Page 17 of Stuck Behind Her

But I know Lorenzo won’t tell his father. We made a deal and I trust him. No telling a single soul.

“Anyway,” Lorenzo continues. “I don’t know why you’re still against Elias. We’re all similar in a way. Absent fathers, known in the media.”

“It’s an offense to compare us. I don’t need my parent’s money to be on screen,” I brag, causing Lorenzo to roll his eyes. My phone then vibrates. I open it to see reminder of the signing I need to be at.

“I should get going before Oliver kills me for being late,” I tell him.

“He better not. Anyway, have fun,” he says, opening the car door and exiting.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call after him. He smiles before closing the door and turning to walk back to his house. Now, for a more organized fan interaction. I turn the car back on, starting the engine before driving out of the parking lot of Pierre’s house, and onto the road.

I get to the venue just in time and walk to the back door. When it opens, Oliver is waiting at the door. “I’m here on time,” I say, holding my hands above my head.

“I know. Now come on,” he replies, nodding his head to the side. I follow him into the venue. In the middle is an empty wooden table. No chairs—who has no chairs? Instead, I sit on the table.

“You know the drill. Don’t lash out, please. If anyone violates the rules, call security.” He reminds me. He’s still stuck on the last fan interaction. But the difference is now this is planned, with security and barriers, while last time everyone just began crowding around me, almost suffocating me. There is a difference.

“And you remember to make sure I’m out by eight p.m. No one comes in after seven thirty, I’m not staying until midnight this time,” I tell him. People have no respect for time these days. I don’t like going out when it’s so dark outside. I also get tired, since, you know, I’m not a robot.

“Yes, I will,” he promises.

After some time, I enter the hall to be greeted by a huge bunch of people. A lot of people bought tickets to this event. Wow, I didn’t know this many tickets were sold. I sit down on my chair and ready myself for the thousands of requests awaiting me. This is going to take a while.

After several autographs and appreciation comments, the number of people decreases, and there are about twenty people still waiting to get an autograph. We have thirty minutes of the signing to go, and I know no further fans will be allowed in the venue, thank God.

“Hey, Val!” I hear a high-pitch voice and look up to see a little kid standing at the table, only half of their face showing.

“Hello to you, too. What’s your name?” I ask. I try my best to be as fun and polite as possible with kids. They don’t know half of what they’re doing sometimes. Being mean to them would only hurt them, and what a kid feels can greatly affect their growth. And they’re adorable, nonetheless. Innocent.

“Lina,” she says proudly.

“That’s such a pretty name.”

“Thank you!” Lina exclaims with a big smile. She looks about seven years old.

“So, for what reason do I owe the great pleasure of your presence?”

She raises her hand and slips a note toward me on the table. “I made this little note for my best friend. Her birthday is soon, and I know she’ll be very happy if it’s signed by you. Her and I love your music,” she explains. I underestimate the irresponsibility of some parents. What are seven-year-olds doing listening to my music? I put on a smile, hiding thejudgement. I should start putting age limits. Not that they’re bad or anything, but I don’t think children that age should be listening to the topics my songs are about.

“Of course,” I reply, autographing the card. I then extend my hand, giving her back the note.

“Thank you so much.” She smiles, taking the note.

“You’re welcome,” I tell her, and she then runs off.

The next person who approaches me is a man who looks like he’s in his late twenties. Both of his hands are in his pockets as he walks toward the desk.

“Hello,” he greets me. It’s funny how the moods of different people are interchanging.

“Hey. How are you today?” I ask. I need to make small talk according to Oliver, so I try my best to do so.

“Fine,” he answers vaguely. He sounds like he’d rather be anywhere but here. Why is he here then? This event isn’t free.

“So, what do you want me to sign for you?” He takes his hands out of his pocket, revealing a pocketknife. He shows me a little paper linked to it, holding it out. “This.”

I eye the sharp edge before raising my head to him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Sharp objects are prohibited at events such as this, and I’m going to have to ask you to put it away,” I tell him, shifting in my seat. Knives or any sharp objects are not allowed in the building, so I can’t sign them or give them away. Besides, there’s the fact I’m not that comfortable around them.

“I know, but it’s a gift. I just need you to autograph it for me and I’ll leave,” he insists. What part of prohibited does he not understand?

---