23
When Finn calls my name, it echoes through the nearly empty museum. I blink out of my daze, and just like that, I’ve lost a staring contest I didn’t know I was having—against an Indian rhinoceros.
Finn is a few taxidermied species ahead, but he comes back to get me. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” He presses the back of his hand to my cheek. “You seem out of it.”
I lean into his touch. “I’m fine.”
“You can tell me if you’re bored.”
“I’m not.” Well, notthatbored. “Just a slow reader.”
He brightens. “I’m glad you’re interested.”
Finn’s been giving me a tour of the American Museum of Natural History for the past hour. He couldn’t believe I grew up outside the city and still had never been. He brought Marissa for thethirdtime last weekend while I moped at my apartment for two days, but he still seems fascinated by every stop.
He takes my hand and leads me to the next diorama, making a point to stop in front of the plaque. All right, so I wasn’t reading about rhinos. I was thinking about the article for Gotham’s digital magazine again, but I don’t want Finn to know that. We already toasted each other, went to dinner, and discussed it at length, so there’s nothing really left to say.
Except . . . I can’t get one particular detail out of my head.
What do I have to celebrate, when nobody knows who I am?
It came out nine days ago, the middle of January, Friday the thirteenth of all days. Finn was lauded as an up-and-comer in innovative, modern boudoir photography. The kind ofevocativeart you’d hang in your entryway rather than hide away in the master bathroom.Provocativeimages of Finn’sseductivemodel to stimulate your guests. And Finn, my love, my rock—he credited his model as his muse—not for her body, but for her words. He was very clear about that. Nobody who read the article would doubt I had as much to do with his success as he did.
Anonymous.
There are theories. Celebrities, socialites, and professional models have been named as Anonymous. Boyfriends tag girlfriends in the photos, teasingly accusing them of keeping secrets. People care who I am, but theyknowwho Finn is. He’s begun getting inquiries about commissions. Where does that leave me? It’s not as if I can come along.
We blew past ten thousand followers before my target date.
Finn has been leading me around, and suddenly I realize we’re in the Hall of North American Birds. A dead, stuffed falcon is mid-flight. Inside a glass case, ten, fifteen owls watch me walk by. My scalp prickles. I wore an Angora sweater because Finn likes how soft it is, but the museum’s heat is on and now I just feel suffocated. While Finn’s back is turned, I check my phone. A notification alerts me to a message from Butter Boudoir. Again? This’ll be the third message from them to go unanswered. I want to check it, but just two days ago, Finn told me I spend too much time on my phone when we’re together. I’m trying to be more conscious about it.
Last week, we accepted two-hundred-fifty dollars from a jewelry company who’d read about us online. I wore a thin, silver bracelet for one shot. They had more followers than us, but they were looking to target a more niche audience. I’d suggested Finn and I use the money to splurge on a nice dinner, but he wanted to put it in the bank. After the conversation I’d overheard with Marissa, I didn’t try to talk him out of it. Instead, I made him a special meal at the apartment. It ended with lovemaking that involved an oven mitt, spatula, and a creative use of linguine.
At the elevator, Finn turns to me. “The dinosaurs are on the fourth floor. Want to see or have you hit your limit?”
It’s my stomach that answers him. Saved by the grumble. “I think my limit’s hit.”
He slings an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you fed.”
We return to the main entrance to retrieve our things from the coat check. While Finn uses the restroom, I step outside. I put on myfingerlessgloves, which I bought specifically for occasions like this, where it’s freezing outside but I want to use my phone. Since I have a couple minutes to myself, I check our inbox.
Mr. Cohen,
Congratulations on seventeen thousand followers. I’m sorry we haven’t heard back from you yet. I know sometimes communication gets lost in the shuffle. Consider this our last and best offer.
Valentine’s Day is around the corner, and we’re making a huge push to reach new customers. We’d love to gift you some pieces from our V-Day collection as well as $5,000 to feature them in a 10-photo series. Again, we’re big fans of your work, and our appreciation has grown even more the last few weeks as the posts just get better. I’m sure twenty thousand followers is just around the corner.
Thank you for your consideration,
Kelly
“I know a burger place nearby,” Finn says behind me.
I turn and nearly knock him down. I open my mouth to tell him.
Five.
Thousand.
