Page 120 of Famous for a Living

Work Serena makes her calls (read: prodding demands that are ultimately genius) during work hours.

Friend Serena makes her calls (read: what are we eating for dinner and a list of Chevy’s latest errors) during off-hours.

Sure enough, there’s a text.

I’m canceling on dinner. What are you wearing?

I raise my brow and reply. S. Just because I had some dark days (yes, technically at my lowest, there was an incident involving braving the elements in a spaghetti-stained bathrobe for a paper) doesn’t mean you have to keep up on me forever. And why? What’s up?

Are you wearing lipstick?

I frown slightly. I am, in fact, wearing lipstick. A lighter pink shade out of respect for the tree I sit under. My fingers are poised to reply, when I see him in my periphery.

Make no mistake, I have seen him before.

On the corner beside a newspaper stand.

Striding into a bookstore.

Getting into a taxi and slipping out of view.

Zaiah Smith the last six weeks has been everywhere and nowhere.

The first days were the hardest, hoping he’d come. Hoping he’d show up on my doorstep, declaring our love could make it work, that somehow we’d defy the fact we lived and worked on opposite sides of the county.

But, of course, he is much too practical for all that.

When a man owns a flip phone, the idea of a successful long-distance relationship is a stretch for even the most optimistic of hopefuls.

We keep up a bit. He texts me on occasion with blurry pictures of soups he makes and the rare bear sighting; I text back pictures of whatever I’m eating at whatever restaurant and get his opinion on which bouquet of half a dozen I should get from the flower market. Friendly conversation, and when it gets too friendly, a bit wistful. Nothing further.

I do look for his likes on every one of my posts, and sure enough, he’s there, quietly giving it a thumbs-up. He’s become the one I make my posts for, the one I write my captions for, the one I write poignant things to and not-so-poignant things to. The one I talk to when I make stories of myself doing something a little silly. Every content creator has their “person” who represents their ideal audience they think of when creating. And somehow in the past few weeks, despite how impractical it is, the role has shifted to him.

Because sure, my demographic of females ages thirty and above totally resonates with a mountain man in Montana.

I ignore the familiar-looking boots standing six feet off through my lashes, blink, and resume.

But then he speaks. “You know, I know of a little place down the street from here that has the best curry.”

I look up, and in that moment a breeze sweeps by, plucking a hundred cherry blossoms off and showering them down. They fall around me, landing on my pale-pink dress, onto my lightly curled hair, as I lower my phone and smile at Zaiah Smith.

Smile because sure enough, it’s really him.

He looks a little weather-beaten, with a bulging canvas backpack over one shoulder with airport tags flapping in the breeze, but his eyes are bright. His smile warm.

My breath catches in my throat. “Don’t bother. I’ve had the best curry in a little place out west. Nothing here can tempt me.”

He walks toward me, and after setting the phone down, I rise.

“But you’re in luck,” I add. “My dinner date just bailed.”

I catch his foot slowing, the hiccup in his confidence. “I saw you might be dating someone.”

I shake my head at his misunderstanding. No doubt he’s referencing the pictures floating around of a tennis player I met at a party a couple weeks ago. We shook hands. Smiled like normal human beings. The media went wild. “Don’t you know, Zaiah? You can’t believe what you read on the internet.”

If I’m not mistaken, I catch a little exhale from his lips.

“My dinner date was Serena. Although now that you’re here, I’m beginning to piece together why she may have dropped out.” I level my gaze. Lower my voice. “What did she do?”