Page 116 of The Influencer

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jade

No one ever told me how hard it would be not to say the words “I love you.”

They’re a regular part of my vocabulary. I say them to everyone. Lien, who waxes me; Aven, whom I consider my closest friend; my mom when she says it first; my doorman for simply existing as I’m rushing out the door with my hands full. They spill from my mouth as often as um or yeah.

But none of those I love yous really mean anything. Not even with my mom. They’re reflexive. A personality trait. Part of my exuberant “extra.” But when I feel the words—which is so rare and miraculous I have trouble believing the feeling is actually coming from me and not some parasite that’s taken control of my mind—they’re always there—on the tip of my tongue and ready to pack a powerful punch. Holding them in is like trying to stop the tide. It’s taking an enormous amount of restraint.

I can think of four examples from the last twenty minutes where the innate reflex to say them had been there. One: when Asher snapped the best picture of me I’ve ever taken, I was about to say, oh my God, you’re amazing, I love you for this, which is what I would have said to anyone who’d taken a shot that good.

Two: when I leapt into his arms, and he caught me—God, I love you for being so warm right now.

Three: I love you for bringing this blanket—I hate sand.

Four: Regarding the ironic/romantic walk on the beach—I love you for getting me.

If he had been anyone else, the words would’ve rolled off my tongue whether I was fucking him or not, but my brain has banned them from reaching my mouth. I can’t have him thinking I’ve done exactly what I told him I was incapable of doing—forming an attachment to him. And I really can’t have him thinking the words are as meaningless as they usually are to me should I ever feel the need to say them to his face.

But it’s so fucking hard to think about anything else. To say other things besides those three words. Because I’m done for. It’s like part of me has died, and this new part—this part that loves Asher like he hung the damn moon especially for me—has come brightly and wildly to life.

We stroll along the edge of the waves, taking turns looking at the sunset, the sea foam, the sand for seashells, and at each other. His fingers are threaded firmly through mine, and our arms swing between us.

“I have so many questions,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin.

“About?”

“You, mainly. Your life. I just don’t know if you want to talk about it or…”

“Normally, I wouldn’t,” I admit. I don’t talk about my past with anyone. Not even Aven. It feels, in turns, like a sob story—a ploy to gain sympathy, or a blatant lie—a confabulation of events that make me seem deeper than I am. My childhood fucked me up, for sure, but I’ve done okay, and everything that happened ended up being for the best. I can say that now with certainty, but the truth is off brand. And I can’t help but think it would change the way people saw me.

But Asher is the most down-to-earth person I’ve ever met. He’s a responsible adult who makes an honest living outside the sex and entertainment business. He has a strong nuclear family and none of the LA pomp and cynicism I’ve not only grown used to, but have adopted as a personality trait. To say he’s just a regular guy would be selling him way too short because I actually find him to be both extraordinary and miraculous, but he has this need to connect on a deeper level than most of the people I know. We can superficially fuck all day, but when it comes to talking, it’s been all cards on the table since day one.

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

“Well…I know your name’s not really Jade, is it? When we met, you said it was like a stage name.”

He remembers that? “It is, actually. Jayden. Sloane is the made up part. Jayden Michael Hobbs. I’m sure you can understand why I changed it. Hobbs is like the least sexy name of all time.”

“Haas on the other hand…” he says.

“Oh my God, Haas is the sexiest name in the world,” I gush. “I wish I’d thought of it, but I don’t think it’d suit me.”

“No, Sloane is perfect. You’re too short to be a Haas.”

I shoulder check him. “I’m five-eleven, beast. Way above average.”

He chuckles. I’m “petite” compared to Asher. No question. “Definitely above average size,” he says.

I fucking blush. “Asher, Jesus.”

“Like you don’t know.”

“Well, how would you know?”

“I do piercings, and I’ve been in men’s bathrooms a time or two.

“Do you look?” I ask, faking being appalled, because I for one, always look, and pretty much always get caught looking, too.

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