Shut Up and Model for Me (36 page)

“Took me a few hours, but I finally managed. Luckily I got an early enough start.” His eyes sadden, and it dawns on me what he’s saying.

“You’re leaving,” I say.

He nods solemnly.

Our last conversation was an argument. There was no yelling involved, but a storm brewed between us as I refused to let him give up his research for me.

You’re going to Costa Rica. This isn’t a discussion.

I need to be with you, Evan. I can’t get over the fact that I almost lost you.

Fine, then. If it makes it easier, you don’t have me yet. You don’t have me until you go back and finish your work—what you love. You’re almost done. Don’t give up on your dream because of a girl.

You’re not just a girl.

You know what I mean.

And you’ll wait? You’ll swear on your life.

You know I will, Dallas.

He traces my hands as they rest in my lap. “I’m sorry that I came here and got you fired.”

I snort. “You can’t be serious. I would have gotten fired anyway. He would have tried to make me have sex with someone else. You know that. Plus, Britain said that nearly the entire team has dropped from the magazine. Everyone was thinking the same thing. It was destined to crumble.”

This doesn’t seem to comfort him. His eyes grow deeper—more intense. “That money, Evan. You needed it.”

“I’m going to be fine.” I reach out, my knuckles gently brushing his cheek. “Trust me. Don’t worry.”

When he leans in, I inhale. He smells like spice and rain. Before he can kiss me, I press a finger against his lips.

“Kiss me when you come home,” I tell him, even though it kills me. “Kiss me when there is nothing else keeping us apart.”

He defies me, gently kissing the side of my finger. He pulls back and tells me, “I’m not saying goodbye.”

“Don’t,” I say.

He stands, and as he leaves, he reaches down, hand brushing the back of my neck. A shiver trickles down my spine.

I don’t watch him leave the library.

Instead, with newly found determination, I turn the page of my textbook. I glance over at my planner. Thumbing through it, I find May 27
^th
of next year and write across the entire rectangle one word.

DALLAS.

And then I uncap my highlighter.

Evan

Seven Months Later

Waiting for Dallas at the airport is the most self-conscious I’ve ever been.

I realize now, standing right before security in jeans, my glasses, a zip-up Harvard sweatshirt, and the keys to our new Cambridge apartment tucked in my pocket, that over the past year and a half we’ve been separated more than we’ve been together.

This terrifies me.

It terrifies me because I might be more in love with him now than when he left back in October. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ve just built up a fantasy of the perfect man in my head because I’m delusional and can’t remember what it’s like to really be with him.

And maybe it’s not the same for him.

We’ve had a handful of Skype calls. Even fewer phone calls. His means of communicating with me in the field were next to nothing, and when I was able to talk with him when he was back in California, he sounded anxious, stressed, and overloaded with work. Maybe our time apart made him realize how trivial our romance is compared to a career. Maybe this is the last summer I’ll ever spend with him.

You’re thinking too much
,
Evan.

His flight is delayed. I go pee and get a coffee, realizing coffee is a terrible idea with my jitters, but I can’t help it because coffee reminds me too much of him, and I’m about to lose my mind before finally—finally—I see him at the end of the hall.

Reunions in busy airports are a strange thing. I can’t run to him because I’m not allowed to. He can’t run to me because he certainly can’t just abandon his luggage in the middle of the airport unless he wants to get arrested. His walk is relaxed, even when he sees me, the faintest grin on his lips.

I try to mirror his calm state by crossing my arms nonchalantly, even though my entire body is shaking.

I can see the electric-blue of his eyes from here. Against the new tan of his skin, he’s even more beautiful than when he left me. If that’s even possible.

As he approaches, his face grows solemn—serious. When he reaches me, he drops his duffel and cups my jaw in both his hands.

“I came here all this way to tell you,” he begins monotonously, “that I’ve fallen in love with a Costa Rican woman. Tomorrow, I will fly back, and we will ride off into the sunset together, get married on top of a mountain, and perform missionary-position intercourse on our wedding night with the lights off.”

I frown. “And your eyes closed?”

“Of course,” he says blatantly. “I can’t handle seeing a woman naked all at once.”

“And you’d rather tell me this than kiss me,” I say, hurt lingering in my voice.

The corners of his lips perk up. “I have the rest of my life to kiss you.”

“You have the rest of your life to tell me bad jokes, too.”

His hands glide from my jaw to the back of my neck, and his lips crush mine. My knees give out, but he holds me steady against him, refusing to let me fall. He pulls away and whispers, “Baby, are you crying?”

A tear drips from my chin. Forehead pressed to his, I work to memorize every fleck of his irises, hoping that one day I will have stared into them long enough to know them by heart.

It seems that every time I look into them, they astonish me just a little more.

Fingers tangled in my hair, he presses his lips to my forehead.

I whisper to him, “Let’s go home.”

Britain

Me: Don’t be mad at me.

What did you do now?
Evan types back to me over IM.

Me: Can I call you?

Evan: In class. Supposed to be paying attention. Final tomorrow. Whatevs.

Me: Well, I decided that it was a shame to let all of those photos go to waste, especially after the models quit on AA and there was never a Halloween issue.

Evan: Are you saying that you’re putting out one last EPE?

Me: Can’t. Those fuckers still own the rights to the mag. But I let Andrea see the pics and she came up with a story. Like, a fucking great story, Evan. Way better than that raunchy professor one with you and Dallas.

Evan: What are you saying?

Me: Well, she wrote it and it ended up being really long. So I just went for it and pitched it to a couple publishers as a horrormance novella with photographs. Figured we’d self-publish if there were no bites.

Evan: OMG… did you FUCKING SELL IT?

Me: For money, bitch. Lots. An editor read my credentials and was a fan of EPE… can you believe it?

Evan: Shit. Class just ended and I have lab. I’LL CALL YOU IN LIKE FOUR HOURS OKAY?

Evan C. has logged off.

I wanted to tell her that she and Dallas were going to end up with fat commission checks, but I figure that surprise can wait. Quickly, I scan through the emails with my new editor, reading through the contract and the messages containing her high hopes for the book and its series potential.

My photography days might not be over yet.

When Delilah comes home from class, I close out the email. I haven’t told anyone yet, except for Andrea and Evan. The news is still fresh, and after the AA fiasco, I don’t really feel like spreading it just yet.

Although there is one more person I’d like to tell.

I walk out onto the concrete pool deck barefoot, the warm breeze grazing my skin. I call his cell. Of course, he doesn’t pick up.

He never picks up.

The last time I saw him was when EPE dismantled itself. Evan stormed out, and as the chaos and gossip arose from the other models, A.J. screamed at me to get her back. I threw my hands in the air and told him I couldn’t do anything—I no longer worked for him.

We had the manor booked for the rest of the week, but after most of my models quit, including Delilah and Adam, we all decided to rent a suite together. When I was packing my things and leaving Veda Manor, I couldn’t find him.

I called him once when we were at the hotel. He didn’t pick up.

I can only assume that Cameron contacted him and threatened him to leave. I never confronted my brother though. The entire situation was too surreal for me to even know where to begin.

“Hey, it’s Brit. Listen… I have news. I know… I know you probably don’t care. Fuck, Jaime. I know Cameron contacted you, so you know that I know what happened between the two of you. Well, between you and my entire family. But it can’t be over like this. I need to hear what happened from your mouth. I know we… we weren’t together long or anything. Maybe your feelings for me were never more than—you know—wanting to hook up. I just… I wish I knew for sure….

“I miss you.”

“Brit. It’s Jaime. Sorry I missed you… again. It is one in the morning so that would explain it. I’m also… uhh… I’m kind of drunk… Fuck. Fuck, Brit. Boston was amazing and you are amazing and you did nothing. You did nothing to deserve being ignored. I’m just… goddamnit, Brit. I’m a fuck-up, but you have to trust me that what happened at your dad’s company isn’t what it seems. I just… I wish I could explain to you. Goodbye, Brit.”

----Original Message-----

From: Britain McCulley ([email protected])

Sent: June 14
^th
, 2014

To: Jaime Rivera ([email protected])

Subject: Fuck You.

Jaime,

Although you’re an ass, I’m willing to look past everything to give you a chance.

We all have demons. I want to hear what you have to say.

Despite everything that happened in Boston, I guarantee that you still think I’m some delicate porcelain princess.

Leaving for home in a week, and I plan to be lounging around the pool every day. You know, if you’re in the area.

I still have that red bikini.

Love,

Britain

From: Jaime Rivera ([email protected]

Sent: June 15
^th
, 2014

To: Britain McCulley ([email protected]))

Subject: Re: Fuck You.

Britain,

Keep your bedroom window unlocked.

See you in a week.

Jaime

ABERRATION

CHAPTER ONE

There are many things that aren't as sexy as they claim to be. G-strings, for example. G-strings are the most god-awful, hideous contraptions man has ever created. Pay-per-view porn. Tequila. Bubble gum lip gloss.

And pool sex.

Of course, I’m four shots of tequila in and wearing bubble gum lip gloss when I decide that pool sex would be a fabulous idea, so tonight is definitely a three-strikes kind of night. Not that Nate didn't enjoy himself, because boy, did he have an insta-boner the second I undid my bikini top. Of course, five minutes of lubeless, uncomfortable intercourse later, Nate came... right in my parents' pool.

They'll never find out. Mom and Dad like to think they know everything, but they're clueless most of the time. That's why I've gotten away with my erotic photography career for so long.

As we towel off, Nate says with a goofy grin on his face, "That was awesome."

Awesome.
Yes, he uses the word
Awesome
, like I-am-in-seventh-grade-and-just-saw-boobs-for-the-first-time-on-HBO
Awesome.

I manage to fake a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "It was fun."

He raises an eyebrow and swaggers toward me, like he's trying really hard to be sexy. Tack Nate's swagger onto the list of things that aren't as sexy as they claim to be. He reaches up and brushes his knuckles against my jaw, and says coyly, "If you're staying all summer, we should definitely make this our regular Friday night." He winks at me and it takes every ounce of will power I have not to roll my eyes.

"I doubt my parents will be gone that often." Mom and Dad are at an out-of-town benefit dinner tonight. They attend fancy events on weekends more often than not, but Nate doesn't need to know that. We went to high school together, and he's definitely cuter now than he was back then—brunette, on the skinny side, crooked smile—you know, the kind of guy I
usually
go for. We both just graduated and are home for the summer. I ran into him in the grocery store and he asked me out, you know, to catch up.

Three tacos, four shots of tequila, and a cab ride later, here we are. A missing biking top, sloppy kisses, and penetration.

I make sure to over-exaggerate my yawn. "I'm exhausted."

I watch his eyes glance up to my room longingly, like he's expecting me to ask him to stay the night.

"My parents are going to be home early tomorrow morning," I add. Yeah right. They'll probably mosey in at around two in the afternoon. Another thing that Nate doesn't need to know.

"Right, right. Well... I guess this is goodnight, then." He leans in to kiss me and I turn at the last minute, so his lips land on my cheek.

God, I'm such a bitch.

"See you."

"Call me," he says, flashing his pearly whites before tossing me his towel and scooping his clothes off the patio furniture. Good thing he parked his car here before we left for dinner and I don't have to wait for him to call a cab. When I hear his engine start, I release a breath of relief.

"There you are," I mumble to myself, tugging the towel tighter around me and swiping my floating bikini top from the edge of the pool. I trudge into the house, making my way up the narrow staircase that leads to the wing where mine and Cameron's old bedrooms are. I slip into my dark room, shut the door, and lean against it.

One good thing about being stuck with my parents for two months—my room is a palace compared to the places I lived during my undergrad. My parents believed that Cameron and I had to earn the things we wanted—privileges, Dad called them—but let's face it, we were both spoiled rotten. Still are. When I turned eighteen, I was given access to my inheritance. I haven't touched a penny of it out of pride, but let's just say that if I lived modestly, I'd never have to work a day in my life with the help of my assets.