“He’s competitive, and he’ll push. But he’s notdangerous. He’s not going to hurt you.”
I paused, taking him in, his eyes changing colors in the setting sun. “But he would hurtyou…”
Hayes nodded, slow. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe he would.”
On Friday, our last full day on the island, we spent the day by the pool, me reading, Hayes penning lyrics in his leather journal. His expression intense, focused; one hand pulling at his lip, mind elsewhere. The staff all disappeared directly after lunch, and we skinny-dipped before making love on the pool stairs and cuddling on one of the lounges. Bob Marley serenading us. He fell asleep in my arms, and in that moment he looked so lovely that I disentangled myself and went to fetch my sketch pad and pencils from inside.
I drew him, naked, lying on his stomach, a peaceful expression painted on his boyish face. His beauty was so exquisite it was unnerving. And I knew, even then, that I was capturing something unspoiled and consummate. And that youth was fleeting and in the blink of an eye Hayes would no longer look like this. He would lose his hair or grow hair in places I’d rather him not, his muscles would atrophy, his skin would lose its suppleness, its flawlessness, its glow… He would no longer be the Hayes I fell in love with.
But in that moment in time, he was still perfect. And he was mine.
We were changing planes Saturday in San Juan when the spell was broken. Hayes had arranged for an airport handler to meet us and usher us through customs before we had to separate for our respective flights. We’d just rechecked our bags and were killing time in the priority lounge when it happened.
“Fuck,” he said, louder than he normally would in a public setting. I looked across to where he was seated tucked away in a corner. His eyes were on his phone, a pained expression on his face. “Fuck.”
“What? What happened?”
He covered his face with his hand and sat like that for thirty seconds while I imagined the worst. Finally, he looked up over at me and for an instant I thought he might cry.
“Hayes, what?” I moved in closer to him.
“I love you,” he said, soft. “I’m sorry.”
My heart had begun to race. “What are you sorry about?”
“I’m going to show you something, okay, but you can’t freak out because there are people here.” It was barely a whisper. I may as well have been reading his lips.
“Did someone die?”
“No.”
“Did you get someone pregnant who’s not me?”
He almost smiled then. Almost. “No.”
“Okay,” I said. “I can deal with it, then.”
But I couldn’t.
On his phone, he’d pulled up a celebrity gossip blog, and there in big, bold colors was a photo of the two of us, on the back of the speedboat at Dog Island, and there was no mistaking what was going on.
My stomach lurched. I began to shake, my hands clammy, my head reeling. This was what an anxiety attack felt like, wasn’t it? This terror. I could not breathe.
“Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“Shhhh.” Hayes was holding my arms, his forehead pressed to mine. “I’m sorry, Sol. I’m sorry.”
“Who has it? Where is it?”
“It’s everywhere.”
“Who sent it to you?”
“Graham.”
Graham. Of course. “Is that the only picture?”
He shook his head.
