Page 98 of Whiskey Splash

I rush out, furious and embarrassed. I should feel good about what I’ve said to Mrs. Rose, standing up for myself and for my coworkers. None of us want to be harassed on the job.

But honestly, I just feel sick.

* * *

Arie sits on my front porch and rants, tearing the world a new asshole. Desmond sits beside me on the steps, not saying anything as Arie curses the universe. She was livid when she saw the photo, and practically incandescent when I told her about the guy at the spa. Desmond was too. He wanted me to go to the police and report the guy. But I just want them both to lay off so I can have some peace and quiet.

The photo has been taken down. It took about twenty-four hours to do so, but it’s at least not on the gossip website anymore. Desmond’s suing them, but the damage has been done. The picture is still out there. It can’t be taken back again. And everyone’s seen it: the cast and crew of Desmond’s show, all of the resort employees, all of Hawaii, Hollywood, America, the globe.

I stare out at the city, feeling numb. I’ve gone through so many emotions I’m wrung out, every sinew of my body strung bare. I’m unemployed. I’m banned from the resort. My parents even called about the photo—talk about humiliation. And for the first time in my life I don’t want to be here, in Hawaii, or living near my sister. It’s not because I don’t love Arie or want to be around her. It’s because I don’t want everything in Hawaii that’s around me—this apartment, the friends to face, this life. My whole body feels like a hollow instrument full of holes, and the husk of a self that is left wants to blow away and fracture into a thousand pieces on the wind.

I just feel donewith all this.

I get up abruptly, not even listening to what Arie’s saying as I clomp into my apartment.

“Hey?” Desmond calls after me softly, getting up quickly to follow me. “You okay? Do you need—”

I’m tired of people asking if I’m okay. If a photo showed up on the internet of them naked and orgasming, would they be okay? No! Absolutely not. ‘Okay’ is not a word that would exist in their vocabulary. Of course, Desmond understands that. He’s in the photo too, but everyone else—

I stalk into my apartment, not answering him and head into my bedroom. I stop short as I’m confronted with my bed, my perfect reading nook with those princess sheers and sunlight. My favorite place in this apartment. And now—

It’s the first time I’ve been in my room since the photo dropped, the first time I’ve faced the bed we made love on and the window someone watched us through. What kind of scum-of-the-earth thinks it’s okay to sell photos of people having sex? Much less watch and take photos of the deed? Do these people have souls?

I move past the bed to my closet, flinging the doors open and pulling down my suitcase. I start chucking clothes inside—jeans, shirts, underwear, toothbrush—the essentials.

“What are you doing?” Desmond’s voice is soft, having tiptoed around me all day.

“Packing,” I clip out, stating the obvious.

“For?”

“Anywhere.” I toss in sundresses and socks. “Nothere.”

“You can come stay with me at the hotel,” Desmond offers, and I want to turn around and scream.

“Actually, I can’t!” I face him, the sizzles of anger snapping in my fists. “I’m banned from the resort. I lost my job. I broke the big don’t-sleep-with-the-guests rule.” I glare at him like this is his fault and he willingly takes that arrow. “They won’t even let me visit Arie at Flambé.”

“I’m sorry,” his eyes hit the floor, avoiding my anger. “Are you going to stay with your sister?”

“I don’t know!” I snap, tossing makeup into the suitcase. The truth is, I haven’t really thought about it. I look back at him and at the bed he stands next to. “I just—” I nod to where the photo was taken, to where the sunlight spilled all over us and I felt so free. “I can’t sleep here.”

Desmond looks at the bed, sadness washing through him also. “You were so beautiful,” he says, staring at my sheets. “Every time you were beautiful, but that time, I didn’t know about the sun, but I knew it was different.”

“Yeah, well some asshole was watching!” I snap, throwing the suitcase shut.

“That doesn’t make it less important. Less meaningful,” Desmond says, walking toward me, but I hold up a hand to make sure he doesn’t touch me and he stops in his tracks. “I’m not ashamed of what we were doing in that photo.”

“I’m not ashamed, Desmond!” I grit out. “I’m not ashamed of you. I’m—” I turn to him, feeling weak and stripped bare. I don’t even know what I want to say or how to express this quagmire in my gut. I ball up my fists and settle on, “I’m angry! Pissed off that that moment can’t mean what it did before, because now there’s all this other crap—the photo, the photographer watching us, the man in the spa today—that’s ruined it. It can’t be a perfect moment between us anymore. It isn’t.” I swallow hard after the words escape me, raw with the fact that something I wanted to hold onto so desperately has transformed to ash in my hands. I shake my head, the sour in my throat making my face pale. “And this isn’t the only time it’s happened, Desmond!”

He lowers his head, knowing that’s true. Knowing his job makes this thing between us impossible.

It’s not a thing. Weare not a thing. We are so much more than that, and my entire chest feels carved backwards and torn open at the loss of it.

I zip the suitcase shut and brush past him into my open living and dining room. He follows me silently as I grab my keys and phone. On the table sits the beautiful box from the dress shop, the ombre dress with the constellations in its skirt folded up inside. I stop next to it and run a finger along the dark black bow.

“I still want you to come to the wrap party,” Desmond says softly, as my pinky dallies on the satin.

“Everyone working on your film saw that photo,” I say, shaking my head, not wanting to face them. Not wanting to face anyone.

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