Page 94 of Method Acting

They laughed but I couldn’t ignore the way they looked between me and Amos. And the way he picked at his muffin and wouldn’t look at me.

Goddammit.

So I shut my mouth for the next ten minutes and managed to choke down half my breakfast, but really I just wanted to leave. I pushed my plate away and stood up. “Gotta go grab my stuff,” I said to no one in particular and left.

I didn’t look to see if Amos followed me, because I was pretty sure he wasn’t following me, and I couldn’t deal with turning around and finding out.

Or worse, to find Daniel following me and not Amos.

I couldn’t deal with the cameras right now.

I all but jogged back to the house, ran up the steps, and through the front door, and found my least favorite best friend in the kitchen. He didn’t look particularly healthy. “Oh good,” I said. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

Jimmy squinted at me. “Can we not yell? My head hurts.”

“A head like yours should hurt.”

“Now, I might be hungover and not thinking too clearly right now, but I’m picking up some negative vibes.”

I inhaled deeply and tried counting on the exhale. I knew, rationally, it wasn’t his fault. I had admitted to him that I had feelings for Amos, and just last night I was resigned to giving into those feelings. Maybe that was the beer doing the feeling for me, but still...

And Jimmy hadn’t signed up to be filmed. I had. Not him, not Tate.

I growled and ran my hands through my hair. “Fucking hell.”

“What’s up?” Tate asked as he walked in. At least he was showered, and he was clearly faring better than Jimmy.

“Last night in the bar,” I said, “someone was filming us, and Jimmy here decided to announce to the world that I’m in love with Amos. Twenty-something thousand people and climbing have watched it, and considering it’s eight in the morning and not everyone is even out of bed yet, that’s a pretty good view count.”

Jimmy stood there with a stupid look on his face as if he was trying to remember... “Oh. Shit. I’m sorry. When did I say that?”

I sighed and shook my head. I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at me.

Tate had his phone out. “First thing that came up,” he said, showing us the screen.

I didn’t need to see it again.

Tate watched it through, then scrolled some comments. “People love it. Saying Jimmy’s spitting facts. ‘Drunk facts are honest facts.’ That kinda stuff.”

“It’s not facts,” I said, lying through my teeth.

“Well, it kinda is,” Tate mumbled. “And if Amos has seen this, then now he knows, so is that a bad thing?”

I wasn’t sure if Tate was stupid or incredibly smart.

Not that it mattered.

“It’s bullshit and a very bad thing, because now Amos won’t even look at me.”

Tate stared at me, and when I looked at Jimmy, he was staring at me too. “Shit, man, I’m sorry.”

I wanted to pull my hair out or punch something or scream. Or all three. I had a pent-up ball of rage inside me that I needed to let out, and there was only one way that I could do that.

“Fuck everything today. I’m hitting the pool.”

Tate checked the time. “What about class?”

“I’m not going to class,” I said, heading up to my room. “And I’m not taking my phone. If anyone asks where I am, tell them you don’t know.”

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