Addicted 2 U

We Made It. I Guess

GWEN

I don’t realize where Jason is taking me until the limo turns a corner and a massive venue rises into view—fluorescent signage, barricades, velvet ropes, and a sea of bodies pressed tight against metal fencing. A place that practically radiates televised importance. New York. I’ve never been here before, so the catalog of things I could identify is embarrassingly short: Broadway. The Empire State Building. The Twin Towers that used to be here.

That’s it.

But fame?

Fame I recognize instantly.

A line of fans wraps around the block, curling like a comet tail. Posters. Glitter. Homemade T-shirts with Sara’s face printed on them. People who have waited all day for her.

Sara’s done really well for herself.

The moment someone spots our limo, the crowd reacts like we’ve detonated a bomb. Screams. Flashing lights. A tidal surge of bodies crashing against the barricades. Someone pounds the window. Someone else shrieks Sara’s name so loudly the glass vibrates.

And there I sit—oversized sweatshirt, leggings, sneakers, and a messy bun I didn’t even redo this morning. Suppose to stand next to a popstar whose fans wear full glam just to stand outside and pray she glances at them.

I tug at the hem of my sweatshirt.

Too late to care.

Too late to fix it.

Too late to be anyone but this version of myself.

I force my back straight. If I’m going to survive tonight, I can’t shrink.

I glance at Jason.

He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s watching me.

And his smile—God, it’s sad.

Before I can ask, the pitch of the screams shifts. Sharp. Panicked. A ripple goes through the masses as everyone cranes toward the main entrance. Something’s happening out there, something big, something I can’t see from behind tinted glass.

“What’s happening?” I ask quietly.

Jason doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he turns to me completely.

“Hey,” he says, soft but steady. “Please. Just make this work tonight, okay? I know you’ve been through hell. But tonight—just tonight—try.”

His voice has weight.

More than instruction.

More than worry.

A beg.

Jason never begs.

I look back at the crowd—still screaming, still fixated on whatever chaos is unfolding at the entrance—and then I look at him again.

“For you, Jason,” I say. “Only for you.”

His jaw flexes. He nods.

And then presses a button.

The doors unlock.

“Jason, what the hell—”

“Take a breath and smile for the crowd, girlie.” His voice is too casual, too practiced. “It’s showtime.”

The door swings open before I can argue.

And there she is.

Sara.

She beams at me—it’s bright enough to blind, wide enough to hide a thousand things. I can’t tell if the smile is real, forced, manipulative, or nervous. It’s Sara. It could be any combination.

Before she can speak, I move.

I grab her shirt.

I pull her close.

And I kiss her.

Our lips collide with a force that steals my breath. She freezes for half a second—shock, fear, recognition—but then she melts completely. Hands in my hair. Fingertips trembling. Body softening against mine like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

This is dangerous.

So dangerous.

For my heart, my head, my freedom.

But Jason asked.

And Sara expects.

And I need both of them to believe I’m playing along.

Still kissing me, she pulls me out of the limo, and the crowd’s reaction is so explosive it physically jolts me. Screams ricochet off every surface. Lights flash so hard I see spots.

For a moment, I feel like prey caught in a spotlight.

When we finally separate, I’m breathless—not just from the kiss, but from the realization that the cameras captured every second.

I lean back into the limo, meeting Jason’s eyes.

“I’ll see you in a bit, right?”

He straightens like a soldier. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Perfect.”

I close the door before he can say anything else.

I turn back to Sara and force a warm, sweet smile onto my face. My lips feel tight, stretched, unnatural. But she doesn’t seem to notice. She looks… lit up. Brilliant. Thrilled.

What did you expect, Sara?

You started this game.

She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the press line, raising our joined hands as high as she can.

The crowd detonates.

Screams turn feral. Phones multiply. People cry. Actual tears. Because they’ve decided I’m something important. Or something scandalous. Or something theirs.

I smile like it doesn’t kill me.

I stand tall like my outfit isn’t an embarrassment.

I walk like I belong on a red carpet I never asked to step onto.

Sara waves like royalty—glowing, golden, unshakeable—while I grit my teeth beneath my smile and whisper silently:

Yeah, b***h.

Enjoy this.

Because you won’t be smiling later.

Finally, she pulls me inside. We move through a maze of hallways—curving corners, concrete tunnels, a staircase that seems designed to trip people—and finally she opens a door to a private skybox.

The moment we step in, I slam the door shut behind us.

My smile falls off my face like it was never attached.

My lungs collapse.

My shoulders sag.

And then I feel it.

Her hand.

Still in mine.

I yank my hand away like it’s burning me.

But Sara isn’t hurt.

She’s… glowing.

“You came,” she breathes. “You really came!”

“Yeah,” I say carefully. “I did.”

She paces the room with bright, bouncing energy—electric, feverish. I still can’t tell whether it’s excitement or nerves or some cracked-out cocktail of both.

I sink onto the couch facing the stage, tugging my sweatshirt so it covers more of my thighs. Everyone else here will be wearing designer clothes. I’m wearing clothes for running. Hiding. Surviving.

But I refuse to be embarrassed.

If I’m going to be on display, I’ll do it as myself.

“Oh!” Sara spins toward me. “Is the room okay? I didn’t know if you wanted to be backstage or in the crowd or here, but I thought—you don’t like people, so I figured this was safer!”

“…Am I stealing money you could be making?” I ask. “The teens out there would sell their lungs for a seat like this.”

Without warning, she launches herself over the back of the couch and lands beside me with a theatrical thump.

“Why would I care about teenagers when it’s you?” she laughs—breathless, borderline hysterical, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

My brain short-circuits.

Tears?

For me?

Why does she care so much that I’m here? Why does it unravel her like this? Why does her happiness feel like a bruise against my ribs?

I don’t want to hug her. I can’t. Touching her feels like playing with a matchbook in a room drenched in gasoline. But I lift my hand and place it lightly, cautiously, on her knee—some feeble attempt at comfort.

Her reaction is immediate.

She shivers.

Her breath catches.

Her spine softens like she’s turning to liquid.

And suddenly I’m back in that classroom.

Her too close.

Her eyes too bright.

Her voice too soft.

Her intentions too sharp.

I pull my hand back instantly.

A flash of disappointment crosses her face, so raw I almost look away—but she swallows it, hides it beneath a yawn.

“I haven’t felt this nervous for a show in forever,” she admits, sinking deeper into the couch. “I haven’t done a pop-up in ages.”

“You’ll kill it,” I tell her. “You always did.”

The five-minute warning blares overhead.

Sara jolts upright like she’s been shocked.

“Oh god—I don’t even have makeup or costume on—” She bends down, kisses my forehead—just a quick, warm brush of lips—and races toward the door.

“Wait—” I start.

But she’s already gone.

The door slams shut behind her.

And I’m left alone in the skybox, heart pounding, palms sweating, staring down at a stage that will soon swallow her whole.

Trying to decide which danger tonight will bring first:

Sara’s spotlight.

Or Sara herself.