It does look real, too. Those pictures, from yesterday—where he held me close in the park, when he insisted he was sorry, then that he didn’t care—look way, way too real. Look like he meant every word, but like the words were softer, that his voice stayed soft. And the kiss.

God¸ the kiss.

Those are the worst.

The kiss looks like someone who means every brush of his lips and a girl who believes him.

The kiss looks like two people who believe their own lies.

Then there’s the messages—and the tweets, and the emails, too. Each one is harsh, attacking, confusing. How did his fans find me, much less get my email? How many knocks to the head did they have before they assumed these bullshit messages are okay?

How is it freaking okay to email someone and tell them that you hope their car tire gets punctured and they spin off the edge of a cliff?

“Ouch,” Saskia says into my ear.

I turn in time to see her wince and slam my laptop shut. “What do you want? Are you here to join the I Hate Jessie fan club and give me some abuse, too?”

“No. I’m actually here to tell you that those girls”—she waves toward my laptop—“are batshit crazy with sprinkles on top.”

“You think?” I roll my eyes and get up, spinning my chair back around. “I hope none of them works with kids. Or humans. Some of those messages are vile.”

“I know.” Sas bites her lip. “I’m sorry. That you’re dealing with that. It’s not okay.”

“You think?” I repeat, shutting my closet just as quickly as I opened it. I stop, take a deep breath, and lean forward, my forehead pressing against the door. “Jesus. I did not sign up for this.”

“Well, you should have guessed this would happen. Don’t you remember how crazy things got when Sofie told Conner that Mila was his baby?”

“No. I make it a point to avoid that, but this time, it’s being shoved in my face.”

Sas sighs and out of the corner of my eye I see her sit on my bed. “She missed a lot of it because Conner shielded her, but Twitter went crazy. They, like, blew up the Internet. She got so much abuse, and I even saw death threats.”

“Yep. Pretty sure someone threatened to stone me to death this morning.”

My sister pauses. “Well, congratulations, you’re officially the girl every Dirty B. Diva wants to be.”

“Amazing. I’m officially one of the most verbally online-abused women in the world, but it’s okay, because I have a hot guy who plays the drums and makes a fuck ton of money at the beck and call of my vagina.” I push up and turn, hands on my hips. “What the hell is wrong with people?”

She shrugs. “Is it crazy to say I wish I could be you?”

“Yes. I’m calling the men in white coats for you.”

“Okay, then I won’t say it.”

I shake my head and pull my nightshirt over my head, switching it out for a tank that reads BELIEVE, ACHIEVE, like the words can convince me that if I believe hard enough, I’ll achieve no longer being Aidan Burke’s fake girlfriend.

Oh, a girl can dream.

Ironic that I’m dreaming of something entirely different from the people sending me these messages.

The doorbell rings downstairs, followed by a shout from Mom of “I’ve got it!” then an “Oh! Hello!”

I freeze as the low, rumbling voice of Aidan Burke responds to her and Mom invites him in.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Don’t!” I snap at my sister, pointing at her. “Don’t you dare fangirl in my bedroom!”

She immediately gets up and takes one step outside my bedroom door. “Oh. My. God. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“I swear to God if you take your phone out and tell anyone he’s here I will break all your fingers.”

“I use my thumbs to text.”

“Then I’ll break those, too, smartass.”

“But, Jessie!”

“You’re sixteen! Not ten! Get a life.” I push past her and go downstairs as the whine of Mom’s kettle screeches through the house.

“Jessie!” Mom beams. “Look who stopped by for you.”

“Great. Can you grab some handcuffs and maybe shackle Saskia to a lamppost down the street or something?” I walk to the cupboard and pull down a glass, then fill it with water from the filter jug in the fridge.

“Jessie!” she repeats, this time sharper. “Aren’t you going to acknowledge our guest?”

I turn to Aidan, sweet smile on my face, and let my eyes flick over his slick dark hair and his smirking lips. “Hello, darling. How are you today?”

Mom whips me with a dish towel.

“Better than you, sunshine,” he replies. “You opened your laptop, didn’t you?”

“I unlocked my phone,” I correct him, taking a sip. “Unfortunately, that was the best part of my day yet.”

“Yeah, you could say our fans get kind of . . . possessive.”

“You don’t say. Do you mean the girl who wants to blend my ovaries into her protein shake or the one who wants to scratch my heart out of my chest with a rusty nail?”

He flinches. “Ah. I see they opened the Dirty B. Day Ward.”

“Oh yes. And they forgot their meds.” I slam my empty glass down. “And if you don’t leave right now, you’ll meet their newest patient,” I warn him as I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Is she going to attack me with her worn panties?”

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dad butts in, joining us in the kitchen. “How are you, Aidan?”

“I’m good, thank you, sir.” He stands and shakes his hand. “How are you?”

“As good as I can be dressed in a suit in ninety degrees,” Dad quips, grabbing a travel mug of coffee from Mom and kissing her cheek. “Y’all behave now. And by y’all I mean you, Saskia,” he adds, kissing the side of my head and shooting her a look as he walks out the door.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she asks, pouting.

He comes back to kiss her head before closing the door behind him.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” She directs this question to me, her hands on her hips.

“Are you going to act like a spoiled, freaking-out brat?” I respond, raising an eyebrow.

“No.”

“Oh, look, you picked my answer out for me!”

Aidan laughs.

“Jessie,” Mom scolds, walking over to Saskia. “Sas, this is Aidan. Aidan, this is Saskia, my youngest daughter.”

Good grief. Is my sister trembling?

She is.

Fuck this.

I quit.

“H-hi,” she whispers when he takes her hand and shakes.

“Hi, Saskia. Jessie didn’t tell me her sister was this pretty.” He kisses her hand.

She squeals.

Oh. My. God.

“Jessie didn’t tell you anything about her sister,” I mutter, walking out of the kitchen before I lose every last bit of my patience.

I run upstairs before she starts gushing and walk into my bedroom. I know I’m safe from the insanity here, because not once in twenty-four years has a boy been allowed in my bedroom unless said boy is my father, uncle, or cousin.

I gather my hair into a knot on top of my head and look at my phone lying on my pillow. The light in the top corner is blinking green to show me I have a message, but I really don’t want to look at it.

But I do.

It might be Chelsey, or Sofie, or Ella. Or someone I’ve spoken to in the last seven days at least, and not someone wanting to burn me at the stake.

Like an idiot, I move forward and unlock it.

The notifications bombard me. Facebook. Twitter. Even Instagram. I click on the Instagram ones, because, hey, these are new, and apparently I’m a fucking masochist. Comment after comment fills my notification feed. None of them are good either.

Funny, because I’ve never put any kind of picture showing Aidan on my Instagram. I’m tagged in a ton of pictures, and the comments on my pictures—including ones of my tattoos—are all mean and derogatory.

Dear girls bitching about my tattoos: don’t you realize the man you’re lusting for is covered in them? Oh no? Then I guess you’ve never seen him naked.

I make a “pshh” noise and clear my notifications before dropping my phone onto my bed. It bounces before landing facedown, and I sigh heavily. This bullshit is probably going to continue until we call time on this sham we’re living.