I don’t know what to do. Ever since the pictures of her at the wedding have gotten out, the social media rumours have spiralled out of control. A reality star tweeted about the scandal a few days ago, and now the photos are going viral. It’s unbelievable. We’ve never gotten this much attention before. There are news outlets posting about the story online. Buzz Tone has chimed in with a statement. Every hour, we’re getting inundated with tweets and messages and DMs. And almost every single one of them is bashing Layla.
I look over the convention hall, blankly watching the crowd chatting and laughing with each other as they visit the brightly coloured booths set up throughout the auditorium. Each exhibition table is heaping with merchandise. Con-goers with shiny lanyards around their necks wait in long queues around podcast hosts, clutching memorabilia and notepads, waiting for autographs.
We barely get five feet through the door before fans start approaching us, crowding around us and shoving Sharpies into our hands.
“Oh my God, I love your show!”
“Can you sign my shirt?!”
“Can I get a selfie? I can’t believe you’re really here!”
“Where’s Layla? Is she not coming? Did you guys fight?”
“Is it true she cheated on you?”
“I always knew I didn’t like her.”
I force myself to smile and keep my mouth shut as we scribble our signatures onto programmes and merchandise.
Josh and I have discussed what to do about the gossip, and we finally decided to try and ignore it as best as we can.
It’s been hard. There’s nothing I want more than to sit down and spend all day replying to every piece-of-shit troll who’s spouting disgusting slurs at her — but I can’t. I know I can’t. Addressing rumours just validates them. When we tested the waters with a simple statement asking people not to spread rumours about the leaked photos, our socials practically blew up. The tweet got twice as much attention as any of our other posts, and the articles started coming in even faster. We were scared that we might attract the attention of another celebrity, so we backed off.
Paul solidified our decision. Our manager has been begging us to make an episode on the podcast called ‘Why We Broke Up’。 He’s desperate to capitalise on the traffic the drama is bringing us.
Which is why we’re not saying anything. It feels absolutely awful to not step in and defend Layla, but I’m not going to do anything that will just end up hurting her more. This is about her, not about how much better I would feel if I stood up for her.
For her part, Layla’s been silent on social media. I hope she’s just switched off all her devices. I’d kill to know that she’s okay.
“You got another pen?” Josh asks me roughly, shaking his dried-out marker.
“No,” I lie. “I think Zack does.”
Zack signs a poster, completely ignoring us. Josh grits his teeth, and I sigh, pulling a spare marker out of my pocket. “Here.” Josh takes it wordlessly.
He and Zack have barely spoken since their big fight the day after the wedding. Not one word. Josh is too angry.
Not that Zack has much to say. I’ve never seen the man so utterly miserable. He still hasn’t found Emily’s ring. We’ve called the hotel, but they said it must have been thrown away during clean-up. I was hoping the Con would cheer him up a bit. Conventions are usually the highlight of his year. It’s probably a leftover from his time playing rugby; he still loves the rush of performing in front of a crowd, signing autographs, taking pictures with fans.
Right now, though, he just looks angry. He’s scowling like the spectre of Death as he bends down to let a girl take a picture with him. She doesn’t seem to care, squeaking with happiness when she sees the selfie, then skipping off to show her friend. I watch her go, staring at her pink t-shirt. Emblazoned on the back are the words—
“Team Josh,” Zack reads, rubbing his injured knee. “Interesting choice.”
Josh closes his eyes. “I thought they’d given up the shipping.”
So had I. But apparently not. As I glance through the people crowding around us, I see a bunch more shirts, in pink, white, and blue. All with our ‘team names’ on.
Oh, good. They’re colour coded.
Zack slaps Josh on the back. “Don’t worry, mate. If you’re her favourite, she’s obviously completely demented.”
Josh tosses him a dirty look, shrugging his shoulder away. “Don’t touch me,” he mutters.
Zack puts up his hands. “You think I frickin’ want to? I don’t want owt to do with you, you bloody idiot.”