that Lou is forced to redo my make up. Twice.

Wednesday evening, I am the first guest on a talk show hosted by a real prick. He has made many jokes at my expense over the years, and I argued with Karen when she scheduled my appearance. It's the last time, the last year, she said. It'll be fine, she said.

I am in my dark green dress, which I keep smoothing nervously. There are no wrinkles. I just can't stand still. Finally, I head out to the theater to a cheering crowd.

"Maddie, it's great to have you here."

"Thanks, it's great to be here." Lies.

"So, this is your last season on 'Turning Pages.'" I nod. "Why are you leaving?"

I repeat my usual answer in a monotone. The host is frowning at me. "I'm sorry, I've just... I'm leaving because I need to move on."

"There are some fans who say they won't watch when you're gone. What do you say to that?" He is not following the preset questions. Dick.

I answer honestly, "I hope that isn't so. I can't wait to see what they do with the show next year, and in any case, I'm not what made this show great. It's the writers, the whole cast and crew."

He doesn't like that I have answered his undisclosed question so gracefully.

"I don't know if you watch this show," he pauses for me to answer, and I shake my head. I have seen clips. But I wouldn't watch this bullshit show. "Well, we do this thing called Wild Rider where we share some of the odder requests celebrities make for their dressing room."

My heart is in my chest, but I keep my face as impassive as possible.

"Yours was pretty straightforward. Diet coke, no red meat." He is reading from printed pages, which he holds aloft for the crowd to see. I look out at them, and they are waiting eagerly to hear my odd request. "The only thing that was kind of weird was this line. 'There can be no oranges, orange flavored items, orange juice, orange cleaner, orange scent, nor any citrus fruit resembling an orange.'" He sets the paper down and looks at me, almost examines me like a specimen in a lab. "I'm just curious. Why?" Then he takes an orange out of a bag by his side and sets it on his desk.

Fuck this asshole. "Because my big brother hung himself from the orange tree in our back yard," I answer, never breaking eye contact.