Fated

only way I have to keep up with old friends. Some people have yearbooks and Facebook—I have the gossip rags.
    As always, I start with the cheapest, most outrageous one of all. The one that boasts an enduring fascination of alleged space alien abductions and sightings of Elvis’s ghost. Smiling for the first time in hours when I see this week’s cover does not disappoint—claiming that a very famous, Oscar-winning actress is being haunted by the specter of a long-dead director hell-bent on revenge for the abysmal remake she’s producing.
    Passing over the one that accuses every peasant top–wearing starlet of hiding a baby bump, I reach for the most respectable rag in the bunch—the one whose glossy covers are not-so-secretly coveted by most if not all of the up-and-coming stars.
    This week’s cover boasting a seemingly candid photo of—
    “That’ll be twenty-one sixteen,” the cashier says, but her voice is just noise in my head.
    I barely tune in. Barely make out the words. The counter, my pile of junk food, the clerk—it all just fades into the background, until there’s nothing left but the cover of this magazine and myself.
    It requires both hands to steady it—that’s how shaky they’ve become. My cheeks heating, my breath trapped in my chest—unable to lift my gaze from those piercing blue eyes, golden skin, tousled mop of blond hair, lazy half-smile, and the bandaged arm he raises in greeting.
    And it is a greeting. Of that I’ve no doubt.
    Despite his trying to act as though it’s a gesture of protest—as though it’s some failed attempt to fend off the camera’s intrusive telephoto lens—I know better.
    Vane’s never met a photo vulture he didn’t secretly adore.
    He’s new at the game—still craves the attention. His entire life spent vying for this kind of coverage, and now, thanks to me, he’s clinched it.
    “Hello? Anyone home? Your total is twenty-one sixteen,” the cashier barks, adding, “with the magazine, it’s another three fifty.”
    I don’t respond. I just grip the rag in my trembling hands, the dampness from my fingers causing the paper to grow crumbly, soggy, causing the ink to seep into my skin. Unable to peel my eyes from the bold-faced headline that screams:
Collision on the Vane Wick Expressway!
    That’s what they call him—the Vane Wick Expressway. Nicknamed after the most miserable, most traffic-choked highway that leads to that filthy den of chaos otherwise known as Kennedy Airport.
    Having hailed from Podunk, Vane loves his oh-so-clever moniker. Loves every single part of his fame.
    In the picture, his face is a mess of raw jagged scratches and dull purple bruises, while his left brow—the one he likes to quirk—appears to be slashed right in half. But damn if it doesn’t leave him looking even hotter. Making him appear vulnerable but tough—like a guy who’s seen some stuff, and then some.
    Thanks to me, he’s gone from insanely cute to completely irresistible —though I doubt I’ll get so much as a thank-you note.
    And speaking of me—I’m featured too.
    Represented in the form of a small blurry photo set in the bottom right corner.
    A photo I recognize as being lifted straight from Vane’s cell phone.
    A photo he insisted on taking, even though I tried to discourage him. Seeing no point in documenting what I knew to be a brief and fleeting hookup. And so, because I wasn’t what you’d call a willing participant, when he raised his phone to shoot, I scowled in return.
    He laughed when he saw it, even promised to delete it, and I guess it never occurred to me to check.
    And I certainly never thought he’d use it against me—that it would end up providing fodder for my own, unfortunate nickname: “Fan from hell.”
    As in:
Fan from hell goes berserk on Vane Wick!
    And just below that:
Nice guy Vane decides not to sue, says: “It’s the price of fame—I can only hope she gets the kind of help she so clearly needs.” Full story on page 34!
    I don’t turn to page 34.
    I don’t need to see any more than I already have.
    And while I never thought Vane was a particularly nice guy like they claim, I did think he was nice enough—but I guess I was wrong.
    It also looks like his publicist wasn’t trying quite so hard to bury the story like Jennika claimed. She probably waited for the bruises to bloom before she hid in the bushes and took the photo herself.
    It’s not like I don’t know the drill. Hollywood thrives on this