Page 59 of Whiskey Splash

“Your people,” I breathe the word out slowly. “That’s so weird to say out loud. Weird to think you have people looking for pictures of me—” I trail off again, swallowing hard and wondering what he told them. What intimate images did he tell them to look for? Did he describe what we were doing? What I look like? Do hispeoplehave a system for this sort of thing?

“Fuck,” he swears softly into the phone, a hint of anger in it. In fact, I don’t think he’s swearing at me so much as at the whole situation, at how the two of us have very different lives. “It’s not like that,” he says, trying to explain it. “Yes, I have people. Yes, they’re looking for photos of ... us.” He laughs lightly, sounding far away, far on the other side of this phone, in his life, in his world. “I just wanted to be able to tell you there’s nothing out there, because thereisnothing out there. You were so upset, and of course you should be upset, I just …”

“Thank you,” I say softly, grateful he bothered at all, and trying to squelch the knot of discomfort in my belly.

Of course he had to tell someone, his staff, his people, whomever they are. That must be what you do when you’re famous. You have people who handle it.

“Of course, it’s fine,” I say delicately. “Obviously you had to tell them and have them …” I grip the towel at my chest. “I didn’t mean to … look, this is all really weird and different for me. That’s all. I’m not used to … I’m fine. I mean, I’m glad there’s nothing out there.”

“Esme, I swear to you there isn’t.”

“Good.”

There’s a long pause, and I can hear him breathing on the other end. My ears go cold from my wet hair against the comforter, creating a damp spot behind my head and shoulders. The awkwardness of all this feels palpable—the silence, his breathing, the fact that I have no clue what to say to make this comfortable again.

Maybe I was wrong about the we (that it isn’t a we) but I wanted to imagine it was. How does one really move past something like this? Maybe it’s better to let the ripples in a pond settle after you throw a giant rock in it, to realize that some things have been swallowed and are gone.

“I, uh,” I start, lifting my head up and moving the cold hair from my back, wanting to at least tryto salvage this. “I had a nice time,” I say gingerly. “Yesterday. Other than the photo thing of course. The rest of it …”

“Yeah,” he says softly, and I shake my head. What am I saying? My neck flames. I’m saying ‘yes, I enjoyed getting naked with you.’ That’s what I just said! Jesus, I may as well mention that I’m naked now too, lying on my bed and thinking about him like some horny cheese ball.

“Right, okay, so this is all really weird and uncomfortable,” I breathe nervously into the phone. “So, I’m just going to go. No harm no foul, right? We had a fun time, the paparazzi fucked it up, but we don’t need to prolong the inevitable. So, I’ll just—”

The silence on the other end feels so big, my chest tightens.

In all the romantic comedies, that was his cue to say something witty, adorable, and salvage this. But in real life—in my life—this is what I get.

Silence.

“You’re lovely,” I say quickly to mask the rock that’s digging into my throat. “Really, really, lovely.”

I hear him take a breath, but I hang up.

I hang up before he can say anything, no matter what it was.

I don’t think he—we—could salvage this. It’s all too much and we’re too different. We live in two different worlds. He’s a fun fantasy to imagine for a moment, but he’s not someone you build something with in real life. Hell, he’s not even going to be on this island in a few more weeks.

The teenager inside me is screaming. She thinks I’m throwing away the adventure of a lifetime, but the truth is, I’m being an adult. I’m being reasonable and level-headed and smart. Fun is fun, but that’s not how I’m wired. I’m not wired to have a fun few weeks and then pretend it didn’t mean anything. I’m not wired to do anything other than give him my heart and then watch him make excuses for why he has to give it back to me.

We’re strangers. We’re not a ‘we.’ We’re nothing. There are no photos. No evidence. No nothing. A memory. A lovely memory.

So, let’s let him be that.

Chapter Fifteen

I’m curled up in my plush, queen-sized bed that I’ve turned into a comforter tsunami. I’m swaddled. I haven’t taken a shower in two days. I probably look like a dumpling emoji with feet sticking out, and I don’t care. I don’t ever want to leave this perfect little cave.

Arie and Naomi have been on rotating shifts, feeding me a non-stop diet of ice cream. Sure, it’ll be awful for my ass, but great for morale. Naomi’s been covering me at work, and Arie’s been on internet reconnaissance, double and triple checking the inter-webs to make sure that nothing has hit the tabloids and gossip rags about my evening with Desmond. She assures me that nothing has.

“We live in a give-it-to-me-now culture,” Arie says, swirling her Chunky Monkey ice cream like it’s a soup rather than a creamy delicacy. “Two weeks pass and the world is going to be on to new things. Even if your ass showed up on TMZ, no one is going to care because it was so last week.”

I poke at my chocolate fudge brownie, not convinced. “But they will care for that week,” I counter. “They’ll care long enough to ruin my life!”

“Your life is not that interesting to ruin,” Arie counters, and I glare at her from under my marshmallow cloud of covers.

“Thanks! I feel much better now. Your comforting skills are on par with a crocodile.”

She shrugs. “You got all the sweet and nurturing genes and I got all the bitchy ones!” Arie laughs, throwing her head back. “I’m pretty sure I got the good end of the deal with that one.”

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