Crap.
CHAPTER
Twenty-One
Iwas a little embarrassed to admit it, which was why I’d never say it out loud, but my first thought, afterCrap, was petty annoyance. Why did they keep having to bring up my Razzie Award? It had been five years, and I’d been doing a nice thing by helping out the indie director I was seeing—he needed my star power to make his movie a success. I’d agreed before realizing my role would be a gender-bent Hardy Boy (the blond one, even though I was a natural brunette) who also, inexplicably, was unveiled in the third act as an alien, upon which the other brother had to kill her (my death scene had been the featured clip). The movie had flopped. The director had dumped me and gone on to produce the latest big-budget fantasy adaptation from HBO.
My second thought was panic. I read through the article, which had already been cross-posted and shared pretty much everywhere you could cross-post or share something, and felt that cold pool of dread in my stomach opening. The article painted me as the same party girl I’d always been, frittering my life away on silly things, someone who was easily dissuaded from any life path or choice.
Pom’s never been able to stick with something for very long, an anonymous “friend” told the journalist.
We all think she was hoping her entry into the charitable scene would make a major splash, and it did, but in all the wrong ways. She’s already looking for a way out. Maybe getting into DJing.
“Is it true?” Persimmon asked. I jumped, nearly spearing myself on the end of the cake skewer. I’d totally forgotten she was there.
“Of course not,” I said adamantly. “I’ve changed. I’m not giving up.”
But the article wasn’t only about my professional life, and that’s what really made me bristle. I was used to unfounded speculation about me (if I’d been pregnant as many times as the tabloids said, I’d have my own synchronized swimming team by now. We’d sweep the Olympic nominations and I’d beam proudly on the sidelines as all the gold medals shone and, okay, this was getting away from me). But Gabe? He wasn’t used to this.
The shine on her relationship is wearing off now too,said the same or perhaps a different anonymous “friend.”
She’s used to guys who can fly her to Bali for a weekend or buy her the newest Cartier watch before it even comes out, not a teacher living on a teacher’s salary.
Oh God. Full-body cringe. “I don’t evenwearwatches.” The venom in my voice caught me off guard. Persimmon actually took a step back. “What’s the point of a watch? If I want something that looks nice on my wrist, I’ll wear a bracelet. If I want to know the time, I’ll check my phone. Nobody needs the time permanently attached to their wrist.”
But that wasn’t the important thing here. Even I knew that. “I’ve got to call Gabe,” I said, stepping away. “I’ve got to…”
I’ve got to set things straight. Not even with the public. My fans knew perfectly well how I felt about watches. And I’d havetime to address things with my donors and the people I cared about.
But Gabe. He came first.
The call went to voicemail. I called again. Went to voicemail again. Before I could call a third time, my phone buzzed with a text. From Gabe.Got overwhelmed so I’m already on the subway home. See you there.
I bit my tongue, then realized it was a text and crossed my fingers so that I couldn’t respond and ask him why, if he was so worried about being in a public place where people would accost him, he would go on the subway of all places instead of a nice private black car.
“I need to go,” I said, stepping away, and then I was accosted. I didn’t full-body cringe this time; I’d already slid into my old damage-control mode, the poker face and languid posture and bored tone to all theno comments that would come out of my mouth. It was good I was wearing sunglasses, though, to hide my eyes. There was no keeping them from worrying. Not when I had so much more to worry about than I did in the past.
“No comment,” I said automatically, then realized it wasn’t a kid with a phone held up taking video or a reporter with a phone to their lips as a microphone (the news world had really lost a lot of its flair when big flash cameras and tape recorders all merged with phones). It was Kevin Miller. “Oh, hi. Sorry, I have to—”
“Try the Moldovan waffle rolls?” His smile was so white it almost glowed. “It’s like a waffle corn dog and a cheesecake had a sordid affair.”
The way he said “sordid affair” made me feel a little like I’d gotten Moldovan waffle roll sticky on my hands, no matter how delicious it sounded. I wiped them unconsciously against my sides. “I’ve actually been to Moldova. With an ex. Yes, he was in the Russian mob.” I wasn’t sure why I was babbling. “Anyway, it was so nice to see you, but I have to—”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you more. It’s fortuitous to runinto you here before you have to leave.” A flash of those white teeth again. “Lucky. It’s lucky to have run into you here.”
Irritation bubbled in me, almost hard to read over the worry already boiling away in there. Did he think I didn’t know what “fortuitous” meant? I’d gotten a fifteen hundred on the SAT. Granted, I hadn’t been the one to take it, but he didn’t know that. “I’m sorry. I wish I had time, but I don’t. I need to go. Right now.”
He didn’t move, so I pushed past him. Honestly, it felt great to get a little of that aggression out. “No problem,” he called after me. “We’ll talk later.”
I pushed my way through the rest of the crowd, but not as hard as I’d pushed Kevin, since it would’ve been way too easy for someone to snap a photo and publish it with,Crazed Pomona Afton Shoves People Away in Panic After Exposé!Back in my black car, I let myself breathe. The smell of soft, polished leather and the hum of calming string music—somehow the driver always knew exactly what I needed; I’d have to make sure he got a big holiday tip—relaxed me enough where I could think actual thoughts and not panicked sentence fragments.
This would be fine. All I had to do was show Gabe a few of the most egregiously, demonstrably false pieces published about me in the past few years to illustrate how often the press lied.Pomona Afton Skips Grandfather’s Funeral to Party at Exclusive Speakeasy(there were literally pictures of me at the funeral; my face had been hidden enough by fashionable black netting that people didn’t realize it until later).Pomona Afton Takes Wasteful Private Jet Flight of Ten Miles to Skip Traffic(people didn’t seem to realize that refueling and repositioning flights were things).Duchess Pomona Afton? Crown Jewel Spotted on American Socialite’s Ring Finger(technically not true, but only because my brief engagement had been to an earl). Then Gabe would realize how much fun the public had making things up about me and understand that they saw me as, like, a character on a soap opera orsomething. Not as a real person with a real life who could be affected for real by the storylines they whipped up.
So I was breathing a little easier when the car pulled up to our building. I almost didn’t look at my phone when it started buzzing.
Almost. As I waved to the doorman, keeping my head down in case any neighbors were staring, I glanced down at it, because what if it was Gabe?
It wasn’t. It was my mother. And as much as I desperately wanted to leave her on read, I knew she’d only keep calling until I blocked her, upon which she’d start calling from whoever else’s phone she could find, and I couldn’t block the entirety of her staff. “What is it?” I said curtly into the phone.
