Page 102 of The Bodyguard

He liked that kind of question, though. “People are nice to you for no reason,” he answered. Then he turned to meet my eyes. “Not you, of course. You’re not nice.”

I pumped my legs to swing higher. “Not me,” I confirmed.

“But the weird thing is,” he went on, pumping to catch up, “it’s not you they’re being nice to. It’s the fame. They think they already know you, but you’ve literally never seen them before. So it’s very one-sided. You have to be careful not to disappoint them or offend them, so you wind up spending a lot of time being the most generic version of yourself. And smiling. Smiling just constantly. I’ve come home from doing meet and greets, and had to wait hours for the muscles in my face to stop twitching.”

“Huh,” I said.

“I’m not complaining,” Jack said then.

“I know.”

“It’s a great job. There’s freedom. And money. And clout. But it’s complicated.”

I nodded in agreement. “Like everything.”

“People who want to be famous think it’s the same thing as being loved, but it’s not. Strangers can only ever love a version of you. People loving you for your best qualities is not the same as people loving you despite your worst.”

“So,” I said, “until the whole nation has seen your boxer briefs on the bathroom floor…”

Jack gave a decisive nod. “Then it’s not true love.”

I relaxed for a minute and let my swing slow down.

Jack went on. “It skews your perspective, too. Everybody wants to be around you all the time, and they hang on your every word and laugh at everything even if it’s not funny, and you’re kind of the center of every situation you’re in.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad, though.”

“But then you get used to it. You start forgetting to notice other people or ask them about themselves. You start believing your own hype. Everybody treats you like you’re the only person that matters… and you just start thinking that’s true. And then you become a narcissistic asshole.”

“You didn’t do that.”

“I did, though. For a while. But I’m trying not to be like that anymore.”

“Is that why you took a break from acting?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “That. And my brother died.”

LOOK, I KNEWI was letting myself get confused.

I just didn’t know how to stop it.

And then one day, near the end of a late-morning jog we took to the river and back, Jack said—no joke: while jogging—“I found your song.”

“What song?” I asked.

“The one you’re always humming.” He took out his phone—still jogging—and pulled up a song on it.

“How did you find it?” I asked.

“I secretly recorded you,” Jack said.

“That’s not creepy,” I said.

“The point is, I solved the mystery,” Jack said. “You’re welcome.”

We were on a straightaway, in our last quarter mile, heading back to the house on the gravel road. Jack held the phone vaguely in my direction as he jogged along by my side.

But as soon as the song started playing, I slowed to a stop.