Oslie stans still exist, but there’s a stronger fanbase around my relationship now. All because of one video.
Just one changed everything.
Paparazzi caught footage of Oscar spinning around my baseball cap and kissing me. We were grinning, and I might’ve slapped his ass. People decided that one was “authentic”.
Fan sites popped up with headers and banners of orange juice. O & J—our initials.
“We have fans,” I tell him into a bite of cookie.
While his eyes sweep the theatre, he whispers, “Just don’t forget I’m still your number one fan, Highland.”
“Don’t forget I’m yours, Os.”
His hand slips into mine, mine into his. Our grins bigger, and we try to focus on Romeo & Juliet. All the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts are here today, some strewn in other boxes. Some seated in the orchestra section. Leo Valavanis is out sick, and Beckett is filling in as Romeo for maybe the only time all season.
My parents are also here.
And my brother. Along with Oscar’s family. They’re shadowed in the darkened theatre. All in their own boxes, watching the ballet. Waiting for the end.
Yet, it’s not really the end for me.
The structure is all over the place, depending on the perspective. For some in the theatre, today is the rising action. For others, it’s the fall.
Maybe for people like Charlie, it’s eternally stuck at the beginning. And that’s the frustration of it all.
Act 1, Scene 2, the Capulet family hosts a ball. The stage is full of ballerinas and—
Thump!
One goes down.
The audience lets out a collective gasp. Oscar is hawk-eyed more on Charlie, and I realize he’s dropped the legs of his chair he’d been leaning back on. He’s bowed forward.
The young ballerina quickly rises to her feet. We’re close enough to see embarrassment shade her face. Hurrying, she continues the dance like nothing happened. She looks shorter than the girls next to her.
Charlie careens back to whisper to us, “Who is that?”
To free my hands, I bite onto the cookie I’m eating and flip through the program. Oscar is checking NDAs for her name on his cellphone. Since Beckett works here, the dancers have had background security checks.
Oscar finds her first. He leans forward and whispers, “Roxanne Ruiz. She’s eighteen.”
Charlie just turns forward, but I catch his smile.
Even with that small hiccup in Act 2, the ballet ends with a standing ovation, and pink flowers are tossed onto the stage for Beckett and the other dancers. I hear whistling from the audience, and I’m almost positive it’s Jane Cobalt and Daisy Calloway.
The lobby.
We all wait for Beckett Cobalt in the lobby as the whole theatre begins to clear out. Security ushers some stragglers to the exit. They want to take more selfies with the Calloway sisters.
Oscar stays near Charlie, who loiters in the direct middle. On purpose. I asked him to.
I’m sweating bullets. And I unwrap a lime-flavored sucker and stick it in my mouth.
“Love that shirt,” Oscar says, motioning to the white button-down I wear. His button-down. Everyone is in formal attire. “How many more are you going to steal from me, Long Beach?”
“Probably all of them,” I smile widely, sucker up against my cheek. “You want it back?”
“I have a feeling that even if I say yes, I won’t see it again.”
“That’s not true,” I say with a bigger breath. I pull the sucker out of my mouth, and Oscar takes it. He slips the sucker between his lips.
I smile more. That was hot. Nerves start to subside.
“Why is that not true?”
“We’re together, Oscar. You’ll see your clothes again.”
His grin softens to something more serious. Which is funny because he has a sucker in his mouth, and suckers aren’t really an Oscar Oliveira thing.
I add, “They’re just half-mine now.”
Oscar laughs.
The lobby is really empty now. Just familiar faces, everyone chatting quietly. SFO laughs in the corner. Not needing to be as vigilant, no strangers in sight.
Popcorn machines rumble to a stop. Donnelly hops on the counter to start filling up a bag.
Jesse waves to me from one of the emerald couches. My mom already removes her tissues from her Louis Vuitton purse. The Oliveira family turns more to view us in the middle. Farrow, Maximoff, Ripley, and Jane and Thatcher have stopped talking, programs in their hands as they face us.
Even the Calloway sisters and their husbands watch.
Oscar’s brows furrow. He notices.
He’s too observant for this charade to last long.
And when his confused eyes land on me, I tell him, “Oscar.”
“Jack?” The sucker is still in his mouth.
I smile like the next words exist deep inside me and have wanted to be set free for so, so long. “I was never rewriting my life when I met you. There was no rewrite, Oscar, because this is how it was always supposed to be written. I am supposed to be with you. You are supposed to be with me. Nothing else makes sense.”
His eyes glass.
I continue on, “I love you. I love run-around-the-world Oscar. I love flirty Oscar, tactical bodyguard Oscar, snack monster Oscar”—everyone laughs, but I hold onto his laughter, his joyful tears that stream like mine—“my number one fan Oscar, sexy Oscar, intelligent as a motherfucker Oscar, a ride-or-die friend Oscar, a good brother Oscar, kiss me when the sun rises Oscar, my one and only Oscar…the love of my life Oscar.”
He’s nodding, overwhelmed, our cheeks wet with emotion.
“You’re my everything Oscar.”
He expels a, “Fuck, Highland.” He takes out the sucker, about to bring me closer, but I drop to my knee. I hear sniffling from our family and friends.
“Oscar Felipe Highland-Oliveira. I love every part of who you are.” I take his hand in mine and pull out a ring from my pocket. “Will you do me the honor of staying married to me?”
A collection of whispers sweeps the lobby, but I’m lost in Oscar’s reaction. He falls
