1
Those That Birth Obsession
There was nothing particularly distinct about the car that wound its way across the parking lot, streetlights striping across its sleek surface in a hypnotic rhythm.
The only thing that made it stand out was the two black SUVs following it, both full of security personnel. The mini caravan made little sound as it approached the back of the stadium, avoiding the barricades near the front where ninety thousand fans had already congregated in a shifting mass.
Behind the first car’s tinted windows sat a lean figure with one leg crossed idly over the other, his chin resting thoughtfully on his hand as he watched the throngs of people milling around in the distance.
At first glance, it was hard to tell that the boy was dressed in luxury. His clothes—black sweats with no logos in sight—looked simple enough. But closer inspection would reveal his careful choices, the hand-sewn details along the seams, the fine quality of the bespoke fabric, then the thin rings on his fingers, one studded with tiny black diamonds, the other platinum and engraved with his logo, a stylized rabbit head with ears shaped like two halves of a broken heart. He wore his favorite custom Gucci sneakers, a birthday gift from the fashion house, along with a pair of pink-tinted aviators that, an hour after being photographed in public, would be sold out worldwide.
Even if his clothes didn’t grab your attention right away, the rest of him did.
Winter Young—the most famous superstar in the world, the boy everyone talked about—was so beautiful it was hard to believe he was real. His was a luminous sort of presence that could turn every head on the street: messy hair so lushly black it gleamed blue in the light, geometric ink running along his forearms that ended in a snake coiled around his left wrist, slender dark eyes rimmed with long black lashes, a mysterious grace in his movements, an expression that could somehow switch between shy and mischievous in the space of a second. But it was more than that. Many people were objectively gorgeous, but then there were those few, the stars with some undefinable quality so searingly bright that they birthed obsession. Once the world got a glimpse of them, it would move heaven and earth just to see them again.
Now Winter was staring at the window, studying the beads of rain on the glass and the million different colors refracted within them, humming an experimental bridge of music under his breath as his mind worked away on a new tune. Beside him, his manager tapped on her phone.
“If Alice reschedules you for a quick photoshoot tomorrow morning at six thirty A.M.,” she said, “can you make do with a fifteen-minute breakfast around five? No answer means yes. Don’t forget to return that call for Elevate’s CEO—Miss Acombe wants to pitch you on endorsing their upcoming sneaker redesign. Oh, and if you want to shorten your New York dates, you’d better tell me now.” The stadium’s lights through the car’s tinted windows cast the woman’s dark skin and glasses in a green tint, and her voice, dampened against the backdrop of the rain, had the tone of someone who was used to winning arguments with him. “Ricky Boulet’s tour schedule will coincide with yours, and I’d really rather not spend an hour of my life fighting with his manager about why we’re”—her voice took on an exaggerated inflection as she rolled her eyes—“stealing his weekend.”
“Let’s do all the dates,” Winter said to the window.
Claire peered skeptically over her phone at him. “No one does four consecutive days in New York.”
Without looking, he held a hand up to her. “You know we’ll sell them all out.”
She swatted away his high five with little slaps. “I’m talking about your health, obviously, not your star power. Please don’t make me deal with you collapsing onstage again.”
Winter finally turned his head to give her a sidelong smile. “Five years and still no faith in me at all.”
“None whatsoever. Did you even eat lunch today?”
“Do three churros count?”
Her expression turned stern, and she nudged his leg with her boot. “Winter Young. I got you sandwiches specifically so you wouldn’t just eat empty calories.”
He rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes. “How dare you. Churros are a perfect food, and I won’t hear blasphemy against them.”
She sighed in long-suffering patience. “I wish you’d stop working so much and take care of yourself, for once. Go hiking. Go on a date. Have a fling, at least. You want me to reach out to anyone’s agent for you?”
The thought made him weary. They’d had this conversation before, and he wasn’t interested in explaining himself all over again. After too many empty nights, he’d come to hate flings. And the thought of dragging someone through all the mud that came with dating him made Winter cringe. During his last breakup, his then-girlfriend had told him that the media circus made him undatable.
But to Claire, he just shrugged and said aloud, “There’s no one interesting.”
“Are you saying you’re the most interesting person in the world?”
“True until proven otherwise.”
“I think it’s already been proven otherwise in this car.”
Winter put a hand on his heart in mocking pain.
“Besides,” she went on, “it’s not about interest. It’s about free publicity and a little fun for you both.”
“Really? I thought it was about love.”
Copyright © 2023 by Xiwei Lu