Page 13 of Poetry On Ice

Gonna drag it off his shoulders.

Gonna bite—

“Can I get you another drink?” McGuire raises a perfectly arched brow. A picture of faux innocence if I’ve ever seen one. His eyes are still full of menace. “You look a little parched.”

By the time I’ve recovered enough that I no longer pose an imminent threat to his life, “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster The People is playing in the living room, and almost everyone in the house is on their feet, dancing like they’ve forgotten we’re a losing team, we’re adults, and this isn’t a fucking frat house.

McGuire is in the middle of the circle, hips loose, arms floating at his sides as he does an up-his-own-ass shuffle meant to be completely adorable. He’s biting his bottom lip, eyes closed, dancing like no one’s watching him when, really, he couldn’t possibly be more aware that every eye in the place is on him. And the worst is that every eye in the place is on him. Watching in wonder, almost in worship, as he moves.

Every eye but mine, that is.

When the song ends, McGuire works his way around the room, spending a minute or two with each person, regardless of gender or age, sprinkling a little attention on everyone to make sure they feel like the most special person here.

And let me tell you, they eat it up. Every single person.

Luddy spots me as I head for the door and stumbles over. He throws a heavy arm over my shoulder and pulls me close. His eyelids are heavy, and he looks more relaxed than I can recall seeing him in the past. I’ve known him for four years, and this is the first time I’ve seen him less than completely sober.

“I’m glad you came, Decker,” he says, face a little too close to mine. He pats me hard on the back and then looks suddenly somber. “And don’t worry, okay…don’t worry about anything. Errything’s going to be fine. You’ll see. It’ll befiiiine’cause—”

I cut him off there. I don’t need to hear the rest of the sentence. I know full well what he’s going to say.

Everything’s going to be fine…because Robbie McGuire is here.

Fuck that shit.

I’m out.

That’s quite enough peopling for me for one day, thank you very much.

I leave and breathe a sigh of relief when I get home and throw myself back onto my sofa. I’m about to chill my ass off. I’m not going to move for the next four or five hours. The only thing in existence is going to be me and my TV. A TV with an eighty-four-inch curved screen, which, by the way, I could easily afford because, contrary to what you may have heard, I earnsixteenpercent less than McGuire, not twenty.

I flick through channels, looking for something mindless to numb my brain. I can’t find a thing.

Goddammit, I have that song stuck in my head now: “Pumped Up Kicks.”

Ugh.

McGuire looked so dumb when he was dancing to it.

He did this thing where he seemed to alter the space around him, like slow it, or bend it, or something. It was cringey. He does it all the time on his socials, not that I often check them, but he posts a lot so it’s hard to miss. The algorithm decides what it thinks you’ll like and shoves that shit down your throat whether you like it or not. There’s not much you can do about it.

He posts totally random snippets that are essentially just him doing something very normal with soft, emotive music playing in the background. He uses a filter that makes the video look grainy, almost vintage. He moves slowly, taking his time to pour his coffee and stir it or whatever basic task he’s filming himself doing. He builds the tension by not looking up, and when he’s sure he has the viewer frothing for more, he hits the camera with a blistering hazel gaze. He holds eye contact for a few seconds—that’s when he adds the slo-mo effect—and then he smiles. His lips curl into a perfect half-moon, the background around him growing increasingly hazy, and then he leans toward the camera and says something truly ridiculous like, “Life is beautiful,” and ends the video.

I think it’s meant to be an authentic glimpse into his world. I can all but hear his PR people saying, “It’s a way of connecting, Robbie, a way for you to show people who you really are,” but really, it’s a massive thirst trap.

I’d rather die than post shit like that.

The incredible thing is that people love it. They absolutely love it. He has twelve million followers on TikTok, and most of his videos get millions of views and thousands of comments. The shit people comment is off the hook.

I’d happily bear this man five sons (and I’m child-free by choice)

Call 911. My ovaries just exploded.

This boy put my menopause on pause.

You can do whatever you want with me, Robbie.

I love you, Robbie.