It was so far from the gross high school classroom that I’d started the day in that it felt as if one or the other must not be real.

We stood in line. I kept finding myself standing too close to Cole, close enough that my shoulder blade pressed into his chest, and then I would realize we were both inhaling and exhaling at the same time.

I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to stay here with him. Or I wanted to take him with me. I was sometimes so damn tired of being alone — I suddenly felt strangely and unpleasantly tearful.

I took a deliberate step to one side. Without my body to anchor him, Cole restlessly turned to the drink cooler and then to the shelves of merchandise and then back to the drink cooler and then back to the shelves of merchandise.

“I’m not really a sweets person.” He fingered a T-shirt that I could already tell he wanted to buy purely because it said the pie hole on it.

I said, “Don’t be a bastard.”

“Then tell me what to get. Apple? That’s a pie.”

“Shut up. I will order for you. In fact, you’re making me crazy pacing. Go get a table out front.”

“Da,” replied Cole, and vanished.

When I came outside, I found him at a tiny metal table in dappled shade, staring at two phones he’d set on the tabletop.

There were two other tables, one of which was occupied by a cheerful but very ugly woman and her beautiful but very pissylooking little dog. The third table was occupied by a camera guy, who I gave the finger. He waved back at me with a guileless smile.

I put Cole’s coffee in front of him and sat down with my back to the camera.

“What did you order for me?” he asked, not lifting his eyes from the devices.

“I’m not going to tell you. It’ll just have to surprise you when it comes out. It’s not apple. What’s that other phone?”

Cole glumly explained Baby’s mandate.

“That’s not that bad,” I said. “So she wants you to talk to your fans?”

“I don’t want to talk to them,” he said. “All they want to talk about is whether I’ll take their virginity or write another song like ‘Villain’ or come play a show in whatever impossibly small place they live in. Did you put sugar in this?”

“No. It’s a grown-up coffee. I made it for you the grown-up way. Also, you don’t have to be one-on-one. You could just update them in general.”

“Update them! I’m being brilliant. Now I’m being amazing.

How tedious that would be for them.”

“Oh, it’s tedious already. Baby knows I’m not on the show, right?”

Cole glanced up at the camera. “Legally, she can use the back of your head but not your face. All that” — he gestured to the street — “is too loud for him to pick up any audio, but — do you want to go inside?”

I thought about how there was a certain dark pleasure to anonymously marking my territory, letting the fangirls know that he already had someone. And my hair looked great from the back.

“No,” I replied. “Drink your coffee.”

Cole took another sip. He looked pained. I slid a sugar packet I had been hiding from behind my mug and he leaped upon it.

As he sprinkled its contents into his absolutely already-perfect latte, I picked up the Baby phone. It was a rather nice one.

“Look at the way it sits in your hand.” Cole squinted critically at the phone in my palm. “It respects you. You could be Cole St. Clair, you know.”

I laughed, a little crueler than was strictly necessary. “Oh, I don’t think so. That position is already filled by someone incredibly overqualified.”

“I mean, you could be my voice. Try it. Say something.”

I gave him a scathing look. But the truth was, although Cole was a complicated creature, his projected self was quite simple. I opened Twitter and typed: hi hi hi world.

I hit post.

I had to admit, it was vaguely thrilling.

“What did I say?” Cole asked.

I showed him.

“I don’t use punctuation,” he said. “I also use a lot of these things.” He cupped his hands on either side of his face to demonstrate. “Parentheses.”

“Did you even read it?”

“I did. I know. I was admiring it. Let me see it again. Yes.

This is a great idea. It will free me up for all kinds of things.”

“Like lying around on your floor and firing nice people?”

“Hey, I don’t talk smack about your work. For the record, I’m going into the studio this afternoon.”

I studied his expression to see how he felt about this, but he was facing the camera, so his features were handsome and regulated and fixed into a studied, arrogant relaxation.

“You could come,” Cole said. “And be my — what is it called? Naked person. No. Muse. You could be my muse.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I have class. Maybe if you do all your homework, I’ll come by and give you a gold star.”

“Oh,” he said. “I could give you one, too. I’m all about sharing.”

“That’s big of you.”

Cole held his fingers eight inches apart, then reconsidered and made it ten.

The girl from behind the counter appeared with a tray.

“Here’s your st —”

“Shh,” I said. “It’s a surprise. For him, I mean. Close your eyes, Cole.”

Cole closed his eyes. Smiling at both of us, the waitress set the plates down. She left us there, but I noticed that she waited by the other side of the door, still with the same pleased, anticipatory smile on her face. It felt strange to be the genesis of such a pleasant expression.

“Open your mouth,” I ordered Cole. I worked to create what I thought was a bite-sized forkful of strawberry graham tart. It took longer than I expected.

“It is open,” Cole said. “In case you didn’t notice.”

“Keep it that way. I didn’t tell you to close it.”

I sat there for a long minute, watching Cole fidget, waiting to see if he would lose patience, while I smirked at his closed eyes and looked at the way his neck disappeared into the collar of his T-shirt. He shifted. His eyeballs looked back and forth beneath his eyelids. Anyone wanting to torture Cole would only have to tie him to a chair and do absolutely nothing. He’d beg to have his toenails removed just for something to entertain himself.