“Did something happen?” he asked. “I mean, obviously, but… Are you okay?”
I put the towel down and leaned my elbows on the kitchen island, covering my face with my hands.
“I think I’ve finally had enough,” I said, my voice muffled.
“Tell me what happened.”
His face went from concerned to furious as I told him about Jean-Michel and the comments made by the photographer and the stylist about my body. He listened as I recounted the shoot that happened the following day. The makeup artist, different from the one the day before, used a cream on my face that made me break out in hives, and everyone seemed to be annoyed with me as if I’d somehow caused it. When the rash finally calmed (after I downed some Benadryl and was covered in cold packs someone had run out to get) the hair stylist burned me with the curling iron so bad I had a blister that the makeup artist then tried to cover up – which was so painful I cried, messing up the intricate eyeliner job she’d already done. By the time I was ready for the shoot, I was shaking from nerves and lack of food because no one had thought to feed me in all that time and the only snack I’d brought I’d eaten two hours before.
My agent was out of town and had terrible WiFi, so she didn’t get my messages until I was on the plane home. She apologized profusely and promised to rip them all a new one.
“We’ll never book with them again,” she swore.
But I wasn’t sure I wanted to book with anyone again. Ever.
“I think I’m done,” I said to Graham.
“I think I want to meet this Jean-Michel dickhead,” he said, reaching across the island and squeezing my hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing,” I said, sliding my hand from his and standing up straight. “I’m fine.”
“Lior. You’ve taken care of me like no one ever has. Let me do something for you. Please.”
I pointed to the bag and coffee cup from Joe’s sitting off to the side and he grinned and slid them to me.
“What else,” he asked. “Do we call for takeout or make something here. Is there anything in your cupboards besides donut holes?” He got up from the stool he’d been sitting on and started opening cupboards. “Do we need to make it a movie night? What have you got going on tomorrow? We could do a movie marathon. Is it finally time to watch all five Sharknado movies?”
Despite myself, I started to laugh. “It will never be time to watch any Sharknado movie.”
“You are a snob, Lior Flynn. Let it be known.”
Again, despite the lightness in his voice, there was something off about him. Was I noticing it because I felt off too? He was obviously still sad about Brontë, as he should be, but I didn’t think that was it. There was something about the way he wouldn’t hold my gaze and was constantly looking away from me or around me, instead of really at me like he usually did. Before I could think about it further though, he had raided the drawer filled with takeout menus and was waving them in my face.
“Pick your poison, Flynn.”
“My choice?” I asked, eyebrows raised. What I really wanted was to just crawl into bed fully clothed and pull the covers over my head. Maybe forever.
“Your choice.”
Fuck it. Graham was here and he was trying to cheer me up. I’d deal with my emotions and his inability to take me as I was tomorrow. I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking about what I wanted.
“Um. You’re not doing this right,” he said.
“I totally am,” I said and opened my eyes. “I want dumplings and steamed veggies from BK’s, panang curry from Chantanee, fries from Five Guys, and a milkshake from Shake Shack.”
His eyes were wide. He slowly started to nod, a smile stretching across his face.
“Impressive,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
It took over an hour for everything to arrive. We set it all on the coffee table family style and turned on a new series both of us had been wanting to watch, leaving a couple of feet between us on the couch.
When the first episode was over, he turned to me.
“Do you really think you’re done with modeling?” he asked.
I stared at him for a moment, noticing a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d arrived.
“I don’t know if I can put myself through it anymore,” I said, my voice flat. “The whole plane ride home I recounted so many moments of feeling like shit over the years. Of being at the mercy of these people all in the name of making it big. And now I am a name and I’m still dealing with it. Assholes that think they can press their dicks against me or whisper innuendos or expect me to go out with them just because they’re good looking or famous. As if I don’t have a mind of my own.”
