If Elle was paying attention, I reckon she’d notice howwell-thumbed the pages of this book are. But from her expression, she’s struggling to take it all in. She’s getting close to the end of our time together now. As she looks through the pages of her trip to Maryland, complete with a piece of the banner decoration, the hand-lettered menu Mom had done for the Monday night cookout, and our photos as well as professional photographs from the night (Mom again), there’s conflict on her face.
I get it.
It’s bittersweet.
And it’s tough looking at those photos, the both of us so tan and happy, knowing what came next for us.
Or didn’t, I guess.
Elle closes up the book, a wistful expression on her face. She smooths her hand over the cover photo again.
‘Thank you for showing me that. It’s so beautiful, Josh. They were happy days.’
I swallow.
This is awkward.
‘Um. There’s more.’
Her eyebrows shoot up.‘More?’
Oh, shit. This is where she takes out a restraining order against the creepy stalker guy.
‘Yeah. I kinda kept on… collecting stuff. About you.’
‘Seriously?’
‘I missed you so much. I was torn apart, baby. And at the same time, I was so goddamn proud of everything you were achieving. Staying away from those Academy Awards was the toughest thing I ever did. But it would have been so fucking rude of me to show up on your big night.
‘And everything I scrapbooked reminded me of how well you were doing. How much you were killing it without me. It helped remind me why I stepped away. I knew you’d fucking fly without me weighing youdown.’
Her adorable little bottom lip is wobbling, and God, I wanna kiss her, but instead I reach back down into the bag and pull out the next book. Lay it on her knees. It has a Getty image of her holding up her Oscar on the cover. I love that photo—it shows her as the fucking queen she is.
Elle shoots me anI’m not sure about thislook, but she opens the book, and her hand flies to her mouth when she sees the first page. It’s coverage of our breakup.
But only the stuff that praises her.
And the pieces that trash-talk me.
I know. I’m a fucking masochist.
She looks over the print-outs of magazine articles discussing my substance abuse, hailing her as the next Emma Watson, and banging on about what a lucky escape she had.
After those, there are pages of the editorial coverage. Coverage she deserved, dissecting what made her performance inGracieso on-point, and requesting her viewpoints on everything from philanthropy to sexism in the movie industry. There are even two Vogue covers, cut from magazines I bought: the US and British editions.
She’s not the only one remembering.
Fuck, I remember how it felt to hold those Vogues in my hands.
To contemplate what a sought-after actor and icon my girl had already become.
To know I was voluntarily missing out on all of it. On all of her.
Elle’s laid herself bare for me these past couple days, and I’m doing the same for her. There’s no denying the strength, the consistency of my commitment to her, even though I couldn’t show it in the way she claims she wanted at the time.
By being there for her.
But I’m here now.
