“This bar is literally two miles from your apartment. Comeon. I really think you’d like him. He’s a software engineer, and he’s super nice.”
“Yeah, and super nice means he’ll be super polite when he slowly backs away after I inevitably mortify myself.”
“OhJesus, Ava. You’re ridiculous. I really should track down your ex and kick his ass for ruining your self-esteem like this. Your parents, too.”
I bristle at the mere mention of every toxic person I cut out of my life years ago. “Bye, Zoey. Have fun and make sure you take a cab or something.”
“Avaa-aaa…” she whines, then groans. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll see you Monday.”
Setting the phone on the coffee table, I pick up my wine and take a sip. Seconds later, my phone buzzes with some kind of notification, and I roll my eyes to pick up it up, knowing it’s probably a text message from her trying to get the last word in.
I freeze when I see that it’s a notification from Facebook.
*Lucky De Luca tagged you in a post*
My heart leaps into my throat.
Why would he do that?
What the hell is this post?
Dread settles in my stomach as I recall the mortifying moment when I apparently tried to kiss him on the night of his show in Austin. My mind instantly goes to all kinds of worst-case scenarios of his post being something like, “This is how tonotact when you’re meeting me.”
Granted, I’ve followed Lucky long enough that I know he’d never call out one of his fans like that. But then again, everything has been goinghorriblylately, so it’s entirely possible.
2020 is kind of shaping up to be theworst year ever.
My stomach twists with nerves and curiosity as I open the app to see what it is. Then my stomach does some kind of weird backflip that manages to be excitement and also the urge to vomit and then die.
It’s a video with the caption, “Lucky’s First Annual Top Fan Appreciation Contest.”
And sandwiched between the caption and his name ismyname.
As in, I’m the only fan he tagged.
I clasp my hand over my mouth and mumble, “Oh God.”
What in the ever-loving fuckis thissupposed to mean?
Is Lucky De Lucatrollingme?
I’m almost too afraid to watch the video, but of course Ihaveto see what it says to figure out some clue as to why he would tag me inanything.
“Hey there, guys and dolls,” Lucky says, dressed in his typical, swoon-worthy three-piece-suit while casually leaning against the shiny, black piano in a cavernous room with rich, wood-paneled walls. “You have all been so good to me and my band over the years that I wanted to do something extra special for a few of my biggest fans.” He lifts his arms to gesture grandly at the room. “I’m going to invite three luckyfans to come spend a few days here with me and the band at the Jazz Manor deep in the heart of ol’ New Orleans.” Clasping his hands together at the level of his broad chest, he continues. “These fans’ll get a front row seat while we record some songs for the next album and appear in the video we’re planning to shoot right here at the Jazz Manor.” He unclasps his hands, slipping one into his pocket and using the other to wag his finger at the camera. “Now, all you gotta do to enter is take a selfie with your favorite album, piece of merch, whatever you got, and post it in the comments below. The winners will be chosen at random and announced one week from today. So get to snapping those selfies.” He flashes a swoony smile and then winks. “Don’t disappoint me now, folks.”
The video ends, and I’m just staring at his handsome, frozen face, slack-jawed and gobsmacked.
I still don’t know why he taggedmeand nobody else, but impulse takes over and I immediately switch to my camera. On my coffee table is a photo book that’s a collection of super artsy snapshots from one of his tours last year. Grabbing it, I switch to selfie mode and pose with the book against my chest and attempt my best smile.
The sight of myself on the screen makes me cringe. My haggard, dull brown ponytail has flyaways all over the place. Given that it’s late Saturday night, I don’t have on a drop of makeup, which makes me look excruciatingly pale and gawky. I wouldn’t consider myself an unattractive person, I’m justplain. And the book, with its cover featuring a vibrant photo of Lucky’s glittering, Great Gatsby style, spectacular-spectacular only accentuates how plain I am. I suppose Icouldattempt to recreate a dazzling look by copying some YouTuber’s makeup tutorial, but I’ve tried that before and it didn’t end well. I also have a feeling it would make it look like I’m trying too hard.
Beyond all that, I can’t help feeling like this is some kind of prank. Like Luckyistrolling me. Or maybe he lied about being the one who runs all his social media accounts, and the person whoactuallydoes witnessed my faux pas at the concert, and they’re trolling me.
And beyondthat, it’s not like I’m actually going to win. Even if I did, what the hell would I do with myself if I stayed at his fancy house with him and his band for a few days? I would probably stress myself to death trying to not be awkward the whole time.
Yeah,no.
There’s no way in hell I’m entering this contest.
