Page 36 of The Pretender

Entry Number: 75

Sebastian and Valentina

First Interview Continued, also known as those five seconds I didn’t hate Sebastian

“Back from your break?” I nod to the producer. “Yes. I’m much more relaxed now.”

“Good.” Tom nods, looking eager to get back to the love story of Sebastian and Valentina. “Do you want to pick up where you left off?”

I eye Sebastian who just shrugs. “Up to you.”

He’s no help. Sighing, I twist my fingers together. Here goes nothing. “Sebastian is right, I did try to prank him, but he always caught on to my antics and ended up spoiling my videos instead.”

For some reason, when I look at Sebastian, he doesn’t seem as smug as I thought he would.

“You were close a couple of times, though,” he adds, trying to make me feel better. And it does, a little, because I know it doesn’t matter how many failed attempts I had; when it matter most, I nailed the prank of all time.

* * *

“He’s still not up,”I mumble to myself, fishing out my phone and checking it for the two thousandth time.

After spending more time than I intended at the taco truck, Sebastian and I parted ways with a smile and a promise to meet for lunch to discuss scenes and strategy for the competition.

But by two o’clock, lunch had come and gone with no word from the shitty neighbor. I’m thinking he either had a change of heart or overslept at someone’s house, because my trusty binoculars and I have yet to see him emerge from hell.

Breaking into his house would be like checking on him. And checking on him would be a business decision. Right? I mean, we have a deal and although no pillow or chair was exchanged last night, it doesn’t mean we didn’t shake on it.

Shaking on it is like law in my house. You don’t go back on your word and if that’s what Sebastian is doing then I’m going to steal way more than his pillow. Maybe I’ll take those car keys of his and make him dig them out ofmypocket.

Wait! His Jeep.

I rush out of my room and onto the front stoop. If Sebastian is home, his car would be here. And wouldn’t you know it, there it is. All shiny and yellow, taking up two parking spaces.

I swear if he’s pulling this stunt, claiming that he didn’t sleep well without his pillow, then I am going to smother him with it.

I snatch my hoodie from the chair and slip it on, slamming the front door and finding myself at Sebastian’s back door. It’s locked, of course, so I pull out my trusty set of keys—aka my lock picking tools—and let myself in.

I’m sure I’ll be sorry if I walk in on him and a lady friend, but I’m willing to take the chance and witness someone slapping that stupid dimple on his face. “Honey, I’m home!” I yell, hoping if there is a girl in his bed, she’ll realize he is a cheating scumbag. “Good news! I’m pregnant!” When no one screams and runs past me in tears, I close the door and pocket my lock pick set.

“Sebastian? Are you dead? Did someone finally murder your ass? I told you those jokes you make up are so not funny.”

Nothing. Nada. Not even an argument that he is funny—which he isn’t.

The living room is eh. It’s not messy, but it’s not necessarily picked up. There’s a hoodie and a glass on the coffee table and one sock on the floor. Why just one? I have no idea, but it doesn’t surprise me.

“Sebastian?” I call out. “Are you here?”

I could have missed him. It’s possible he woke up earlier than me and went out. With Sebastian, there is no telling. He’s irresponsible and sporadic.

A groan that sounds a lot like “Vee” comes from his bathroom.

I take a few hesitant steps down the hall. “You missed our lunch meeting, dickface. You better not be hungover.” I am not nursing this man back to health. I came over here out of curiosity.

“Go away,” he rasps out between groans.

I pause. “Why does it sound like you’re dying? I do not want to perform CPR. Heaven only knows where your mouth has been.”

“Agreed,” he calls, sounding pitiful and seriously sick. “I’d rather die than have you save me.”

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