My spine stiffens as I continue to read through the article, and it takes all my self-control not to scream. I swallow down the boulder-sized lump in my throat.
I close the app and try calling Alexander again, getting the same voicemail message. A boarding call plays out for my flight, but I ignore it.
There must be some way to get ahold of him.
To find out what happened.
Social media!
Surely there will be videos of him leaving the hotel that will help me piece everything together. The algorithm must remember my search history because the first video that pops up as I open the app is of Alexander leaving the hotel. He’s flanked by security as he gets into a car, head down with a hoodie on—my hoodie—as Rob gets in after him.
Surely that’s a sign? A signal that he’s sending to me?
I look at the time stamp on this video and subsequent videos of him leaving the hotel, and they all seem to be posted between six and seven hours ago, which must mean Alexander left the hotel around seven this morning.
But how the hell did I not hear him leave?
I’m such a light sleeper.
I continue doom scrolling, finally stopping on one of him walking through the airport. The paparazzi are snapping away and yelling at him.Are the rumors true, Alex? Are you gay? Alex keeps his focus locked on the ground as Rob does his best to protect him. I swipe up one more time and stop on a video by Hollywood Exposed that already has thirty-five thousand likes.
Alexander Morgan finds himself embroiled in a new scandal this morning, just days after rumors of an alleged affair between him and Rita Watson. A video has emerged of Morgan kissing an unidentified man at his hotel last night in London.
Grainy video cuts in, showing Alexander and me dancing, Enrique’sHerojust about audible in the clip.
Another lump forms in my throat.
He was right.
That sound must have been someone sneaking in through the side room to record that video.
But who is this mystery man? Is Alexander Morgan gay? Bisexual? You know what to do, followers. Let’s solve this mystery!
The video loops back to the start and I click on the comments, immediately regretting it when I see a load of vile slurs and rampant speculation about who I could be.
Whoever he is, he needs to keep his hands off MY man.
It looks like Asher Angel.
No way it’s Asher, it’s probably some deadbeat guy.
I keep on scrolling, but pause when I come across one message.
It looks like that guy who walked in with his girlfriend the other day.
Fuck.
The comment only has a couple of likes, but it won’t take long for those keyboard warriors to track me down if anyone from the wedding tags me in a picture from last night. I quickly go through all my social media profiles, double-checking thatmy accounts are set to private, and pull my baseball cap down even lower.
No one seems to have glanced my way. They’re all lost in their own conversations and digital devices, but I can’t be too cautious.
Surely, this can’t be happening. It must be a nightmare.
A quick pinch of my arm confirms it’s not, just as the last call goes out for my flight.
Fuck.
I pull the charger out from the socket, down the last of the Bloody Mary, and throw on my backpack as I head to the exit. I make my way through the terminal and toward the gate.
