Rising

"Cut! Parker, I need more longing. Look at her like she’s the only water in the desert. Celeste, tilt your chin up—we’re losing the light on the jawline. Reset!"

The director of the Velvet Kiss Chocolates commercial was a man wearing a scarf indoors, and he had been shouting at us for four hours.

I let out a breath, trying to keep my shoulders from slumping. We were currently positioned on a velvet chaise lounge in a studio in downtown LA, surrounded by fake rose petals. Parker was hovering over me, holding a truffle that had started to melt between his fingers three takes ago.

"You okay?" Parker murmured, his voice low enough that the boom mic wouldn't pick it up. He used his thumb to subtly wipe a smudge of chocolate from the corner of my lip.

My stomach did a tiny flip. "I’m fine," I whispered back. "Just thinking about the schedule. We have an interview at four, the fitting for the Golden Gala at six, and I still haven't heard back from my manager about the plans for my album. She’s supposed to reply to me today, but so far there’s just nothing."

"Celeste," Parker said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "We are getting paid an obscene amount of money to feed each other candy. Try to enjoy the absurdity."

I did agree, somewhat. This director is weird. Who even uses real food in advertisements these days?

"Action!"

Parker’s expression shifted instantly. The goofy best friend vanished, replaced by the brooding, passionate heartthrob the world was currently obsessed with. He leaned in, his gaze dropping to my lips, then back to my eyes. The intensity was so palpable that the makeup artist behind the monitor actually fanned herself.

"Only you," he recited the tagline, his voice a smooth baritone. He brought the truffle to my lips.

I took a bite, forcing myself to look lovestruck rather than exhausted.

"And... cut! Perfect! That’s the money shot!"

As the crew swarmed in to reset the lights, I checked my phone. The notifications were a solid wall of text. My Instagram follower count had jumped another two hundred thousand since breakfast. The hashtag #ParcelLoveStory was trending above actual important news bites.

We weren't just famous anymore. We were a phenomenon.

***

The transition from "theoretical fame" to "real-world fame" happened about an hour later, and it hit me like a freight train.

We had a forty-minute gap between the commercial shoot and the interview, and Parker, in his infinite spontaneity, decided we needed iced coffee.

"We can't just walk into a coffee shop, Parker," I argued as he pulled the SUV to the curb. "We’re the 'It Couple.' We’re exposed."

"Relax, Cee. I’ve got a disguise." He reached into the glove box and pulled out two items: a baseball cap for him and a pair of oversized sunglasses for me. "See? Incognito."

I sighed, putting on the glasses. "This is the stupidest disguise ever."

It started okay. We made it to the counter. I ordered my usual iced Americano, and Parker ordered something that was mostly sugar and whipped cream. But as we waited by the pick-up counter, the atmosphere in the shop shifted. The chatter died down. Phones were slowly raised.

"Oh my god," a whisper hissed from a nearby table. "Is that...?"

"It’s the B1s!"

I didn’t even have time to cringe. The dam broke. Within seconds, we were surrounded. It wasn't hostile—it was an outpouring of adoration that was almost overwhelming.

"Celeste! I’m waiting for your new song!" "Parker! You were so funny on the talk show!" "Can we get a selfie? Please, just one!"

Parker immediately turned on the charm. He wrapped an arm around my waist—a reflex now, muscle memory from weeks of playing the part—and pulled me close. "Sure thing, guys. But make it quick, Celeste has to go save the music industry in twenty minutes."

The fans giggled. A girl with dyed brown hair (that was styled in a way that was suspiciously similar to mine) thrust her phone at us. We leaned in, Parker resting his chin on top of my head, me flashing a peace sign.

"You guys are literal goals," the girl said, looking at the photo with misty eyes. "Like, knowing you’ve been in love since you were kids? It gives me hope."

I felt a slight pang of guilt.

"Thanks," Parker said, squeezing my shoulder. "She’s pretty great, isn't she?"

"The best," the girl squealed.

We managed to extract ourselves with our coffees, but by the time we got back to the car, a small crowd had formed on the sidewalk, snapping pictures through the windows.

As our driver merged back into traffic, the smile dropped from his face. He let out a long exhale, running a hand through his hair. "Okay. Maybe you were right. No more public coffee runs."

"I’ll put it in the notebook," I said, then took a quick sip of my coffee while the car was stopped at a traffic light.

***

The next two weeks were a blur of flashbulbs, red carpets, and curated moments.

We attended the Finesse Film Awards as presenters. I barely remember what happened, but I do know that I wore a shimmering silver gown that weighed a ton. It was so hard to walk around in, and Parker even had to help me catch my balance at some point. There’s a bunch of embarrassing videos floating around somewhere on the internet that depict me almost falling to my knees and Parker swiftly coming to my rescue.

Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I wonder if my manager did that on purpose. Probably not, but you never know.

We wore matching outfits to events, and we would even walk the carpets hand-in-hand. Sometimes I would wonder if we were pushing it too hard, but the fans ate it up every time. Well...I’m happy they’re happy?

We would do mini interviews, pose for fashion magazines, and do silly videos on the internet (for example, the most recent one involved us playing with fluffy cats while trying to quickly answer math questions) and we even partnered with a luxury brand for a limited-edition perfume line that sold out in minutes.

But the real shift happened on a Tuesday night.

I was at my apartment, finally alone. I was sitting on my floor, sorting some old clothes in my closet, when my doorbell rang. It was Parker.

He walked in, holding a thick manila envelope, looking like he’d just run a marathon.

"What’s wrong?" I asked, standing up. "Did a crazy fan chase you or something?"

"No," he said, breathless. He held out the envelope. "This came to my agent today."

I took it. The return address was from Blumer Studios. My breath hitched. I opened it and pulled out a script; It was for The Midnight Horizon, the gritty sci-fi drama reboot that I’m sure every actor in Hollywood was fighting for.

Clipped to the front page was a note.

Parker, Saw you on the Morning Show. You have a vulnerability that’s rare. We don’t want you to audition. We want you for the lead. Let’s talk numbers.

This was it. This was the holy grail. A direct offer for a blockbuster lead.

"Parker!" I squealed, looking up at him. "You did it!"

He grinned. I could tell he was trying to hold back his excitement, but failing miserably, “They wouldn't have even looked at my headshot two months ago. Honestly, this is all because of you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be stupid, now.”

“No, really…” He continues sheepishly. “I’ve been in such a slump lately, and I know you’ll never admit it, but I’m pretty sure you had this fake relationship idea because you thought it would help me out.” He pauses. “Well, maybe 20% of it. I’m sure you were also just jumping at the chance to be a galactically famous popstar or whatever it was.”

I shook my head playfully. “Nope, it was all about me and 0% you. Sorry to say.”

He laughs. “Yeah, yeah.”