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“You’re ridiculous,” I tell her.

“Please!”

“Why would you even want to know?”

“Because I’m a slight masochist? And I really,reallywant to know.”

“No.”

“Okay, fine. Just give me some clues and I’ll figure it out. Is she like household-name famous? Or like only-in-certain-circles famous?”

She waits, her bright eyes blinking hopefully.

I shake my head.

But the sick taste of dread is gathering in my throat. Her interest in this topic is giving me a glimpse, maybe, of how badly she’d take it if she found out the truth.

She truly cares about this. For some reason I can’t fathom.

“How many Instagram followers does she have?” she presses. “Just ballpark.” When I don’t answer, she says, “Has she won any major awards? Like Oscars? Grammys? Does she have a sex tape?”

I roll my eyes.

“Does she have an album on the charts? Is she on TV? Headlining her own tour? Has she starred on Broadway?”

“Quinn.”

“Has she dated other celebrities? Is she internet famous? TikTok famous? Does she get oodles of free stuff to wear on the red carpet? Has she had cosmetic surgery?”

Jesus.

I have no idea what a celebrity’s life would be like, nor do I fucking care, because I would never date a celebrity. The whole idea of dating someone famous, who lives so much of their life in the public eye, makes my skin crawl. It offends every fiber of my being.

But… Jamie’s an attention whore. He’s dated famous women.

Who was that actress who was all over him several months ago? Before he met Megan…

Quinn is still drilling me with questions—“Does she have her own celebrity makeup brand? Has she performed at the Super Bowl?”—when I finally cut her off.

“She’s an actress, okay? Her name is Geneviève Blaise.”

That finally shuts her up. But her eyes widen, telling me she knows exactly who Geneviève Blaise is. “Oh. Wow.”

“Darla is just a pseudonym, for her privacy. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Okay…” she says. And I can tell it’s going to be very hard for her to leave it at that.

But she actually stops talking.

She’s looking at me differently, though. Like this new information about my ex-lover is giving her way more food for thought about me.

I don’t love it.

What does it matter who I was with in the past?

The past is the past.

I have no interest in hurting her by talking about any previous lovers of mine. It’s pretty evident from this inquisition that she’s the jealous type. I get that. So am I.