“Tell me,” I said, rubbing my eyes and preparing to say no.
“Allegra is shooting it.”
I sighed.
Allegra Giordano was a magician behind the lens. She’d done my very first magazine shoot, which had catapulted me into the limelight. Not long after, tragedy struck her family and she put down her camera and hadn’t returned since. I’d always said I’d do anything to work with her again. Her images were works of art, and her grace and understanding of both the female form, and condition, enriched each photograph.
Jen was right. I wanted this one.
“Send me the details,” I said.
Chapter 33
Graham
Vacationing alone, I’d decided, was an acquired skill. This realization hit as soon as I sat down to dine by myself at a restaurant my first night in Amsterdam.
I hadn’t been planning on taking a vacation, but after the spectacle from the Vogue cover and spread, and my last conversation with Lior, I’d barely left my house and was craving freedom and anonymity.
The Vogue attention was to be expected and I didn’t blame Lior for that drama. I’d brought it on myself and, from the emails I’d received the evening before – from both my agent and my editor – it was doing wonders for my book sales.
That coupled with the conversation had me feeling rattled and caged though. I was angry. And… I was scared. Was I willing to risk something that seemed so right? So destined? So Brontë two tail thumps approved?
So many times I’d had to stop myself from going to Lior’s house. But what would I say? I had set boundaries for myself for a reason. And while Lior was no Nadia, I knew what I could and couldn’t handle. I knew what I did and didn’t want in my life.
I needed to stand my ground. Honor what I felt. Take control of myself and my emotions. One slip and it’d be all over. Back to square one. Back to my bad habit of overlooking the red flags.
Not that any of it was an issue anymore. Because then the kicker came. The thing that pushed me over the edge and had me skimming my favorite vacation site for last-minute-trip ideas.
Per the accompanying article, Lior was on the Amalfi coast for an Armani campaign. So much for moving on from modeling. A picture showed up in the papers with a bold “New Couple Alert?” headline. In the photo was Lior and Colin Graydon, action star, romcom leading man, and newly minted dramatic actor that was rumored to be in the Oscar running for his portrayal of an alcoholic politician in his last film. He was standing with Lior, his arm around her back. Sort of.
I tried to get a better look, enlarging the image on my screen. Was his arm actually around her body? It was hard to tell. I went to another site and the photo was there as well. Just as grainy. Clearly taken from a distance by an onlooker.
“Fuck,” I whispered, typing in the name of a popular social media page and then her name. Twenty-five thousand, two hundred and fifty-three mentions. Awesome. People were freaking out at the thought they were a couple.
I found a back-and-forth of people analyzing the photo.
“Is his arm really around her?”
“His arm is totally around her. Are you blind?”
“It’s such a sweet, respectful embrace.”
“I think he’s just reaching around her. See that drink at the edge of the photo? He’s totally reaching for it.”
I went back to the photo and looked for the mentioned drink. It was half out of frame. But it was there.
“Oh my god,” I said out loud and tossed my phone to the end of the bed. It bounced off and landed on the floor. I covered my face with a pillow.
This. This was the kind of drama I didn’t want. The kind my exes had all encouraged, and had in fact thrived on. I was convinced they subconsciously manifested it. Or maybe even consciously. The consistency of it had been exhausting. It had worn me down. I’d felt myself getting smaller and smaller until I was relegated into this little pocket of their lives, only good for photo ops I wasn’t in, merely acting as photographer as they posed with food, drinks, friends, and different beautiful views around whatever city we were in. My only role became supportive boyfriend, which was a role I was happy to be in – until it became me supporting the weight of their needs, unending wants, and inflated egos.
It was a paparazzi photo that led me to the realization that my wife wasn’t on a girl’s trip like she’d claimed, but on a private yacht in the Mediterranean with the man she’d apparently been sleeping with for months. Somehow the paparazzi caught wind of it and were able to get photos using a drone. There was no is-his-arm-around-her-or-not questioning. It was obvious they were together as she was straddling him, topless on a sun chair on the deck of the boat.
I hated the paparazzi. I hated what and who it made me question. Especially if they had it wrong. But there was no way of knowing for sure. Trust? Yeah… hard to do that when there were pictures making their denials outright lies.
I’d pulled the pillow from my face and put it behind my head. In truth, I’d never once seen Lior encourage or fan the flames of her fame. At least, not while I was around. She’d made a conscious effort to keep it at bay. But did that matter? The truth was, she was famous. Whether she encouraged the circus that sometimes happened or not, her fame was the issue. My issue. And I had no business faulting her for doing her job well and being beloved for it. It went hand-in-hand with the job and her level of success.
Lior wasn’t the problem. I was.
