The average human’s attention span is eight seconds long. Long enough to hopefully keep them smiling at us as they move us down the red carpet, dazzling each stranger, one micro-moment at a time.
Sitting in the car next to him, I know what to expect. Where other people may linger during a conversation, I can look at their eyes and see the exact moment they drift. This carpet will be no different than any dinner party with the Whitemores. I will play my part perfectly. Aloof, but sturdy. Personable, but without getting too personal.
All I have to do is stare lovingly into his eyes. Even after the kiss we shared a few days ago, I won’t let a minor lapse in judgment cloud what I am doing here today.
This will be my last public appearance with him. Our unspoken agreement will come to an end soon.
This will all become a distant memory for Holden Strauss.
Today, we’ve spent more than eighty thousand seconds together since he strolled into our office. Not that I am counting… If we were doing easy math, that is way more than eight seconds. It’s been enough time to judge how he handles these kinds of moments.
Unfazed.
I fluff my hair to lay perfectly on each side of my shoulders, staring out the town car’s window as we creep to a full stop. The glass window reflects my fully made-up face, which took three hours to put together.
My long, chestnut-brown hair hangs perfectly straight, looking more lush and vibrant in color than usual. Its natural state is frizzy waves that are pulled back in a slick bun most mornings.
Creating this look that the hairstylist did for me in one hour would probably take me three, requiring all the products in my bathroom to tame the static electricity that could power my whole apartment building.
From my hair to my eyes, I observe the matte charcoal and black shadows on my eyes that are layered with precision to create the most perfect smokey eye. This look accentuates my hooded eyes, which I never knew quite what to do with until now. My pendant is activating a radiate shade of blue.
My unconventional mirror is morphed into a blistering crowd anxiously awaiting our arrival.
They are all smushed up to the gate, barricading them from the carpet. From both sides, they wait to sprint toward the illustrious individuals arriving.
My gaze immediately returns back to him. I don’t have to say a word, because one look his way and he is reaching for my hand.
“You look handsome,” I whisper. Holden gives me a quick peck on my lips as if this is routine for us.
This is the second time this week our lips have collided willingly without any coverage surrounding the event. An ache in my stomach starts to form.
We are now being told it’s our turn to walk. Holden scoots out of the town car first and extends his hand to me. My whole body glides into him, holding on to his arm. My legs wobble as I try to balance myself against him.
The shouting match commences…
“HC! HC! HC!” The words are building in my ears. I start to hear the shouting grow louder. I maintain a firm grip on his arm, holding his gaze to avoid the flashes aiming for my retinas.
“Everyone is staring at you,” he murmurs.
His face has softened. His feet don’t look wobbly. Yet, when I place my hand on his chest, there are beats louder than any rock band in the early 2000s, where drum solos were the highlight.
We both step into the center, where all the photographers are placed. I blink rapidly as the halos form in my vision. His lip curves on one side. I must be staring at him too closely because they are all screaming at me to look forward.
“Look this way!!”
“The cameras are over here, miss!!”
I quickly turn my head away from him and back to the cameras, where I flash a toothy grin in their direction.
Chris will probably be seething, champing at the bit when he sees these photos. The thought makes me relish in this a little bit more as I hold my smile for each flash.
Once we are done, a coordinator moves us down the carpet to the line of people waiting to take a new set of photos in front of the movie’s backdrop: a white canvas with the big, bold red lettering all over it. The movie titleLoveSickwith the lead actress’s name underneath it—Sloane Swanson.
The sight of her name reverberates in my mind, a constant reminder that she’s here.
It’s about ten minutes of waiting before we are up next in line for the “proper” photos in front of the backdrop.
Holden does a few solo shots with the same three poses before bringing me back into the picture to dote on him for a few more. We snap quickly from resting my arm on his lapel to being pushed down the line once more.
