Leaving early. Sneaking out with our leftovers. Ducking into the car as a few cameramen stood across the street waiting for a rare shot of Noah Harding on a date.
He explained that to me after we got into the car—how someone inside must have called the press, or paps, and probably got paid for the tip, which happens too often. More so if he’s caught out with a woman, which almost never happens.
“I haven’t been on a date.”
“Since when?” I asked.
“Since ever.”
“You’ve never been on a date? Ever?”
“No.” His eyes were glued to the road, listening for the navigation system’s directions, fingers clenching the wheel.
“But you’ve been out with women before.”
“Sure. When I go out, there are almost always women.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I assumed he meant groupies, though neither of us spoke the words.
He glanced over at me then. “They just show up. I don’t date them.”
“You just…” Sleep with them? I didn’t have the courage to ask—but then I didn’t have to, because he nodded.
“Yes, but I’m not… I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like sex?”
He shook his head. “I like sex, I just don’t like how women act.” His grip on the wheel got tighter.
“How do women act?”
His wide shoulders shrugged. “Like…I don’t know. They don’t want relationships. They just want what they can get from me. Or not.”
He sounded sad and jaded and lost.
It made me think he’s only been used because of his career, and my heart broke a bit listening to what he wasn’t saying, my arm reaching across the space so my hand could slide across the smooth plane of his deltoids and brush the hairline at the nape of his neck.
“So do you want a relationship?” Is that what he’d been saying? I wondered.
“I…” He tightened his lips, pressing them together, the small scar on his jawline turning rather white against his tan skin. “I…”
He couldn’t finish his sentence.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
I didn’t want to press him—it was only our first date and it was none of my business.
“Someone must have seen you out, because there’s a not-so-nice write-up on some trashy blog, with a picture—you look gorg, by the way, love that dress—”
“Aww, thank you!”
“Focus, Miranda—this is not about the dress.”
“Sorry.” Jeez.
“And it’s not the picture that’s terrible because it’s you and him, but it’s the caption and I don’t want you to see it yet. So please just don’t go searching hashtags or looking for it.”
“But—”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay, but wouldn’t you want to see it if it were you?”
My best friend pauses. “Look, I’m trying to do you a favor and maybe now is a good time to hire me as your publicist.”
Publicist?
The thing is, she sounds dead serious. “Are you high?” What the hell do I need a publicist for?
“Of course I’m not high! I want to make this go away for you!”
“Make what go away?! You won’t let me look at the internet!”
“Because it will make you sick!” She practically yells it into the phone. “God I want to crush somebody’s balls for this—that’s what I want to do!”
Drama queen.
“Oh come on, how bad could it be? So they published a picture of us—so what?” I do my best to come off as blasé, though that excited flutter that was growing in my stomach earlier is starting a slow spiral of dread.
Claire is incensed. “Did you not hear what I said? I said the picture is fine—you both look adorable, all cutesy-giggling at each other.” She makes a gagging sound in her throat. “It’s the captions and the story that go along with it that I don’t want you to see.”
This gives me pause. “Do you think Noah has seen it?”
“I guarantee you he has.” She scoffs. “Please, that dude has people working for him whose job it is to keep up with this shit.”
“Then…” I glance out the window to my right, out at the red brick building across the street, the one with the bright blue door. “Why hasn’t he called me? Because I haven’t heard from him since this morning when he left.”
“Maybe he’s waiting.”
“For what?”
Claire is quiet. “I don’t know.”
“How bad is it, dramatics and hysterics aside?” I need to know because I’m going to look and nothing she can say will stop me, but I do want to be prepared.
“Bad.”
“On a scale of one to I want to curl up in a ball and die.”
“Nine.”
“What!” I shout back. “What on earth could possibly have been published?” I rise from my chair so fast it almost topples over. “We had dinner, for Christ’s sake—we didn’t bang at the dinner table!”
“Calm down! In fact—where are you? I’m coming over.”
“No—don’t, I’m fine. It’ll be fine.” Whatever it is because I haven’t seen it yet.
“What’s the address of your new place Miss Independent?”
“Ugh.” I have to get out the envelope for my electric bill and read it out loud to her, not having memorized it yet. “But honestly, I will be okay. You don’t have to race over here.”
“Okay. Just…don’t look, okay? Please.”
“I won’t,” I say, fingers crossed behind my back.
* * *
It’s bad.
Worse than Claire said and I want to curl up and die, just like she said.
Why did I look?
Why didn’t I listen?
It took less than one minute to find the first post about Noah and me, right there in the center of the search engine, my face—along with his—sitting at Mason’s, smiling across the table at each other, completely oblivious to the fact that someone was taking our photo. Without my consent.
Without his.
This happens all the time, he said.
Well no wonder he doesn’t go out in public. No wonder he didn’t want to show up to buy those baseball cards and risk ending up on the front page of the daily news.
The first source wasn’t horrible, accompanied by a boring article with little information—thank God it didn’t include my name. I was dubbed “female companion.”
Female companion?
