MAUREEN TIAN

Tonight would be the first time I attended the Oscars, and it was a dream come true.

Of course, I myself wasn't invited. Atticus and his film about being an astronaut were all nominated for the big categories, and he so kindly asked me to be his date. Although I wasn't there as a nominee, I was still very excited. 5-year-old Maureen would've been so proud.

The new stylist, Shyna, was a girl of petite stature, copper freckles, and tinsel hair. She had big shoes to fill, evident by her constant perfectionist tendencies and shaky hands.

"I'll get your accessories," she spluttered, rushing to grab the box she brought over to my apartment, knocking over my package in the process. All the pins I bought spilled onto the floor, scattering between the fibers of the carpet. I ordered such an excessive amount, but collecting them was an addiction. I didn't just put them on my backpack to claim ownership. I also put them on my denim jackets, throw pillows, and bras as an expression of my personality.

"Oh my God," she whispered, scrambling to collect all the bits of metal into her cupped palm. "I am so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going—"

"Hey, it's alright," I assured her, putting a hand on her bare shoulder. She was trembling in fear. I could sympathize with her. It was only her first week. "I'll pick it up later. We don't have much time right now. Atticus is going to be over here any minute."

Speak of the devil, because there was a knock on the door at that very moment. Shyna nodded and immediately sprinted to let him in.

With a smooth stride, a bouquet of white roses, and a slightly different version of a three-piece suit, he clicked the door shut.

He didn't bother to take off his shoes, which made me internally roll my eyes. The easy smile dissolved off his face as he looked me up and down, taking his time to inspect every inch of my silk gown Shyna picked out, from the thigh-high slit to the metallic bodice with regal embroidery on the trim.

"You're seriously wearing that to the Oscars? Really?"

"Yeah." I frowned, self-consciously smoothing over the skirt. "You have a problem with it?"

"Actually, I do," he replied, putting the flowers onto the table. "Go change."

My jaw flew open. "Are you serious?"

"Do I sound like I'm kidding?"

"We don't have time for this," I snapped. "I got ready and everything. I'm not changing."

"They can wait," he insisted. "You are not leaving the house looking like that."

"Dude, chill." I crossed my arms over my chest. "I don't have another dress to change into."

"I can get you another one," Shyna interjected, voice small. She was doing a horrible job of masking the pure terror etched on her face. "It might take a while, though."

I waved my hand dismissively. "You really don't have to. Actually, can you do me a favor? Can you go outside and make sure that Lucia's there?"

Lucia wasn't outside. I just needed her to leave so I could yell at this man without someone watching.

She nodded, darting out the door faster than lightning could strike. When the door clicked close, and she was out of an earshot, I didn't miss a beat. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You are scaring that girl. She's new. Give her a break."

"Well, you should've taken her up on her offer." He scoffed. "She needs to learn how to do her job correctly. You can't baby her."

"That doesn't mean you have to be an asshole about it," I retorted, putting my hands on my hips. "Seriously. She's doing a great job. I like the dress she picked, and this is my body, so I get to decide what I wear."

"Then I don't want to be seen with you there." He shrugged. "It's as simple as that. I don't want you to embarrass me. We're going to one of the biggest events of the year, Maureen. This isn't some fucking joke."

"Why are you acting like I'm wearing pajamas or some shit? This is proper formal attire, and I really don't want to argue with you."

"I can't believe you. Why won't you just listen to me? I'm literally the person who invited you, so this is the least you can do for me. Do you think you're important enough to go on your own?"

I was red-hot with anger and spite. How could he say that? The worst part was he was right, but that didn't mean I was going to sit there and take it. I picked up the train of silk and turned toward my room. "Fine. Then I guess you should go alone."

He was too quick—blocking the doorway before I could exit with an outstretched arm. I tried to push him out of my way, but he remained firm, unwilling to budge. "Are you serious? Everyone's expecting you to be there? How do you think you're gonna make me look by ghosting me? Have you learned nothing about being difficult after Irma basically exposed you?"

Low blow, and he knew it because he immediately cringed. "Hey, listen I didn't mean it like that. Can we please just talk about it?"

"Clearly you did mean it," I replied, "or else you wouldn't have said it. I'm serious about staying home, you know."

"Listen," he sighed, reaching to push my cheek with a thumb. All the shimmer from my makeup transferred onto his skin, but he still cradled my neck so gently. A lot more gently than he usually did. "I'm sorry, okay? Can we just leave and forget about this? Sounds good?"

My pride was telling me to refuse. The more rational part of me knew I needed him not only for popularity but also this would be the best opportunity to slowly reemerge in the public eye after the scandal. At least for this once, I needed to put my humanity aside. The slope I was walking was a treacherous one, and I couldn't afford to lose sight of what was truly important.

"Fine." I snatched my purse from the countertop. "But next time I won't be so forgiving."

***

On the biggest night for Hollywood, Atticus was the main character.

Aside from the excruciatingly painful car ride, which was the only time I had to endure being with him alone, I was having a blast. The red carpet interviewers were all super sweet, the decorations were as enchanting as I expected them to be, and the celebrities all looked stunning.

Of course, I had to take photos with Atticus for the paparazzi. He only kissed me in front of cameras, anyway. Only was he on his best behavior when he knew someone would be watching. The realization made me sick.

For the actual award ceremony, I sat next to him and his group of all-male costars and production team, behind a particularly tall member who blocked my line of vision for the most part. I wasn't bothered by it. I was only here for moral support, not as an honorary invitee.

Somehow, Atticus and the film won all the categories they were nominated in, including best actor. I clapped as he made a stupid speech about how he never expected to be on that stage as the winner, and he was obviously lying through his teeth.

I honestly don't remember the name of the film that earned him his first trophy. All I remember is watching paint dry was a more compelling pastime than giving it a watch.

As the man of the hour, all the news outlets were trying to get a sound bite from him. He gave them what they wanted, telling the reporters he was extremely humbled and grateful for the recognition. All the while, I stood beside him, making sure to keep faking a smile so they didn't crucify me on the internet again.

At the afterparty, the other attendees kept flooding our table, and he had to tell them to let us breathe. Since he had that authority, people left us alone, refocusing on mingling with others instead. Only Davidson lingered, and I felt queasy seeing him, especially after our appearance on the Late Night Show. Then again, if our interactions were going to mirror that of the interviews, I had nothing to worry about because he'd ignore me like he did that night.

"Look at you, Wreathart," he teased, reaching to pinch Atticus' cheek. The Oscar winner swatted his hand before it was possible. "Who knew that squeaky child star would grow up to make waves? Well done, boy."

Atticus cringed at the mention of the notorious video. Even when I never paid attention to celebrity affairs, I knew what Davidson was referencing.

While shooting a commercial in 7th grade, his nose was running, and he had a bad voice crack. From what I could gather, the public was making fun of him for ages—referring to him as a sissy, or a girl stuck in a boy's body, or purposely talking high pitched to spite him, or, the most blasphemous, calling him gay. As if being a homosexual was somehow dictated by your tone of voice or as if that label was the worst thing to be called. Give me a fucking break. Even though I thought it was dumb, he clearly didn't feel the same way, considering he refused to speak unless called upon afterward.

In my view, it wasn't a big deal. Don't all humans experience that? Apparently, it was, and it followed him even now when he was established and practically grown up to be a different person, despite his attempts to keep that memory buried. But I knew as much as he did about how it was hard for people to let go of your past, and how much they focused on your shortcomings rather than your accomplishments. And to be publicly ridiculed during the crucial years of your adolescence, when all you cared about was belonging and what people thought about you—that must've stung. So in a way, I did sympathize with him.

I had a sneaking suspicion that's why he tried so hard to present masculine. He followed the three pillars as if they were the Constitution.

The first one being financial success. Obviously, given his family's Hollywood empire, that wasn't exactly a struggle for him. Still, even with the handouts, he was hungry for more wealth. He monitored stocks as if they were his lifeline, learned about cryptocurrency because he was convinced it was "the future," and invested in obscure tech companies he researched. I wasn't sure if this was a show more for his ego, or if he genuinely liked the money. After all, he didn't use most of it, just kept it tucked away in his bank account and watched the digits change.

The second, which was athleticism, was a little harder to accomplish. He hates to talk about it, so much so that he barely looks at old photos, but he was a scrawny kid, and he had an exceptionally hard time putting on weight. All the other boys in his grade were beefy and agile; quick and strong; tall and muscular, but he was the exact opposite. Though, clearly, genetics was no match for hard work. He drank protein shakes more than he drank water. He never skipped a day at the gym and primarily focused on weight lifting. According to him, he avoided the "girly" shit like dancing or pilates or yoga.

The third, women, came easily with the first two established. And boy, were there a lot of them. They never lasted that long, though. Only as long as he needed them for, which was usually a night. If this was his way of proving he wasn't gay, then I suppose it was working, because no one called him that anymore.

"Dude you need to leave," Atticus said sternly. I was terrified how one moment he could be so smiley and the next be on the verge of committing homicide. "Now."

Davidson furrowed his brows, sensing the sudden change in mood. "Chill. I was kidding."

"Well, I wasn't. You need to go."

"Hey, I didn't know I hit a sensitive nerve. It shouldn't be a touchy subject, though. You need to embrace where you came from."

"Isaiah, I swear to God if you do not leave right this second, I am going to slam your skull into this table, got it?"

That seemed to make our guest shut up. Finally taking the hint, he backed away with both hands in the air. Mock surrender.

I remained quiet, waiting for him to simmer down. Make no mistake, I didn't think he was in the right to threaten him, but I knew where he was coming from. For comfort, I put on a hand on his shoulder, rubbing slow circles in a rhythm synchronous with his heartbeat. This time, he was the one trembling.

He swirled the champagne around the tall, skinny glass. Anxious to change the subject, I'm guessing. "Are you having fun?"

"Yeah," I admitted, "I, uh, never thought I'd get to this point."

He took a sip of his drink. "Consider this to be the first of many."

Hopefully, the next time I wouldn't need to be his plus one. "Okay."

He put a hand over my wrist, intertwining our fingers. "There's no one I'd rather be with right now than you, you know that right?"

I tensed. That man was a perpetual yellow light. I never knew whether to prepare to stop or go and risk getting caught in the interaction with him. A master of mixed signals, truly. "Thank you."

He set the glass down and reached to brush a finger over my cheekbone. The next thing I knew, he was leaning in so the tips of our noses were brushing. I recognized that exact sequence of action. It's what he did when he wanted to kiss someone.

"Woah," I said, ripping away from his grasp. "There are no cameras here. You don't need to prove anything."

"Who said I was trying to prove anything?" he retorted, leaning closer. Again, I pulled away.

"Seriously." I put my hands up as a barricade between us. "I'm still mad at you."

"Can't you put that aside right now? Don't you think after dealing with that bullshit I deserve a distraction?"

"No, actually." I frowned. "You're the one that said you didn't like me."

"I never said that. You're the one twisting my words."

"I remember asking you if you liked me and you said you were drunk. I don't think it could get any clearer than that."

"Can you just forget about that right now?" he sighed. "Why are you giving me such a hard time? After the night I had?"

"No, I will not put it aside because I don't want to kiss you."

He laughed, completely devoid of humor, though. "God, you're so funny. Have you forgotten that I made you famous? That the only reason why anyone even cares about you right now is from your association with me? Kissing me is what brought you to the Oscars, and you didn't have a problem with that when it was convenient for you to use me. Do you think I don't know you're leeching off of me? Yet this is the only thing I ask for in return, and you don't even have the decency to listen."

I clamped down at my jaw, baffled. Was he seriously going to sit here and expect me to take all of that with a smile? Did he expect me to oblige after all of that? Especially after I told him I was still mad from earlier?

"You are so fucking full of yourself," I spat, unable to control my volume, standing up and tucking in my chair. A couple nearby turned their heads at the sound of the legs squeaking against the hardwood floor. I was making a scene, but I was too angry to care. If the tabloids wanted a new headline, I'd spoon-feed it to them. "I didn't ask you to do anything for me. I don't owe you a damn thing."

When he saw the sheer amount of onlookers we gathered, he immediately softened. How fucking pathetic. Trying to take the high road and make me look like the villain. But I knew. I knew it was all for show. "Maureen calm down."

"Absolutely not," I snapped, throwing the handkerchief I placed on my lap onto the table. "Congratulations on your win. Go fuck yourself."

With that sudden, emotional outburst, I stormed away. The crowd that had formed tried to pretend like they hadn't witnessed my meltdown, though it still parted to make way for me to leave.

I had no idea where I was going or what I was trying to accomplish or how I was going to get home. Then I remembered that Lucia was here. She'd know what to do. She always did.

I asked around, silently hoping she hadn't left yet. By a stroke of pure luck, a waiter told me they saw her by the entrance, talking to some hot-shot director. Always making connections, that one.

He wasn't lying, though I suppose the director had been replaced with her assistant, and they were deep in conversation. They were next to one of those golden poles connected together by a red rope that surrounded the carpet.

Outside, it was freezing cold, and my disgrace of a jacket was providing me little warmth. I tapped on her shoulder.

As usual, she looked ravishing in a Burberry pantsuit. The pitch-black night sky was a perfect backdrop to accentuate the golden hairs that swayed from the wind. "Hey." She narrowed her eyes on my face. "Is something wrong?"

Jeez, was I that obvious? "I, uh, need a ride home."

She nodded her head. For once, she wasn't judgemental or snarky. I'm sure it was because she heard about what happened from someone else. "You should've called me earlier. I think all my drivers are driving other people home."

"Well can you help me hail a taxi? I'm not quite familiar with their stops."

She pursed her lips, and shifted on her feet, taking a moment to deliberate. "Actually," she began, exchanging a look with Seren, who looked as confused as I was. "No need for that. He can drive you home."

Took me a minute to figure out who she was referring to. When I got it, I choked on air. Being stuck alone in a car with someone that hated me didn't seem too appealing. "It's okay I have cash on me."

"Maureen, taxis are dangerous. I don't want you to go in one alone. Besides, he doesn't mind, right?" She nudged his arm to prove a point. He shrugged.

"I—"

"Great!" she interjected, "it's settled. Here—"

Lucia threw him the car keys with such horrible precision it was headed straight to his face rather than his outstretched palm. Thankfully, Seren reacted swiftly and quickly, catching the bundle of metals before they could hit him.

"See? You're all taken care of." Lucia clapped my shoulder. "Get home safe, you two."