Damn it, Alex! Don’t listen to them. Just move.Move.
“Alex, are you in love with Gabriel’s husband?”
I freeze.
I lock eyes with Ana’s through the glass of the lobby doors.
“Alex, are you the reason for the breakup of Elijah’s and Gabriel’s marriage?”
Ana’s face remains impassive as she continues to watch the spectacle unfold.
The endless barrage of questions pounds into me like bullets:
“Alex, will you pose with Elijah on the cover of Gay Erotica?”
My eyes slide away from Ana’s and over to Emilee.
“Alex, will you be adopting Elijah and Gabriel’s daughter?”
My brain short-circuits. Loses all connection to my body. I stand motionless, in this sea of paparazzi, watching Ana reach out and grab a hold of my daughter’s hand. She pushes past the distracted doorman and then they’re on the move—headed my way.
Cameras pivot in their direction as they fight through swarms of paparazzi. Lights flare like a storm overhead. And I still can’t move a goddamn muscle.
“Keep moving!” Ana shouts, voice slicing through the chaos.
Together, the girls weave through endless waves of media, eyes locked on me—the unmoving figure in the center of the fucking storm.
“Alex!” An eager reporter cuts through the noise, louder than the rest. “Are you doing the ‘gay thing’ just to boost your career?”
Wow. Low blow.
I make an effort to return their fire, but my voice is just as defiant as my fucking legs.
Goddamn it!
It all becomes too much—the noise, the flashing white lights, snapping of cameras, never-ending chatter of paparazzi. I should be used to this. This fiasco comes hand in hand with my modeling career. I’m familiar with it all—really, I am.
Just not today.
Today is different. Today feels like I’ve been thrown into a war zone. My legs don’t feel like they belong to me anymore. The chaos around me is now erupting inside me. I’m a stranded man on an island of havoc—a man caught in the eye of a storm; chaotic thoughts burdening an already burdened brain.
Amid the chaos, one final thought pierces through—a trembling echo of my broken heart, lying tear-soaked on an elevator floor, just a few miles away.
Ana reaches me first, flinging her arm around my waist, but I feel nothing. Not a goddamn thing.
“Mr. J, walk with me!” she shouts, trying to jolt me into motion. Emilee appears at my other side, taking my hand and sending a shockwave of sensation through my otherwisefruitless form. My veins begin to bounce. Muscles in my legs twitch.
Thank fuck.
“Alex, do you think it’s cool to be gay?”
Emilee tightens her grip on my hand, and Ana pulls on my shirt.
We’ve stopped moving.
I glance at Ana. Her eyes are locked onto the reporter with the stupid question, narrowed and unblinking. Then, unexpectedly, a smile replaces her furious frown.
She squares her shoulders, clears her throat, and sasses into the mic. “Well, aside from being a fashion model, which istotallyfucking cool, I guess being gay would be the next coolest thing.”
