“Hold on, give me a sec-”

Tucker set his glass of water down, picking up his phone. He had to stop for a second and reflect on just how he got where he was. Tucker Pillsbury, better known as American singer-songwriter Role Model, was absolutely starstruck.

He was opening for Gracie Fucking Abrams, and it was glamorous. Like, actually fucking glamorous. And now he was remembering when you, his girlfriend, and him would sit on the floor and listen to Gracie. Just sit like that for the night. And he was so upset you had to work and couldn’t come with him. But at least he could FaceTime.

The camera became clearer, and you could see Tucker’s beautiful face looking at you. “Hey, girlfriend. Guess the fuck what. I had dinner with Gracie Abrams tonight.”

He had traded his PR cowboy hat for a backwards baseball cap, and he was sitting in the bathroom of his hotel room in Atlanta. It wasn’t just that you were, perhaps, the world’s biggest Gracie Abrams fan, but that your boyfriend was there on tour with her, and you didn’t even get to come? Talk about unfair.

Your job at a Starbucks in LA was pretty dear to you, though. That’s where you’d met Tucker. Where he’d scribbled his number on a greasy napkin and you’d realised oh, shit, this guy’s kind of famous.

He’s still mildly marvelling at the whole situation. He had everything. Gracie Abrams, a beautiful girlfriend, fame, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

The phone glitches a little, and he waits for it to reconnect. Tucker walks into his bedroom and flops down on the bed. The phone finally stops glitching and your face appears on his phone screen.