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Someday when we give up on this and become acquaintances? Someday when we’re lovers, and everything has sorted itself out? I’ll never know because the doors roll open and we enter the lobby, heading to the shiny front exit way Through the glass is the shadow of the waiting car. I open the door and let her go through, following her out onto the cool drive.
The air smells like change. I don’t know what that smells like, maybe the season, but it’s unmistakable.
“You hop in the back,” I say. “I’ll get the luggage put away.”
She doesn’t protest; I know she likes the princess treatment. I pop the trunk and pile our things inside, hands wavering before snapping it shut. Things are moving fast, but slow at the same time. It feels like I met her a hundred years ago. Or maybe I met her last week, and now we’re running off together. I don’t know, but the wind picks up. A lingering feeling of having been here before floats on it.
I slam the trunk shut and get in. She’s on her phone, legs folded.
“So, how are you keeping all this from your sister?” I ask, as we pull onto the street.
“Huh?” She doesn’t look up.
“How are you keeping this from Coen and your sister?”
She glances sideways sharply, eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Serena, I’ve seen your social media,” I say.
Silence. She sniffs, shrugging.
“I blocked everyone. It’s easy,” she says finally. “I can block you, too, if you’re not good.”
I could push back, make her talk about it. But I’m well aware of how embarrassing it is to be perceived publicly, especially online. Coen struggled with it. He used to walk out on stage and keep his head down, eyes on the floor. I had to coach him through the proper media response to someone being a fan or telling him they love his work. He used to just nod nervously and move on.
“You don’t have to block me,” I say. “You probably couldn’t find my burner anyway.”
“I’ll bet I could.”
“I’ll bet you couldn’t. I’ve been in this game for a long time.”
She sets her phone aside, shifting to lay her legs across my lap. That’s a good sign. Here I thought she was pissed. I run my hand over her ankle, stroking the soft skin.
“Coen doesn’t have social media. I guess he deleted it,” she says, eyes on the ceiling.
“He hasn’t had it in a while. I had someone take it over years ago. Does Sabrina?”
She shrugs. “She did in high school, but not as much anymore. Just a private account she posts the dogs on sometimes. Being with Coen kinda means she can’t post pictures of them without worrying about his privacy. She stopped using it much when they got together.”
“Once you’re a public figure, it kinda fucks up the whole experience.”
She sighs, arms crossing. “I can see that.”
We’re both quiet for a while. The Uber pulls up to the airport, and I gather all our luggage from the trunk. She reaches for her bag but I wheel it out of her reach.
“I got this,” I say.
She hesitates. “I’m not used to being taken care of, not by…you.”
“Well, let me show you how it’s done.”
Our eyes meet, electricity sizzling.
“I can do things for myself,” she insists.
“I know that,” I say, striding toward security. “But you don’t have to, not right now.”
She doesn’t protest as we go through security and stroll down the walkway to our terminal. It’s pretty empty, and I find her a prime spot along the back wall. She sinks down, watching silently as I line up our luggage.
