Page 122 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

“That’s because you were hiding,” Bryce says, his voice booming. “Such a loser. I can’t believe you got a job on TV. You fooled all of them. Look at their shocked faces. They look angry too.”

His laughs grate my soul.

“You should have seen Seth. He was the biggest loser in the whole school. Always walking around in a Spiderman Shirt. Ridiculous. Bet he has a huge crush on my brother. Disgusting.”

“You went to school with Luke, Sebastian?” Clark asks.

I feel everyone’s gazes on me. The crew are still recording, and I’m not sure if what I say next will show up on a show, whether it will be cut and pasted and turned into shorts and reels. Whether my expression will turn into a meme.

Sounds buzz through my mind. All the sounds of people who hated me in the past, all the people who laughed at Bryce’s jokes, who whispered to others when they saw me.That’s that kid. The one I was telling you about. The gay one.

And it was fine. People have been through so much worse. All I had was a guy who made jokes about me. But the jokes cut pieces in my soul. All my self-assurance that now I am different, now that I’ve achieved more than I could have hoped for, is as ridiculous as I was back then.

Of course, I’m the same person.

Of course, I can’t just call myself a new name and expect things to be different.

Of course, I should have told Luke to talk to Bryce before I had my boss and colleagues meet him.

I shouldn’t have pretended nothing would happen. I can move across the country, I can go to excellent hairdressers and bleach and style my hair, I can wear slim-fit designer items instead of polyester blend monstrosities, I can have a diet of avocado and kale so my skin glows, and no pimple could think about forming...but I can’t outrun myself.

I knew better.

I failed when it was important.

I allowed myself to feel nostalgia. I was the person who suggested we take the library route.

God, I brought this on myself.

Everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to say something.

And I should have the words.

This is the twelfth reality show season I’ve hosted. Words are things that come easily to me now, honed from theater and improv and diction.

But my words belong to Sebastian Archer, TV Host Extraordinaire.

They don’t belong to Seth from Ashcove.

“Um...” I try to talk. I do. I really do.

But the words have vanished from me. There’s only a strange pounding in my head that wasn’t there before.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Smith says. “Was I not supposed to say anything? You do look nice with your blonde hair. How do you get it pointing up like that?”

I’m quiet. I think my lips move. I’m not sure.

“But you look pale,” Mrs. Smith continues. “Maybe you would like to lie down? The floor is made of carpet. Or you can put your head behind your legs. That might do the trick.”

Are they talking about me fainting? Do they think that’s a possibility?

When the cameras are here? I’m going to faint? I try to ground myself. But I can’t just begin breathing exercises and enter into power positions on TV.

“I—”

Everyone stares.

And then I turn around and run, willing myself not to fall.